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That vision stayed with me until, one morning, fifty years ago, on the rim of the Grand Cañon you looked into my eyes again and I knew my life dream had come true." I rose and, bending over my wife's cloud of beautiful silvery hair, I kissed her gently on each fair cheek. "Gail, why not take the old trail for our golden-wedding anniversary a long journey, clear to the mountains?" Eloise suggested.
That was a journey long to be remembered the long, golden-wedding journey of Gail Clarenden with his wife, Eloise St. Vrain, and all of it was sweet with memories of other days. Not in peril and privation and uncertainty did we follow the trail now.
Stay the woman who won my husband away from me and you'll keep him. What is more, I think you will make him a success in time for your golden-wedding anniversary! There, that's as fair as I can be." "Quite," Mary said, softly. "Once you admit to him there is a craving in your sensible heart to be as useless as I am then someone else will come along to play Mary Faithful to your Gorgeous Girl."
Abortive lumps of flesh stuck on at careless intervals sufficed for ears, and his scrawny neck with its absurdly correct collar and wild necktie seemed like an old, old man's when he dresses for his golden-wedding anniversary. Everything about Gaylord seemed old, exhausted, quite ineffectual. His mother had never tired boasting that Gaylord had had mumps, measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, St.
To Council Grove, and old Pawnee Rock, the Cimarron Crossing of the Arkansas River, the open plain about the site of old Fort Bent where only ghosts of walls and the court remain, and on to Santa Fé, dreamy and picturesque hoary with age, and sweet with sacred memories, we wandered on our golden-wedding trail. The name of Narveo in New Mexico still stands for gentleman.
Along the length of the old trail a marvelous fifty years have enriched a history whose epic days record the deeds of vanguards, who foreran and builded for the softer days of golden-wedding years. The last lap of all that wondrous journey bore us in ease and comfort beyond the desert the Africa, of Aunty Boone's weird fancy to the Grand Cañon of the Colorado.
In the early spring of this, our "golden-wedding" year, we sat on the veranda of our suburban home in Kansas City, above the picturesque Cliff Drive, rippling with automobiles. The same drive winds in its course somewhere near the old, rough road that once led from the Clarenden home, above the valley of the Kaw, down to the little city of great promise now fulfilled.
My arrival in Berlin took place just at the beginning of the golden-wedding festivities of the old Emperor William I. There was a wonderful series of pageants: historic costume balls, gala operas, and the like, at court; but most memorable to me was the kindly welcome extended to us by all in authority, from the Emperor and Empress down.
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