The evening world. Newspaper, June 30, 1922, Page 27

ee ames Beach venture- Married---He 80, She 75. _ © Tym fa a 4 By J. B. Calvo. bustle of a growing commonwealth 1 @ 1028 (Hew York Bvening World), Press Publishing Oompany. staid little hamlet across the Passaic from Livingston gasped to-day has not recovered its yeath at the news that Elmira W. team, seventy-five, eloped June 13 | was secretly married to James ach, eighty, whose family is the dy one in Hanover that antedates st of Aunt Myra’s own. The ceremony was performed by ‘ghd Fav, B. R. Barnard, Pastor of Whe Hanover Presbyterian Church, Jwhieh was founded by Aunt Myra’s ‘grea t-grandfather, the Rev. Adaceb “Green, in 1774. He kept the “feoret several days, as did Morris ao superintendent of the Sunday school, who was the ‘Witness of the secret marriage. fi When the aged couple did not an- the marriage, the pastor and ‘witness let it be known, and when neighbors asked Aunt Myra “that is to say, Mrs. James about it, she blushed and said tfue, and that she and her groom had not announced the Because they didn’t think gasped because it never had dreamed that the sweet-faced lady they thought of as a typical “old maid” had any thought of ro- behind the wistful tenderness her eyes as she watched young hand in hand, walking thtoug the dusk of twilight past tide house, down the elm-bordered Fond that leads to Madison. This road te the “Lovers’ Lane" of Hanover. *, sDhe older generation—for there still ‘those that can recall it—gasped it remembered a budding ro- manos of sixty years ago that had een forgotten by all but two prin- ‘Gipals in it until the elopement of { Myra and Uncle Jim, as they known to every one, became | When Aunt Myra was just Myra, a @hy girl of fitteen summers, she at- tended a little frame school on the ‘Bite of the present modern brick edi- fice fust south of the Hanover Pres- Syterian Church and but a stone's throw from her own home, where she fens borm and where she is honey- fa to-day. Her dreams of a then centred about a stal- Young man of twenty, who had fat next (> her in the little school- house a few years before, and who el ¢arried her books for her from the schoothouse down the ¢lm-bor- ered road that led past her house to ‘Madison. youth, James Beach, had felt Call of adventure and one day walked past her house, stopping for @ goodby before continuing on down the road to Madison, and trom there th New York, and eventually to New England. At first there were a few letters, and news of Jim, and then Jong months of silence, during which the pre(*/ Myra turned away the suit- ore that came to her door. In the shadows of twilight, when the day's ‘work Was done, she would stand upon the porch of her ancient home, gazing ‘wistfully down the road toward Madi- gon, own which her knight-errant gone, but never had returned, iGo the years passed. The little vil- lage, as State roads reached it and the While He Wandered His Little ' Schoolmate, Myra Green, Waited ' Last He Returned to Her; Now They Are at 20 Felt the Call of Ad- grew up around It to disturb the tran- quillity of the old days, forgot the pretty romance that had budded in the heart of Myra Green in the spring~ time of her life. No one even remem~- bered to wonder whether Myra re- membered. The life of the town pul- sated through {ts records of births. marriages and deaths, and in time Hanover forgot even to remark how strange it was that Myra, belle of the countryside, never figured In one of the marriages. Her girlhood friends married; many went away; strange faces came into the village, but al- ways Myra remained, placidly going about her duties at the old\homestead, and never missing a Sunday at church or at the Bible Class and the church socials, except the infrequent inter- vals when she was ill. She was untiring in her church ‘work, a standby for the ministers who occupied the pulpit founded by, her great-grest-grandfather, and her gentle ministering in sickness and in death—and her firm spinsterhood— soon won for her the affectionate title of Aunt Myra, everybody's friend. Those of the older generation heard, of course, that Jim Beach had mar- ried, but they had forgotten the romance of schooldays and + or thought of that incident in connection with Aunt Myra. Jim Beach lived happily with his wife and there was a daughter to bless their marriage and his business as a carpenter flourished. But always, in his hours of reverie, there was a thought of the little girl whose books he had carried down the road that led to Madison, and a re- gret at times that he had not re- mained in his birthplace to raise corn, for that was the ambition of his life. And then, as the years rolled on until more than half a century of his life far from his home had passed, his wife died, and his only daughter mar- ried and James Beach, now Uncle Jim, turned his steps homeward again. He found the little hamlet changed. Tho old church was gone. The old school- house was gone. The old swimming hole Wad dried up. Many of the old Ai homes had been replaced with more modern structures and the old, famil- jor faces were few indeed. So that the homecoming of Uncle Ny) K / W A Wy; church, founded {by Elmira Green's Great-Grandfather, 'v hore the Wedding ‘Qremony was Per- ee Jim had an element of sadness in it— that is, it did until he met Myra Green again, after sixty years of ab- sence, In all Hanover, at last he had found something that was unchanged. True, the once-golden hair over which he had delighted was sparse and sil- vered, and the fair cheek that had seemed like the unfolding petal of a rare June rose had been seared with the hand of Time, and Time had bent the supple, lithe body of the Myra he remembered, and toil had hardened the hands over whose softness he often had delighted. But Time had been kindly. The beauties that had gleamed in the golden glow of youth were gone, but in their place was mellow matureness and a comely grace that only years could give. Inwardly, in her gentle heart and kindly‘character, Myra was the same. Uncle Jim knew, too, that he wasn’t a youth of twenty any more himself, even though he is mighty spry for his years and, as Aunt Myra proudly says, “better than many a@ younger man, The light of romance that had burned so brightly in the springtime of life, and bad glowed faithfully, if dimly through the summer- time, flamed afresh to light the eventide of their two lives—that should have been as but one, had Fate dealt more kindly, That was In the latter part of March, with planting and the spring work of a thirty-acre farm . just around the corner, and Uncle Jim hired out to Aunt Myra to plant the corn he had want- 6 to plant for more than sixty years. That was in March, but as Aunt Myra says, “‘these widowers don’t waste much time,’ and on June 12 Uncle Jim spoke the words that had trembled on his lips more than half a century before. And Aunt Myra gave him the ‘‘yes’’ that she had waited more than half a hundred years to speak to him. Action suited words, and that evening the Rey, Barnard was surprised to recetve a call from Miss Elmira Green and Mr, James Beach, properly armed with the nec essary license to wed, asking that he perform the wedding ceremony that had been delayed sixty years. De- lighted, the clergyman summoned the superintendent of the Sunday school for witness and married the romantic pair. “Would I advise a girl of to-day to wait more than fifty years for her ideal?’ queried Mrs, Beach content- edly to-day, as her eyes fondly watched her white-haired, white- mustached husband chopping firewood in the yard. “Yes, by all means,” she an- awered. ‘‘Better to cherish a dream through half @ century and to find ene’s ideal at seventy-five than to take less than. an ideal and find only the unhappiness that leads to #0 many divorces to-day. All my family has been happily married and | couldn't have lese, no matter how long | had to wait. “Of course," she went on, while something of the old wistfulness came into her eyes, ‘I could wish that Jim might have come back sooner. I could wish we might have been married years ago, but if it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be, and at least we have this great happiness now." The neighbors, who for astonishment are delighted Myra's happiness, will tell no romance of seventeen is more biissfu) than that of Aunt Myra at seventy-five. Ten minutes in the spotless cleanliness of Aunt Myras comfortable old homestead, with her eyes forever watching ‘‘my husband’’ (as she calls him with great pride), will convince any one that here is a romance that deserves to take rank with that of Heloise and Abelard, of Romeo and Juilet—-with all the grea, fine romances of history. The entire town of Hanover recog- nizes this, and realizes, too, that this great romance thrived for sixty years within its confines, all unbeknownst fo them, and Hanover, 6n masse, all their at Aunt you that a V Plana te do honor to te lowers thet, im truth, have placed Hanover upon the map. On Friday evening the eu- tire town will give the happy couple @ miscellaneous shower, with all tho Presents that that implies to help them in setting up their housekeep ing, and with refreshments and punch and the nolsy serenading that was a fixture in country weddings in the olden, golden days. Aunt Myra, who would have liked to have had a big church wedding but didn't think anybody would come and, anyway, didn't want to walt any longer after her more than half a century of waiting, ts looking forward to the shower. Tt is going to be a big day—but then, tay of days has come, and all other days must be secondary. Now, when the young couples walk through the gathering twilight, hand in hand down the elm-covered road that leads to Madison, Aunt Myra doesn't look after them with the old, sad tenderness, Instead, safely hid- den in the dark of her front porch, under the spreading trees in her front yard, she squeezes the hand of her husband's that is in her's and happt- ty lifts her lips to his for the kisses for which she waited through the summertime of her life, her ea ps ae ee } | 1