Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 277, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1911 — The GENEVIEVES I KNOW (Also their JAMIES) [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The GENEVIEVES I KNOW (Also their JAMIES)

By HELEN HELP

The Genevieve Who Has Just Lived and Loved

HP James’ hair was silvery, and the ; locks of Genevieve were white as James’ hair was all a mass of curls, utterly uninvaded by a bald spot Genevieve wore her snowy crown in a French twist Don’t you know, you benighted youngsters, what a French IB- twist may be? Well, you just ask Hr*; , mother if she—or grandmother—will H| show you what it is. And then gaze upon it in admiration for the really miraculous slickness at the sides and & the space it gives for garniture of the I upper reaches of the brain-cover. ? ■ So Genevieve had her white locks in French twist. And she lifted bright, dark eyes to James when he came into . the rest room of the big department store and stood before her, hat in hand, with that indescribable air of breeding which no half-shabby garments could for a moment dim. James carried a tissue paper parcel in his hand, a very long parcel, indeed, and very much bigger at one end than at the other. In fact. James with the silvery curls was bringing roses to Genevieve of the snowy French twist . Genevieve lifted bright dark eyes and her mouth took the sweetest curve—just every bit as sweet as the | curve it used to take ever and ever so many years ago when James used to come to the steps of her father’s home in the village when the moon shone in those wonderful summer nights—when James stood at the foot of the steps and looked up, worshipping, into the dark eyes of Genevieve, gazing down upon him from the topmost step. || .In those wonderful, white, moonlit nights it had seemed to James that the eyes of Genevieve were twin stars, glowing with heavenly beauty and maiden love. And after all these years, they look the same way to James today. And her mouth takes the same sweetest of all curves —the curve that comes to the lips of the woman who is well loved. James is bringing roses to Gen> vieve today, just as he brought them

In those June evenings long ago. Then he used to slip down into his mother’s garden and pull the sweet, pink blossoms, one by one. He used to look at them and think of Cfenevieve’s cheeks. Then he used to turn to another rose bush and pull the great, heavy blooms of the red, red rose and think of his Genevieve’s wonderful red mouth — and maybe he would hum a little about his love being like the red, red rose, till his voice—he never had much of a voice—would miss a note, and then he would fall silent from sheer fc happiness. Because now he would be standing Wore the white rose bush and thinking of the snow white soul of his own Genevieve, his own girl, and of her pure love crowned his life with a wreath of white roses, sweeter than any flower this earth In all its gardens ever bore. Then, in that wonderful evening, James would gather up the roses plucked in his own dear mother’s garden and carry them to his own dear girt. And her dark eyes would smile at him and in the dark hair he loved would be set, presently, a blossom from the white rose bush, and it would shine there like a spirit all the moonlit evening long. And later Genevieve would put it In a little vase all to Itself because James gave her, especially, just that one rose. ’ James bought the roses of a florist tonight, but they were pink and red and white just as they used ts be. They were not In a big, pasteboard box. TO that Genevieve would have to wait to see them until home-coming. No, indeed. They were just In a tissue paper parcel, the stems loose at obe end. And Genevieve opened a fold of paper and peeped In and looked at the three kinds of roses, and 1 then she smiled at James again, and I

tucked the dear flowers up in their wrapper just as if she were curling the snowy blanket about the pink tootsies of a baby. Just as she used to curl the blanket about the pink tootsies of the tall son who today could pick up little mother in one arm and not-so-very-big father in the other and trot away with them. That Is, if such a performance were not beneath the dignity of the tall, dark-haired man who left James at the elevator and hurried back to business. “Give mother my love and I’ll see her at dinner,” he said.

So James and Genevieve, dropping out of the active whirl of things in their own town, are visiting son Jim and looking at the great city, where, when their years were fewer, they had sometimes come for a week’s pure fun, beginning with their honeymoon, and going on through modest seats at the theater, an evening or two of music, a wandering through picture galleries, a delighted vision of the parks, and ending with a joyful journey home there to take up again the duty and the happiness of life with their own. There really Isn’t any story to James and Genevieve of the roses. They have just lived and loved. And now they are still living and loving. His clear blue eyes and her bright dark ones are full of Interest in the things about them as well as of quiet content in each other. And not content alone, because that is not enough. To know the highest possibility of life, for James and Genevieve there must be a deep, thrilling happiness. And that—ah, you young ones, believe me, that is with them, too. It thrills their hearts and curves their lips in smiles and keeps them young to each other and loving to all the world. It is—for James and Genevieve—the time of roses. It always was the time of roses, even through trouble and loss and sorrow and bitter, bitter pain. And if you have married the right Genevieve, Jamie, and you, if you have wedded the right Jamie, Genevieve, you know that this is true. “Come,” says James of the silvery curls, to Genevieve of the snowy French twist, “come, there will be just time for us to go to the matinee.” And Genevieve takes the paper off the roses, shakes out her black silk skirts and walks away beside her husband. She does not take his arm. Gracious, no. They have been keeping step all these years—they couldn’t miss step now. (Copyright, by Associated Literary Press.)

They Have Just Lived and Loved.