USA > Massachusetts > Worcester County > Paxton > Town of Paxton, Massachusetts : 150th anniversary celebrated June 30, 1915 > Part 4
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Dear old Paxton, one hundred and fifty years old, and yet you are not hoary with age and wizzled and decrepit like some of us, but you have grown beautiful in your old age.
A young lady once said to her fiance, "Do you think you can love me when I grow old and ugly?" He replied, "O, you'll never look uglier than you do now." This might have been said of Paxton fifty years ago. "You'll never look uglier than you do now." Certainly she has greatly improved in looks and is much more beautiful. I look at the Green, now beautifully shaded by large trees, and think of it as it was fifty years ago with a fence around it and young trees not large enough to afford any refreshing shade. South of the Green stood the old Tavern which looked ancient and dilapidated and the line of sheds and barns where the stage always stopped and changed horses.
On the west side of the Green was a spot which always left the impression of being a place for rubbish-a sort of Gehenna- and now we see upon it your fine town hall and dwelling houses. There are those here who will remember the old schoolhouse, a very plain building, painted with sand on the outside so that we boys could not immortalize our names, with our jackknives, and the inside was never painted nor even whitewashed that I can remember and the architecture of the desks was such that every
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boy felt it his duty to carve new figures upon them. I understand that the old building was moved and has been made over into one of the dwelling houses on the West Side of the Green.
Many pictures of my life in Paxton remain in my mind to this day. I can see the places where, in the winter, the deep snow drifts blocked the roads, and the fields where, in summer, we picked berries. As I came this morning I said to my brother as we over- looked the Bottomly's pond (as we called it in those days) "There is one of the places where we used to fish." I should like to follow once more the old Woodward brook down through the woods in the hope of catching a trout.
Then I recall how I used to stand by the fence at the parson- age and the pleasure and awe with which I would watch the gather- ing storm clouds in the west. I don't know of any place where I have been where I could see the thunder storms rolling up from their very beginning as from this place.
Here still stands the old church, almost the same as in my boyhood days, the center of the town and the center of its higher life, and I trust it will ever be looked upon as the center of the Christian life of those who come after us. I remember when quite young I lingered behind the other boys of my Sunday School class, over there on the west side of the church where Mr. Charles Smith was my teacher and told him that I hoped I was a Christian. Then some years after that when Mr. William Gray died, whose son and daughter are here today, I recall the deep impression which his death left upon me for I felt that the church had met with a great loss and I knew that my father valued him highly for his Christian character and though he was not a man with whom I ever conversed, I felt that I must consecrate my life anew to God that I might in some way fill his place in the work of the church.
We never know what influences our lives are exerting on others, but there may be those among the young people here today who, fifty years from now, will hold in their minds precious mem- ories of their younger days when they felt the influences of some of you who now are active members of this church, and when they received instruction here which has ennobled their lives and helped them to be faithful Christians.
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SPEECH DELIVERED BY W. D. HOWE
"LEST WE FORGET"
A smart young school boy was once asked by his teacher to explain what his memory was.
He answered, "My memory is the thing I forget with."
How many of us could well have given the same answer. Our memories are the faculty whereby we forget. And forgetting, we only show that we are human.
I know a man who seldom, if ever, forgets. His mind is a wonder-a cold, inflexible machine. Sympathy is a stranger to his nature. He is an intolerable bore.
My wife forgets-sometimes. My mother-in-law occasion- ally forgets; likewise most of my lady relations, and I honor them for it. I should be afraid of any woman who never forgot, and distrustful of her disposition. In imagination I picture her as a militant shrew.
David Harum used to say that a certain amount of flees was good for a dog. By the same token I maintain that a certain amount of forgetting is good for humans. It's a sign of their normal human nature. We feel a kinship, a kind of bond of sympathy with those who forget-once in a while.
If I were only occasionally forgetful, I should have nothing more to say. But we are not, unfortunately, only occasionally forgetful. Human nature in this gasolene age has become almost habitually forgetful.
We are forgetful of the old folks at home. We are unmindful of the old home town, and the scenes of our younger days; of the old schoolhouse and the wholesome lessons we learned there, for- getful of the old church with its fine old patterns of right living. Many of us who remembered our Creator in the days of our youth have forgotten Him in our older days.
In the stress and confusion of modern times, with our mani- fold interests and complex cares and responsibilities, our minds
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are accustomed to dwell only upon the present and to think not of the past. We fail to recall the old friends. The memory of former loved ones grows dim. We are engrossed in business and pleasures. We are thoughtless and absent minded.
Some of us are not unlike one of my old college preceptors, our professor of biology whose custom it was to bring into the class room different specimens of animal life with which to illustrate points in his lectures. One afternoon when we had been studying the circulation, he had secured a live frog and placed it in his side pocket carefully protected by his handkerchief. Arriving at the point in the lesson which he wished to illustrate he said, "Now, I can help you young gentlemen to understand this great truth better by having you observe with me this living frog." And thereupon he reached into his pocket, took out the handkerchief containing the imprisoned frog, slowly separated the folds and discovered-a ham sandwich. The good professor was greatly perplexed, and finally murmured, "I had my lunch."
An amusing case of forgetfulness was related to me recently by a friend of mine who had just returned from the West. It aptly illustrates the poor memories possessed by some of our present day professional men.
The story goes that the Honorable James Carson and the Honorable Thomas Butler, composing the prominent and highly successful law firm of Carson and Butler, in a certain Indiana town, had been friends from boyhood. When death finally came to Jim Carson, it seemed eminently fitting that his old friend, Tom Butler, should speak at the funeral.
Now, the Honorable Thomas Butler was an eloquent speaker, brilliant and convincing, but a man who was singularly forgetful, and who was lacking particularly in the faculty of recalling names. Realizing his handicap, it was his custom to jot down names and data on a slip of paper, which previous to speaking he pinned under the lapel of his coat. Prepared thus on the occasion of his old partner's funeral, he arose to speak.
"Dear friends, who share with me this load of unspeakable sorrow, most humbly and reverently would I add my few inade- quate words of tribute to the precious memory of my dearest
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friend and beloved associate, (pause-and referring to coat lapel) -the Honorable James Carson.
"Yet, why should I speak? Why tell you, dear friends, his life story of great, good deeds, so well known to you all? Recall- ing his many virtues, his courtesy, his generosity, his tenderness to all, his strict regard for the truth and unswerving honesty, I cannot but call to mind the exemplary character enshrined in the hearts of all true Americans, of that first great gentleman of the young nation,-(pause, and again referring to his coat lapel) George Washington.
"Nay, as I gaze for the last time upon these dear rugged fea- tures, and see the lines prematurely cut by early hardships, I realize a greater and more sublime side of my old partner's nature. Who among us has not felt better for having grasped at some time the big hand, and been cheered by the warmth of the sweet smile that broke through the homely barrier? Rather might I most liken him to that man who above all others in the history of this great nation has stood for simplicity and rugged homely strength, that sainted hero and martyr, (pause referring to coat lapel) Abraham Lincoln.
"The book of his earthly deeds is closed and we bow impotent- ly to the will that caused to be written the grim word 'finale.' Words are useless; lamentations, vain to alter the immutable fact. Ours is the privilege to rejoice that having for a time bided in our midst, he has passed on leaving us better, and happier, and spiri- tually enriched. His, the great reward, incomprehensible to mortal mind. But, in that eternal kingdom where his soul now dwells we know that he enjoys all blessings with (pause-referring to coat lapel)-God Almighty!"
It is to me a great privilege to join with you in this birthday celebration of the town in which my father was born. In appear- ing before you, I would voice the feelings of the younger generation to whom Paxton has been until the present day a dim and distant memory.
It is well, we forgetful sons feel, to be reminded of what has been done for us by our ancestors. It is well to think of them and
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to commemorate their memory, and to thank them in this way for all their courage, for all their toil.
We feel that it is well to have impressed afresh upon our minds the deeds of those who have gone before us,-into the land of shadows.
For myself, I beg to thank your committee, and especially the very able Secretary of your committee, for the privilege granted me of participating in this memorable celebration.
HOTEL KENILWORTH
REMARKS BY OTIS COLE Formerly an Acting Pastor
In response to the toast-"The Influence of the Church and Sunday School."
It is historically evident that the men and women who began the building of homes on these great slopes of the hills in what was later made the town of Paxton were sturdy in body and mind,
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lovers of truth and right, and exhibited at early date desire and purpose to have the large vantage of a Meeting House as the center of Christian teaching and life.
That worthy past is memorable and secure, but what can be said, at this time of especial public interest, of the present and the future in this most important matter? If to day, or to morrow, a minister of the Gospel should appear to be the immediate need of the township, could a worthy well-qualified man be found among your homes as in the early day to which attention has been called by the interesting, instructive, and well-balanced historic address of Mr. Perry?
Rev. Silas Biglow, Paxton's first Pastor, was one of its citi- zens and was called to his high, sacred office and work by his neighbors. His brief service of two years won for him eulogy that may be read on the headstone at his grave shadowed quietly by the House in which he preached the Gospel to the people: "A man of Excellent Spirit in whom Dwelt the sincere Christian and real Friend much Beloved by his kind people in life, in Death Greatly Lamented."
The need and value of the Church and its School for the study of the Bible are as real in this age of the electric light as in the earlier one of the tallow dip. Hence, I appeal to all on this Anniversary Day to pledge loyalty to the Christian Church, to devote more than a tithe of their earnings, aye, to devote them- selves, giving themselves to the Lord of all. In His Name I chal- lenge you, men and women of Paxton, to pledge each other hence- forth to Christian discipleship. I challenge you to toil, mutual toil, for the continued and larger benefits of the Church and Sun- day School and so for the higher welfare of your children, for advance in worthy civic life in your historic town, and in all that makes for righteousness and human weal in time and eternity.
And upon you each and all I reverently pray the blessing of God.
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ANNIVERSARY POEM BY GEORGE MAYNARD.
O Mother Town of ours, this day Brings joy and pride to thee; And radiant smiles upon thy brow Our eyes with pleasure see.
Paxton! thy name sounds sweet to us, Thy children gathered here, On this, thy anniversary day, To show our love sincere.
We lay our tributes at thy feet, Fair town that gave us birth; Our eyes no holier, lovelier spot May ever see on earth.
A hundred years their course have run, And half a hundred more, And still, as when thy life began In the far days of yore,-
Still from thy heights thou lookest down Serene and calm and fair, And beauty's bright and fadeless crown Benignly thou dost wear!
Thy long and varied history Our minds recall today,- A record clear and bright, that shall Be proudly read for aye.
To us thou art the mother town,- But sprung from others still,- Rutland and Leicester, each as fair,- Each throned upon a hill.
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Today, with one united voice, A daughter's name they bless, And send their greetings unto her Enrobed in gala dress.
In peace and love through all these years, Their paths lay side by side,- And they have watched each other's course With mingled joy and pride.
And Leicester's glory,-Rutland's fame,- Have been to her as dear As the maternal ties that bind The souls of mortals here.
Paxton! the years have left thee young, Though long their flight has been,- And days of peace and days of war Full many thou hast seen.
The days that tried our father's souls, And found them true as gold,- The days of civil strife that showed Their sons as true and bold.
The patriot blood that dyed the soil Of Bunker's far-famed height, When Major Willard Moore gave up His life for truth and right,
Found its response in later years, When those we loved full well For Union and for Liberty In the great conflict fell,
Dying upon the field of strife, Or where disease and pain From hospital or prison-pen Called them to death's long train.
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The old town,-old, yet ever young,- Has seen more busy days, When manufacturers in her midst Flourished like verdant bays.
The great shops vanished, but they left Bright memories behind; And Paxton still has mines of wealth Her future sons shall find,-
Her fresh, pure air, her scenes to charm The eye that beauty loves,- Her calm, blue lakes, her limpid streams, Green hills and verdant groves.
Her broad, productive acres still, As in the days of yore, Wait on the hill or in the vale The farmer evermore.
The spirit of the olden day Still animates her sons; Her daughters still are fair and true, As were her earliest ones.
But many a son's or daughter's feet Have wandered from her side, And left their imprint on the sands Of time, both far and wide.
Illustrious names we might recall, Whose deeds the world has blessed,- Men, women, cradled on these hills, And fit for life's great test,-
Who, in the century and a half, That now has passed and flown, Have in this land and other lands Seed for rich harvests sown.
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Here on this hilltop, heavenward The old church lifts its spire, To catch the morning's earliest beam Or sunset's fading fire.
This ancient fame our fathers reared In pious love to God Holds memories of many a scene, When its fair aisles were trod.
By those who nevermore will walk These earthly paths again,- Pastors and people resting now From labor or from pain.
The old spire's shadow softly falls Where many of them rest In that "God's Acre" lying fair On yon green hillside's breast.
The hills in summer beauty robed Make Paxton fair to see; But one among them evermore The stateliest shall be.
From Asnebumskit's summit once The Indian watchfires sent Their far-flung signals o'er the land, When peace or war was meant.
Now all is peace,-these hills and vales Lie in that placid calm From which we trust they nevermore Will wake at war's alarm.
May Paxton from her vantage-ground look down On the great city rising at her feet Serenely, and content to ever be Youthful, brave-hearted, beautiful and sweet!
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And may her children, through the centuries' flight, Pursue a peaceful and a prosperous way, Putting their trust in Him within whose sight A thousand years are only as a day.
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ADDRESS OF DANIEL W. LINCOLN
In response to toast, "Worcester."-Nestled closely to her as we are, on these grand old hills, we predict for our future, a continuation of the city to our midst.
Mr. Chairman, etc.
As I stand before you in the shoes and rattling around, so to speak, in the somewhat ample clothes of Colonel Winslow, in the hopeless attempt to fill them adequately, feeling that some of you are here, perhaps, in the hopes of seeing that gifted statesman and orator, I think of the story Colonel Winslow told me a month or so ago.
He said he was walking along Pennsylvania Avenue in Wash- ington this winter with two democratic congressmen when they chanced to meet the late lamented secretary of state, William Jennings Bryan. As they passed one of the congressmen said to Mr. Bryan,
"How are you, Mr. Secretary?"
After they had gone by, the other congressman remarked:
"You made a mistake, Mr. Congressman; you said, 'How are you'; you should have said, 'Why are you Mr. Secretary?'"
Well, as I have been listening to the excellent and able responses that have preceded me, and have glanced at the pro- gram and have noted the name of Mr. Winslow who is there scheduled to reply to this last toast, I have been thinking of that story and wondering whether in your disappointment, and possible disgust, as you saw me rise to take the place of the absentee, you would not be saying to yourselves in paraphrase somewhat of the words and accent of the story, "Why, are you Mr. Congressman?"
Unfortunately I am not a congressman, not to mention your congressman, but only a hopeful aspirant to the position recently held by the late Robert M. Washburn, and if you were only voters of Ward 10 I should certainly make use of this opportunity to request your patronage next fall.
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The sentiment to which I rise to respond is somewhat im- pressive and it is difficult to know how to make adequate and fitting reply.
Mayor Wright will, I suppose, bear you official greetings from the city down below you. He brings the greetings of the present. You have heard from Mr. Perry the history of the past, and it is perhaps fitting as a younger man, that I am asked to respond to a toast of the future and it is in this connection that I will now venture to give my few remarks.
As I see how successfully your 150th anniversary celebration progresses and anticipating to a slight extent the future, it is not out of place to give you a hint concerning your 200th anniversary. Down in Worcester we are getting somewhat proficient in that regard, for celebrating our 200th anniversary is becoming, with us, quite a habit. We celebrated our 200th anniversary of the first settlement of Worcester in 1874, again we celebrated the 200th anniversary of the permanent settlement in the fall of 1913, and I understand that we are again to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Worcester as a Town in the year 1922. It is easy when you once get the hang of it, but it is none too soon for you to begin preparations.
So you see we of Worcester can still tell you of Paxton at least something, and yet, as it has been said of the Bostonians, you can always tell a Boston man, but you cannot tell him much.
And so there is not much, after all, I can tell you.
Paxton is undoubtedly now on the road of prosperous develop- ment; yet these recent signs of progress which we notice are not so unexpected. Mr. Ledyard Bill, in his history of Paxton written some twenty-five years ago, pointed out that the then rather neglected hill town, was bound to come into its own sometime, and this at not too distant an epoch, and he predicted the manner of the change precisely as that change has so visibly taken place, and which is rapidly linking the town with the city, and one which will be of mutual advantage.
The prosperity of Worcester is closely allied with the develop- ment of its surrounding towns. If this prosperity lies in the development of suburban districts, where the workers of the city
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can find almost unlimited opportunities for healthy and uncrowded homes, surely the city in a wider sense cannot but be benefited. Such conditions are to be found in this beautiful region. And conversely a well to do and vigorous new population cannot but add to the prosperity of Paxton.
The rendering accessible of the remoter towns, through the coming of the Ford and the automobile, is a most welcome sign to Paxton. Your population will be of the best that the city can send and we have a good class of population in Worcester at that.
It is, after all, not wholly an unfortunate condition which has left this town without manufacturing industries. Far better to fill these hills with suburban homes, than the ugly factories such as are found through the Blackstone valley. The going of the old Boot & Shoe industry from here is then not an unmixed evil.
The future looms bright for you, as these high hills and its beautiful country are now at last coming into their own, to enjoy the prosperity which so rightly belongs to them, and this will be indeed in part at least by the continuation of the city to your midst.
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RESPONSE BY FANNIE PHIPPS CLARK
SENTIMENT TO THE LADIES OF PAXTON
"May the fragrance of their memory be dispensed through all the century to come."
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood In Paxton, the little town build 'mongst the hills!
With black eyes and brown curls my fleet feet went strolling, To church and to school amid heat and cold chills.
With playmates so happy I gathered arbutus, With glee we hung May baskets on the front door.
At noon and at nine the old bell in the belfry
Told us the time. And what wanted we more?
And one thing I know that made us so happy, Was the Ladies of Paxton, so gifted and sweet.
What a charmed row of faces now passes before me, As I think of the homes along many a street.
The Ladies of Paxton! what a chorus of singers At church and at singing-school, aye, everywhere! It almost seems now that from angelic choirs, Their voices come floating to us through the air.
In the half-circle choir can't you see the dear faces? Mrs. Goodnow and Parker, Boynton, Monrow,
Mrs. Howard and Newton, and some of the daughters Two Claras and Roxa, some sang high and some low.
Sophia and Phronie and Marion and Mary, Susie and Isadore, Phebe Bigelow, too,
And later came my mates that helped swell the chorus. And others, today, just the same thing will do.
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The Ladies of Paxton! some were not singers But quietly sat down stairs in the pew.
The Harringtons, Bigelows, Howes and the Pierces, Mrs. Gray, and the Keeps, Mrs. Conant, so true.
Ah! well I remember those Women of Paxton! They were Women of Prayer and therefore of power.
How earnest they prayed in that parsonage parlor For missions, for children in that Mother's hour.
Thus dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood. I am proud I can say I was native born there.
Far hence be the day when beloved old Paxton
Lacks Ladies of Song and Women of Prayer.
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POEM BY E. P. KEEP
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AT PAXTON
Back in colonial times it rose
A new town in the State, Seventeen sixty-five the year; This is the anniversary date.
The early settlers here were men Of valiant hearts and true; Their women folks were comely dames,
Though dressed in homespun blue.
They cleared the woods and tilled their fields And wooed the virgin soil, And smiling harvests soon repaid Their hard and patient toil.
The women and the children, too, All had their share of work; They had to hustle lively then, And none had time to shirk.
They built a church and schoolhouse, too, To train their children dear, Where parsons' themes and masters' rods Oft filled their hearts with fear.
They took their place on battlefields Against tyranny's great power, And never feared to face the foe Or hear the cannon roar.
Through Revolution's long, dark years They held their loyal way, But when Cornwallis cried, "Enough," There dawned a brighter day.
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Then freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her banner to the air; She tore the British robe of might, And set the stars of glory there.
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