On Paris Hill the new bell at the academy rang most of the night to herald Independence Day in 1892. During the day, revelers took hay rides through South Paris and Norway as four horsemen rode around town discharging their revolvers and “generally making things lively,” according to newspaper accounts.

The Norway Brass Band marched along Main Street to the fairgrounds where crowds gathered to watch bicycle races. Organizers declared the “bicycle tournament” a huge success, and the one-mile championship was won by L.P. Swett of South Paris with a time of three minutes and 12 seconds.

In 1906 rain dampened the 4th of July celebration in Rumford Falls for a second year in a row. The harness races, spring floor dance, band concerts and traditional pyrotechnics were all canceled. “Nothing remained for the celebrators to do but to drink pink lemonade and fire snap crackers in idle leisure,” reported a correspondent to the Lewiston Evening Journal. The biggest excitement came later that night. Instead of fireworks, townspeople got to see S. Bernier’s restaurant destroyed by a spectacular blaze.

In the Twin Cities that same year revelers were able to enjoy a parade before rain dampened spirits there too, according to the newspaper. The parade drew thousands of onlookers, and many said it was the biggest and best in the area’s history. Auburn police led the parade on horseback, the nickel and brass harnesses gleaming in the light, the horses prancing to the music of the Bath Military Band that followed. Next came Military Companies B and D of Lewiston. Girls dressed in white gowns and holding silk parasols rode atop lavishly decorated floats as though royalty. Clowns called “the horribles” entertained the crowd with pranks and foolishness. Red, white and blue bunting adorned buildings, and the crowds waved flags as the paraders passed by.

Halfway through the route, the newspaper reported, revelers heard a loud clap of thunder above the music of the marching band and the cheer of the crowd; then drops of rain began falling. The firemen and soldiers persevered down Goff and Court streets, but the rain came harder and harder. It slickened the pavement beneath the horses’ prancing hooves and penetrated the thin parasols of the girls on the floats. When the parade reached Elm and Pleasant streets, the order was given to disband.

The firemen headed to their stations, and the military men broke rank. The girls abandoned their floats for shelter and dry clothes, according to the news report. The crowd began to disperse, and it looked as if the parade that had held such promise had fizzled. Then in the distance those who lingered heard a drum corps and looked to see “the horribles” still prancing down the street, performing their antics. Their face paint was smeared and their costumes drenched and drooping, but they danced along as lively as if the sun had been shining.

Additional research for this column by David Farady.