Obit: Whitmore, James (1830 - 1901)

Contact: Stan

Surnames: WHITMORE ANDREWS FRICKE ZETSCHE ROSSMAN PETERSON THOMPSON SCHOFIELD

----Source: Greenwood Gleaner, 9/6/1901

JAMES WHITMORE AT REST.
 

After several weeks' illness James Whitmore died Sunday afternoon at 2:30, from a general breaking down and wearing out of the system. The old gentleman had known affliction for a long time, having been for years a sufferer with a rose cancer on his leg, until amputation was necessary a few years ago in order to save his life. Later he began to loose his eyesight and for the past four years or so he was practically blind. For a number of years he drove the Greenwood and Withee stage, his helpless condition compelling him to give it up over two years ago since which time he has been more or less confined to the bed.

The funeral occurred from the M. E. church Monday afternoon, Rev. G. C. Andrews officiating. O. C. Fricke, Frank Zetsche, Paul Rossman, Elias Peterson, B. F. Thompson and Robert Scholfield acted as pall bearers. A wife and daughter and some step children besides other distant relatives are left to mourn his death, which to deceased, however, was not a matter to be dreaded for he pryed that death might end his sufferings.

Deceased was born in Ohio about 1830, leaving home at an early age and roughing it for himself. He came to Clark county about thirty-five years ago and for a number of years owned a farm in the Braun Settlement, coming to Greenwood when he sold it.

Memoriam for James Whitmore

Greenwood Gleaner, 9/6/1901

IN MEMORIAM

Rest, after pain and anguish
Peace, after years of strife:
For 'tis but pain and sorrow--
This span that we call life.
Long days you lingered watching
Your little earthly band,
But mother's voice was sweetest,
And you saw the Saviour's hand
Outstrectched to guide you safely
Into the Heavenly Land.
You followed where they beckoned,
From Heaven's golden strand.
Ah sad indeed The blind man's lot
Is freighted deep with woe
The thorns that throng his daily path
None but the sightless know
The grandest structure man can reach
In pride of human power.
Is touched by Time's relentless hand
And crumbles in an hour
And man with all his boasted ills
Must yield to Death's embrace
Must find within a narrow grave
A silent resting place.
The furrowed brow with hoary locks,
Has now been laid away
No power on earth, the stream of life
His tottering steps could stay.
And Oh, how great must have been the joy
That unto him was given,
When the darkened eyes saw clearly,
And he entered into Heaven.--M.I.M.