Fifty years ago, a small trading post, with its general store, its hand grist-mill, rude blacksmith-shop and the fort.

To-day, a busy active town, with more than five thousand inhabitants, a hundred business enterprises, great railroad facilities, and every element that conduces to prosperity, honesty and happiness.
Such is Geneva to-day, a substantial, bustling, thriving and progressive village of the west.
It is a hot, sultry day in August, 18--, and the shrill whistles from the factories have just announced the arrival of six o'clock.

Work is suspended for the day, and the army of workmen are preparing for their homes after the labors of the day.
At the little bank in Geneva the day has been an active one.

Numerous herders have brought their stock into market, and after disposing of them have deposited their moneys with the steady little institution, in which they have implicit confidence, and through which the financial affairs of the merchants and farmers round about are transacted.
The last depositor has departed, and the door has just been closed.

The assistant cashier and a lady clerk are engaged within in settling up the business of the day.