In the beginning of his second paper in this volume, Mr. Adams tells how it came about that he delivered his first address at Weymouth thirty years before, never having given thought to independent historical investigations before he was invited by the town to deliver the historical address on the occasion of the 250th anniversary. He confesses that at that time he hardly knew where the town was, much less anything of its history. The acceptance of that invitation, he states, marked a turning point in his life which had previously been devoted to civil and military affairs, and he expresses gratitude to Weymouth because the path into historical research, thus unexpectedly opened to him, has led him for thirty years through pastures green and pleasant places. Besides affording him pleasure, it has brought him honors in new fields of usefulness, and his labors have been profitable to students of Massachusetts history. The mature outcome of the earlier address was presented in print a dozen years ago in a two-volume work called, “Three Episodes of Massachusetts History.” In the later address Mr. Adams is merciless in his destruction of the myth known as “The March of Miles Standish.” The familiar poem is shown to be without any historical support, the “march” having taken place by boat! Speaking of this incident in Weymouth history, he says, “It smacks of the savage; it is racy of the soil; it smells of the sea. It begins with the flight of Phineas Pratt from Wessagusset to Plymouth, his loss of the way, his fear lest his foot-prints in the late-lingering snow banks should betray him, his nights in the woods, his pursuit by the Indians, his guidance by the stars and sky, his fording the icy river, and his arrival in Plymouth just as Miles Standish was embarking for Wessagusset. Nothing then can be more picturesque, more epic in outline, than Standish’s voyage, with his little company of grim, silent men in that open boat. Sternly bent on action, they skirted, under a gloomy eastern sky, along the surf-beaten shore, the mist driving in their faces as the swelling seas broke roughly in white surge over the rocks and ledges which still obstruct the course they took. From the distance came the dull, monotonous roar of the breakers, indicating the line of the coast. At last they cast anchor before the desolate and apparently deserted block-house here in your Fore river, and presently some woe-begone stragglers answered their call. Next came the meeting with the savages, the fencing talk, and the episode of what Holmes, in still another poem, refers to as ‘Wituwamet’s pictured knife And Pecksuot’s whooping shout;’