“You do not know how hard it is for me to come to-night into a place like this. I was asked by the committee to take charge of these exercises for reasons that you well know. I am asked to give you a welcome to our town. ‘Surely, the love of home is interwoven with all that is pure, deep, and lasting in earthly affection. Let us wander where we may, the heart turns back with secret longing to the paternal roof. There all the scattered rays of affection concentrate. Time may enfeeble them, distance overshadow them, and the storms of life obscure them for a season, but they will at length break through the clouds and gloom, and glow, and burn, and brighten, around the peaceful threshold of home.’ Thus wrote the poet Longfellow, and I repeat those lines because they express in so much better language than it is possible for me to do, the thoughts that are uppermost in your hearts to-night. “We welcome you to-night to these grand old hills, among which your ancestors were born and bred, and where they drew the inspiration that made them the men of mark and note of their day; over whose wooded heights you tramped with the old gun on your shoulder, looking for the gray squirrel, watching for the rise of the partridge, or listening to the distant baying of the hound, as he chased the fox along the trail. “We welcome you back to these beautiful valleys, where, in your earlier days, you bent your back, and, by the sweat of your brow, earned your daily bread. We welcome you back to the [Illustration: ROGER SHERMAN HALL AND CHURCH STREET] noble old river, where you swam and bathed in its clear, bright waters, or sailed so smoothly upon its bosom, or skated over it, in its winter coat, or, perhaps, studied astronomy by counting the stars as you lay prone upon your back. “We welcome you back to these beautiful mountain streams that come tumbling down the hills, and through the valleys to the river, which many a day you followed with hook and line, trying to entice the speckled beauty from some favorite haunt. Welcome back to the little red school house at the corner, where you learned your A, B, C’s, and to the historic old birch tree that stands near by, and of whose branches you still have tender memories. Welcome back to the dear old church, within whose sacred walls you spent so many hallowed hours, and from which you took many of the sweetest, as well as the saddest, memories of the old town.