128 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
time in the Worcester and Nashua ticket office at Nashua, and, in 1862, enteredtheeraployof General Manager Dodge, of the Boston,Concord, and Mont- real Railroad, at Plymouth, being successively promoted, holding for some years the position of chief clerk and cashier ; his death terminated nineteen years service for this corporation. In all this period he was always to be found at his desk, particular in the discharge of every duty, yet glad to devote all leisure moments to his dearly-loved home, or to chat with his neighbors and friends. A great reader, he collected a large library, from the best authors, and educated himself, so that few had more general information or could give more pleasure in conversation.
Since the first of June last, Mr. Whittier had been granted a vacation to recruit his genera! health. But the brain that had worked ceaselessly for tiiirty years proved to be more than tired, — much worn, — and the body enfeebled by the terrible sufferings of dyspepsia. The journey to mountains and sea- shore did not afford the much needed rest and relief ; there were moments when reason itself gave way, and in one of these, this most gentle of men took his own life, overwhelming with sorrow and distress his dearly-loved family and numerous friends.
Mr. Whittier was twice married. His first wife was a daughter of the late Anson Merrill, of Plymouth, by whom he had two daughters, one of whom survives him. In 1S79, he married a daughter of the late Professor Clement Long, D. D., LL. D., of Dartmouth College, who also survives him.
Mr. Whittier had that " charity that suffereth long and is kind ;" in doing good, had obeyed the command — " Do not your alms before men, to be seen of them ;" and the Saviour, to whom he prayed so humbly for help and for- giveness, shall surely "reward him openly." Truly, " by their fruits ye shall know them."
��AT THE FAIR.
��BY LAURA GARLAND CARR.
The crowd was dense; it pressed us Onetime, — was it so long ago? —
close; When young and debonair.
It bore us here and there. In that old village where we dwelt,
A din of voices filled our ears, Was no such loving pair.
And jarred the pleasant air. As you and I. Didst think of it,
Oh, discord and confusion reigned This morning at the fair?
Tliis morning at the fair !
1 1 •^ ^ r^ ^A „ A You vowed no other maid but I
The crowd was dense; it swayed and Your name and home should share;
tuineci, I thougtit the world would be a waste
And, ere I was awai e, ^j^f , ^^ j^^^ ^^^^ ^^^.^
A tall, dark form was at my side, ^ f^^ ^ ^
A warm breath stirred my hair ; .^.j^f ^ .^j^^ ' ^ ^. ,
And, looking up, I saw your face, »
This morning at the fair.
We made a blunder,— but had time
A quick, keen look each gave to each. The mischief to repair.
Yet cold, beyond compare, So you went j^our way, I went mine,
No bow, no smile, no friendly word No more a thought to share.
Fell on the pulsing air. Ah, me ! How fresh it all came back —
We met, and looked, and passed along. This morning at the fair.
This morning at the fair.
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