[1] ... they christened this late-comer brother of mine David Whittier.
David, a name which Mother had stored up all through the years like a
squirrel its nut, bringing it forth each time a son was born to her
only to concede it in favor of family-names like Philip and Henry.
Whittier was father’s choice, after his beloved Whittier County.
[2] ... I think some of his most brilliant talks are the unrecorded
ones made more or less extemporaneously from the platforms of trains,
or I remember once, from the hangar of a roof just as he was stepping
on board a plane and a few hundred had gathered to cheer him on his
way. The out-of-doors seemed to clarify even that clear brain of his.
[3] A painting of my brother, done from an enlarged snapshot taken
one Sunday afternoon in South Meadow by Miss Henriette Simpson, now
hangs in Americana House, Philadelphia, the gift of the Midwest Junior
Historical Society.
[Illustration: Decorative Image]