Christmas at Sagamore Hill, by Helen Topping Miller

COPYRIGHT © 1960
BY
J. A. HILL AND DONALD G. TOPPING
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK, OR ANY PORTION THEREOF, IN ANY FORM

PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN THE DOMINION OF CANADA BY
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., TORONTO

Christmas at Sagamore Hill

The night was bitterly cold and a raw wind was blowing off the Bay, sending dry leaves scudding and whipping the naked boughs of the trees, when Theodore Roosevelt alighted from his carriage at Sagamore Hill. He got out backward very cautiously, easing his muscular bulk down lightly on his feet although he was holding both arms straight out before him. The burden they bore was precarious.

In his arms he balanced a great globe in which a dozen goldfish were swimming dizzily. Already a thin film of ice had formed on top of the water and fragments of it followed the fish about in their hysterical dashings back and forth.

He walked to the steps, setting his feet down firmly as not long since he had tramped the rough vine- and fern-tangled hills in Cuba. Only now, he thought gratefully, nobody was shooting at him.

The door of the big rambling house opened as he mounted the steps and warm light greeted him. So did a chorus of assorted shrieks.

Four children came rushing out into the night, staid Alice trying to remember the dignity expected of a young lady of fourteen, Theodore, frail and owlish, peering through his spectacles, Kermit, slender and fair with legs 2 that seemed too slim to support his wiry body, and after them four-year-old Archie, stumbling and falling flat on the cold floor.

“Pick him up!” directed Roosevelt. “You see I have my hands full. And hold the door and let me in before I drop this slippery thing.”

“What in the world is it, Father?” asked Alice, hurrying to prop the door wide for him.

“Can’t you see?” demanded Kermit. “It’s fishes.” He scuttled behind his father.

“Move all those things,” Roosevelt ordered, pointing to the hall table. “Let me set this down.”

Alice hastily removed the card tray and candlesticks from the table, setting them carefully on the floor. The fish continued their giddy pirouette and small Archie pressed his button of a nose against the cold glass.

“Silly! Fishes can’t dance,” declared Kermit. “They’ve got no feet. Have they got feet, Father?”

“No, they haven’t any feet. They’re just excited,” said his father, hanging up his hat and overcoat.

There was a scurry of feet on the stairs and seven-year-old Ethel came flying down followed at a quieter pace by her mother.

“They’re ours,” Kermit said. “I counted and there are twelve of them. Which is the mother fish, Father, the one who lays the eggs?”

“They aren’t ours,” answered his father. “I got them for the school for you to give the other children as a goodby 3 gift. This house is freezing, Edie, can’t that man do something about the fires?”

“There’s one burning wherever there’s a fireplace, Theodore, and they’ve been stoking both furnaces continually all day. This house is just hard to heat on a windy day.”

“My room is like an icehouse,” said Alice. “My fingers got practically stiff while I was dressing.”

“We’ll hope that the house in Albany is easier to heat,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.

“I don’t want to move to Albany,” Ethel whimpered. “I don’t want to leave my puppies and my pony.”

“Silly!” scorned young Ted, who had stood a little aloof from all the excitement over the goldfish, as he usually did from things he considered childish. “You should be proud to go to Albany, Father’s going to be governor of New York.”

“Slightly less than being president,” Ted conceded, “but not much less.”

“Theodore, we’re due at the schoolhouse right now,” his wife reminded him. “Children, get your hats and coats and everyone must put on overshoes. We don’t want any frosted fingers or toes for Christmas. Theodore, I don’t really know if Ted should go or not. His chest is still frail from that grippe.”

“Bundle up well, Ted,” ordered his father. “Cold weather never hurt anybody.”

“It hurts me.” Alice shivered. “I get goose bumps and I hate them and the end of my nose turns red.”

“Get ready at once, Alice, and you too, Ted, if you’re going,” directed their father.

“Mother had me excused from making my speech,” said Ted. “I still think I was well enough to have made it.”

“I can say mine,” Kermit shouted, halfway up the stairs, “‘Higgledy piggledy went to school—’”

“You’ll be scared when the time comes,” Ted jeered. “I bet you forget half of it.”

In the big carriages packed with robes and hot bricks they rode the short distance to the Cove Creek school. The schoolhouse bell, creaking and jangling merrily, was ringing loudly as they came near; they could hear the wheels that turned it squeak and the ropes groan and slap against the sides of the belfry.

“Someday,” announced young Ted as he climbed out of the carriage, “that old thing’s going to come crashing down.”

Theodore Roosevelt, governor-elect of the State of New York, marched into the little schoolhouse carrying the bowl of goldfish in his arms and followed in a train by his family, to be greeted with loud clapping by the assembled parents. With a bow he presented the fishbowl to the teacher, sweeping off his gray campaign hat as he marched back to a rear seat. Father shouldn’t sit in the back, thought Alice, who was beginning to feel more like a princess every day and felt cheated because they were not more prominently seated. Father ought to be dressed up, too, wearing his silk hat and his beautiful white vest and striped trousers, not that old gray suit and knickers as though he were merely anybody instead of the governor.

One by one the children gestured or stammered through their “pieces,” most of which had a very military quality. A young archfoe of Ted’s finished with a tribute to the 5 governor-elect, “We’ll send you to the White House for the gallant deeds you’ve done,” which was tumultuously applauded by all the children and parents.

Then the governor-elect, who had hoped to escape by silently sitting in the rear, was called upon to speak. As he strode up to the stage, he was aware of a low whisper from his daughter, “Father, don’t talk long! Think of the poor children.”

Roosevelt did not speak of Christmas or the Holy Birth, which had been said a dozen times already. In simple language, talking directly to the young fry, he outlined his philosophy of life, counseled them to decide that they were going to have a good time as long as they lived, and that without being quarrelsome they should stand up for their rights, be honorable and fair to all people. The applause when he had finished shook the building but as he sat down he heard a loud mutter from his oldest son, “Father, we thought you’d never stop talking.”

Now came the most exciting moment. From the gay tree, decorated with wreaths of colored paper, with tinsel and strings of popcorn, the presents were distributed. Roosevelt was asked to step forward and as the gifts were handed to him by the teacher he called out each child’s name.

There were dolls and skates and sleds and sleighs, picture books and toy guns and swords, each one carefully selected by Edith over a period of weeks and each the gift of Theodore Roosevelt. As he handed down the presents into eager little hands he was no longer the governor-elect and a military hero, he was merely Neighbor Roosevelt giving a happy holiday to a group of small friends of his own children.

Edith had chosen all the gifts and Theodore had paid for them with the last army paycheck he had received for serving in Cuba. And no child hugging his present beamed more brightly than did Theodore Roosevelt as he patted every small head and spoke a pleasant word to the recipient.

His own children were not forgotten and Edith had wisely seen that the gifts were suitable even though there would be a bounteous Christmas for the five young Roosevelts later. If she had a few moments of trepidation as to how all this accumulation of holiday largess would be transported to Albany before the month was ended, she kept her anxiety to herself. Certainly Kermit could not be separated from the little mechanical ship he clutched so tightly in his arms.

They drove back to Sagamore Hill in the bitter cold of the early winter dark. The light snow that had fallen, just enough to allow Theodore Roosevelt to experiment with an old pair of skis, was now frozen hard and glittered in the chilly light from the western sky. Out toward the horizon the Bay lay flat and gray and restless, reflecting now and then a glint of dying winter light.

The children were quiet, huddling under the blankets, all but Ted who said wistfully, “I should have liked those skates you gave to Pete Murray, Father.”

“But those skates were better,” insisted Ted. “They have those sharpened edges and two straps.”

“I still say you are being greedy, Ted. It’s an ugly trait. Get rid of it. Pete Murray is not as fortunate as you. He never gets many presents.”

“I don’t want to go to Albany,” piped up little Archie. “I like here.”

“So do we,” said Ted, “but Father has to be governor of New York because he beat the Spaniards in the war.”

“Not alone, Ted,” corrected his father. “There were quite a few stout fellows helping me. Thousands of them, in fact, from generals and admirals down to plain soldiers and sailors.”

“We’ll hope history will affirm that rash assertion.” His father was dry. “However, I thank you for your commendation. All right, here we are. Pile out, you fellows. Mother and the girls are just behind us in the other carriage. Everybody carry his own loot. Supper will be ready, we’ll hope, though I doubt if Archie can stay awake long enough to eat it.”

The fires would be warm and pleasant after the chill outside, but later icy drafts would creep out of the corners making the family shiver. It was fortunate the young Roosevelts were a hardy breed, all but Ted who was still inclined to be frail and subject to sudden illnesses. Theodore Roosevelt remembered his own sickly childhood and hoped for the best for his sons. Certainly he himself was tough enough now. There had been times in his youth when he had been forced to go to the high, dry western country to recover his health and strength. He still went back occasionally in summer to look after his cattle interests there into which he had sunk so much of his inheritance from his father.

The ranch had been a losing venture for several years and there had been times when he and Edith had worried about being able to provide for their large, expensive family, but now the future seemed secure for at least a few years and Theodore Roosevelt had never been one to let anxiety harass him for long.

He paused to look up at Sagamore Hill on his way back from the carriage house. The bulky building with its wings and high roof line stood out clearly against the sky of early night. The house had somehow the wrong colors, as Alice was apt to observe a trifle acidly, remarking that the mustard yellow of the shingles on the gables certainly did not harmonize with the rose-pink brick.

“Hurry off with your wraps,” she said. “Supper is ready and we have good hot soup.”

“What, no wassail bowl?” bantered Theodore. “No boar’s head with a wreath of holly and an apple in his mouth? This is Christmas Eve, remember. Just plain old soup?”

“Don’t make the children dissatisfied with their food, Theodore,” Edith chided. “Ted, let me feel your cheeks. They look very flushed to me.”

“I don’t want any more pills or brown stuff out of a bottle,” whined Ted, “and I don’t specially care for soup.”

“Listen, son,” said his father. “You are always talking about being a soldier and a soldier learns first of all to eat what is put before him. I’m sure Mother has very excellent soup and it will be warming and welcome on this chilly night. I put wrong ideas in their heads,” he admitted, as 9 they shepherded the children into the dining room. “A very foolish thing to do.”

“Now you set an example of hungrily eating your soup,” said Edith. “At least there is a pudding later.”

“Does it have burning brandy on it?” inquired Kermit who had been devouring pictures of the old-fashioned English Christmas lately.

“No burning brandy, just hard sauce, but I suspect the cook put a drop or two of wine in it.”

“A stuffy old place like that?” She sighed. “And Bamie’s house is just as bad. Now I know how it will be: ‘Remember your father is governor. Do him credit.’ Sometimes I wish you were a plain man, Father, like other girls’ fathers.”

“You wish no such thing! You bask in all the publicity! Anyway I am a plain man. You don’t see me wearing a top hat, do you? Or putting on airs?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, “I wish you would dress up a little more and wear all your medals.”

Albany, Edith decided, was not going to be an easy place to hold the children to democratic standards. The governor’s children might be expected not to turn somersaults on the lawn of the executive mansion, or sail kites off the roof. Here at Sagamore Hill the younger ones had had the freedom of the place, nothing was closed to them. Even in Roosevelt’s workshop under the roof, the door was always open and she had seen her husband often writing or dictating an important speech with Archie or Kermit crawling 10 about his feet or pushing a toy train and shouting “choo choo choo!”

Important visitors were often left cooling their heels in the parlor while Roosevelt was out having a rough and tumble in the hay with the children or down at the dock teaching one of them how to dive. When he was with his children he was as young as they were, and though this made him more lovable it could be exasperating, too, and at times embarrassing. Like the time a maid had misinterpreted the mission of two delegations of visitors, leaving a group of important men to cool their heels on the front porch while she waited on some startled and bewildered clergy in the parlor.

But if there were times when Edith Roosevelt yearned for a little privacy, she kept the thought to herself. To be ignored and eventually forgotten would be a living death to a man like Theodore Roosevelt, with a nature so ebullient and outgiving.

He had to express himself either vocally or by action just as he had had to risk his life and health fighting with his Rough Riders in Cuba. There had been a job to be done, a wrong to be righted, and his fierce sense of justice and obligation would not let him ignore it. Of course the excitement had appealed to him, too, just as the thrill of riding and roping cattle on the Dakota ranch had done, the place where already he had sunk too much of the money left him by his father. The only recreation or relaxation that he knew was in doing something vigorous and different. There was, Edith sighed to herself, nothing restful about him.

“Now,” she put in a maternal admonition, “there will be no pillow fights tonight. Everyone must go quietly to sleep, there will be enough excitement in the morning.”

“At least,” said her husband, “may I be allowed to help them hang up their stockings?”

“If you’ll promise to come down immediately and not mar the mantelpiece. And Ted must have some ointment on his chest and a dose of cough medicine. I’ll come up with you, Ted, and see that you are well rubbed. You don’t want to spend Christmas in bed.”

“You have to and you have to hold still and not squirm and yell,” insisted his mother. “Come along now, all of you. I want you all in bed and warmly covered before the fires go out.”

“You mean Father isn’t going to tell us even one story?” wailed Kermit, stumbling up the stairs.

“No stories tonight, Kermit.” His father gave him a gentle slap on the rear as he followed him. “Orders from the queen. We must all rest tonight for tomorrow is a big day.”

The doorbell pealed then and over the upper railing they saw the maid admitting some visitors.

“Three gentlemen to see Colonel Roosevelt,” she announced, hurrying halfway up the flight. “They’re in the parlor.”

“Let them wait,” said Roosevelt impatiently. “Some delegation of office seekers, no doubt, or somebody wanting a favor of the governor.”

“But you aren’t the governor yet,” Ethel argued. “You’re only Father.”

“My favorite appointment and nothing would please me more than to work full time at it. Get along, boys, I can’t keep those people waiting too long.”

“You do,” reminded Ted. “That time when we were all playing circus in the barn you kept some men waiting a 12 long time while you were trying to teach Kermit’s pony to kneel.”

“Then Father was not governor of New York,” his mother told him. “Now he has a responsibility to the people of this state.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said her husband. “Kiss me good night, all you youngsters. I’d better see what those people want. After all, this is Christmas Eve and a cold night. Likely they want to get home to their families.”

The three men waiting below had a mission they considered important and praiseworthy. They wanted Colonel Roosevelt when he took office as governor to do something about getting better roads for the county.

“They’re a bog in winter and a fog of dust in summer. They’re a hardship to the folks who live here and they discourage summer people. Every time some people pay their taxes they harangue us about the bad roads.”

“But, gentlemen,” Roosevelt protested, “the county roads are the county’s affair, except for a few miles of state and post roads. Your county officials are the people for you to see about this matter.”

“The county officials, Colonel, are us three and there’s nobody for us to appeal to. We’re the ones who are getting all the knocks and got no answer unless we raise taxes, and Lord, what a howl there would be about that! Trouble is, people want a lot of things till it comes time to pay for them and then they want somebody else to take on the load.”

“That’s the trouble with the whole country,” said Roosevelt. “In Albany there are probably people already waiting, wanting something but wanting no part of the financial responsibility of paying for it. The President and Congress 13 are bombarded constantly with requests to give benefits to certain areas and groups of people but all those things cost money and the money has to come from the people, the ordinary people like you and me, gentlemen.”

How many times, he wondered, as the delegation left reluctantly, grumbling among themselves, would he hear the same arguments in the next two years? All at once, standing in his own doorway looking out at the dark night sky which was already beginning to lower and spit a few more flakes of snow, he felt a dread of the new task that till this moment had stimulated and exhilarated him.

The peace and quiet of Sagamore Hill suddenly was doubly dear. The fields and hills over which he had roamed with his children, the fringe of wood where he had chopped down trees, exulting in every blow of the ax, at seeing white chips fly wide. Here, he was thinking, he could have lived, writing his books, watching over the growth and education of his children, getting fatter with the years perhaps, less able to swim and dive and wield an ax, or flash down a snowy slope on new skis.

He knew, however, a life like that was not for him. Action was essential to him, positive and vigorous, and he could no more keep out of public affairs than he could resign himself to sitting by a fireside all the rest of his days. He could never sit still there. He was always jumping up to discipline the blazing logs with firm jabs of the poker, or hurl on more wood with a heave and a grunt.

He went to the fire now and found Edith sitting there with her usual piece of sewing in her lap.

“It seems to be getting colder,” she remarked. “Those upstairs rooms are really chilly. I do hope the governor’s 14 house has an adequate heating system; I dread the colds we get in winter and Ted’s chest is not really strong.”

“There we’ll have steam no doubt, and boilers to burn coal. I’ve never been inside the place but once and that was quite long ago. It’s a gloomy old pile but we have to live in it.”

“It can’t be any harder to heat than this house,” said Edith, trying not to let any of the odd feeling creep into her voice, the slight reservation she had never voiced even to herself but that had always been present deep in her mind—her own feeling about Sagamore Hill.

After all, it had been built for another women, the girl whom her husband had deeply loved, Alice Lee. And it had been originally named Leeholm. That Alice Lee had died before the first stone of the foundation had been laid could not but remind Theodore now and then of what he had lost, especially when he looked at Alice Lee’s daughter, brisk, vigorous little Alice born with an assertive nature, blunt and forthright, like his own.

All her married life Edith Carow Roosevelt had kept a firm hand on her emotions, not letting any useless jealousy creep in to raise a cloud between her and her husband. He was hers and had been for many years and their children were proof of the constancy of his love. He adored them all, though now and then his was the firm hand that supplied the occasionally needed discipline and punishment. The children’s worship of their father was only too evident in the way they followed him about, having scant enthusiasm for any game in which he did not join.

They sat quietly together for an hour, then Theodore asked, “Do you think it’s safe to get the Christmas presents out now? It’s getting late.”

“Let’s wait a little longer. Ted never goes to sleep promptly, and Ethel and Kermit were both very excited when Mame put them to bed.”

“Good old Mame! I bought her a locket. Probably a frivolous gift for Mame, but everyone needs something foolish and gay to liven up life now and then.”

“She has been faithful for years. I couldn’t have raised the children without Mame. She doesn’t get along too well with the other servants at times, but they’re used to her blunt way now and ignore her difficult days,” Edith said.

“We all have difficult days,” he remarked. “I know there have been times, when I was harassed and frustrated by outside events, that I have been difficult to live with.”

“You have learned to control your emotions very well lately,” she said, “though sometimes I have thought you a bit too impulsive.”

“You mean going off at half cock, lacking in sober judgment. I know that. No one knows it better than I. All my life I’ve battled against going at things headlong, the way I fought in Cuba, and struggled to put down graft and corruption when I was with the New York Police Commission.”

“I still hate thinking of that winter when times were so hard and we were so short of money. I still can’t bear to see a slice of bread wasted. Theodore, listen!” She rose suddenly. “It’s a wagon coming up the drive.”

They both hurried to the front door. A wagon drawn by two horses was slowly coming up the hill, lanterns hung upon it and sleigh bells jingling merrily from about the necks of the horses. It was filled with young people who were singing at the tops of their voices.

The noise would rouse the children, she knew unhappily, as the youngsters went on into another carol. Theodore walked out to the wagon to deliver the invitation, while Edith racked her brain to think what she had in the house to offer a crowd of young fry, who would certainly have huge appetites. There might be cookies in the pantry or apples. The cook always kept a supply of cookies on hand as Theodore often put a few in his pockets when he went on his almost daily rambles over the countryside.

It was a relief to her when he returned to the porch saying that the carolers would not alight, as they had many other places to go and it was getting late. After a dozen more songs, coming sweetly clear on the frosty air, the singers launched into a popular song that had been sung when crowds greeted the hero of San Juan Hill.

Edith knew a sudden trepidation as the wagon jolted away, the voices still floating back on the still, cold air. She had heard whispers of the White House before from the politicians and public men who were constantly thronging the house, but never a word from Theodore. If he had any ambitions beyond the governorship he was keeping 17 them from her and that was unlike her husband who was often too vocal and positive in his plans and opinions. Certainly he had always confided in his wife, even if at times she had secretly thought he was not too wise to be so frank about important and confidential matters.

What he may have been thinking she had no way of knowing, though as a rule his line of thought was seldom concealed from her. The presidency would be an honor of course, and if Theodore had a dream of sometime occupying that distinguished position she could say nothing to discourage or frustrate such an ambition, but her quiet soul shrank a little from being thrust into the responsibilities of such a life and always she thought of her children. The publicity and adulation to which they would be exposed in Albany would be bad enough.

Like their father they were all fiercely democratic—at least the boys were—but every honor that had come to their father had excited them, Alice especially. Alice loved importance and took every plaudit and cheer as partially her own.

Edith argued determinedly with herself that she was worrying about nothing, that no doubt after his term as governor was ended, Theodore would be content to return to Sagamore Hill to write and live the life of a country squire. But all the while she was tormented by her hidden awareness that quiet and peace were never made for Theodore Roosevelt.

They went back into the house and discovered three small figures crouched above, peering through the railings of the stairs.

“We couldn’t sleep, the singing kept us awake,” said Alice when Theodore began to scold.

“Scurry back to bed, all of you,” he ordered. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Just some young people singing Christmas carols,” explained their mother. “When you are older perhaps you can go out caroling too on Christmas Eve. Kermit, come here, your night clothes aren’t properly buttoned.”

“He kept wriggling and diving under the bed,” Ted reported. “Mame couldn’t even hold him.”

“She tickles,” Kermit defended. “Will you tell us a story about the Wild West, Father?”

“Certainly not!” Edith was firm, detecting a faint sign of weakening on her husband’s face. “It’s far too late. Jump into bed quickly. Did Mame give you your tonic, Ted?”

“You hate being sick, too, and the idea of not growing up as strong as the other boys,” their father reminded him.

“I hated that stuff I had to take to make my bones strong,” declared Kermit.

“You hated having to wear braces on your legs, too.” His father followed the boys into the nursery, gave each a friendly smack and tumbled them into bed. “But the braces made your legs strong enough so you can swim like the rest of us.”

“I still hate getting water in my ears,” stated Ted, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Will there be warmer bedrooms in that palace up in Albany, Father?”

“We’ll hope so—and it isn’t a palace. It’s officially called a mansion.”

“In storybooks governors always live in palaces. Does the president live in a palace in Washington?”

The house was quiet at last but Edith Roosevelt, when they had completed the task of filling all the dangling stockings, lay awake a long time, her thoughts trying to search the future, what lay ahead for all those children. More of war and danger, more heart-racking anxiety for their mother? Perhaps it was best not to know, otherwise life would be one long torment of apprehension.

Morning showed a thin cover of snow on the ground, but before day came to reveal it plainly, there was pandemonium in the parents’ quiet bedroom as the children came rushing in lugging their stockings. Only small toys bulged in the stockings, but Alice proudly displayed a little gold bracelet and Archie, round-faced and beaming, bounced up and down on his father’s stomach excitedly cranking a small tin toy that made musical sounds as the handle turned.

“That room will be cold,” objected their mother. “Here, crawl under this blanket, all of you. Theodore, do poke up the fire.”

There were some embers left in the fireplace and he strode over, barefoot, in his night garb and jabbed and stirred at them, vigorously, piling on the wood till a roaring blaze was kindled. He liked fires to roar, horses to gallop, he had to put gusto into everything he did, his wife lay thinking.

“We’ll have breakfast first,” she said firmly. “No one will be downstairs this early, so all of you take your stockings and crawl back into your beds till Mame comes in. Then after breakfast we’ll light the Christmas trees in the gun room.”

“It’s cold everywhere. This is a winter’s day,” said Theodore. “Scamper now! No one is to stir out of bed again till Mame comes in.”

“She’s an awful sleepyhead,” complained Ethel. “She won’t stir for hours and hours.”

The gun room was not yet warm when at nine o’clock Theodore lighted the candles on the two Christmas trees, Mame standing by worriedly with a bucket of water and a dipper to head off any flickering blaze. She had wrapped each child in a heavy coat, but even that did not keep small fingers from cramping with cold as they fumbled with strings and wrappings, squealing happily over their treasures.

Ted gloated over a new sled while his mother wondered how it would be transported to Albany, for assuredly he would refuse to leave it behind. Ethel hugged a new doll and put it to bed repeatedly in its cradle her Aunt Bamie had sent, adjuring it to lie still now and Father would come and tell a story, maybe about cowboys.

At ten o’clock Roosevelt impulsively decided to go to church, and Alice and Ethel insisted on going with him. Wrapped in heavy coats they set out in the carriage, the girls with their chins buried in fur, their small noses pink with frost.

At the little Episcopal church Roosevelt got down and 21 shook the door. It was locked fast. Presently a woman stuck her head out of the house next door.

“No services today,” she said. “The minister is sick with the grippe.” She came closer. “It’s Mister Roosevelt, isn’t it? Governor now, ain’t you? My man voted for you. He was at San Juan Hill.”

Instantly Theodore had his notebook out. “What was his name? I’ll remember him. I remember all my Rough Riders, they were a gallant lot of fellows.”

She told him the name. “He got wounded in a skirmish. But he got over it. Now he travels around selling housewares for some folks in Jersey City. He’s away down in Pennsylvania today. It was too far to come home for Christmas but it makes it a dreary time when the man’s away, the young ones miss him.”

As the carriage started up the hill Ethel announced, “I never got to put my five cents in the collection, Father.”

“It’s in my mitten. Where Mother put it. Do I have to give it back to Mother?”

“No, you may keep it. When we get to Albany you can take a ride on the streetcar with it, but unless you can promote a little more cash you’ll have to walk back,” he teased.

“I’d have to take Mame with me,” she demurred, “and she always grumbles that her feet hurt.”

The good smell of dinner met them at the door as they entered, and some warmth from the glowing fires that had been piled high with logs. The furnaces too gave up a grudging wave of heat and, warming his hands at the wood fire, Theodore was glad they would not have to struggle with inadequate heating much longer. This house had been 22 built for summer and was delightful at that season, catching the breezes from the Bay. The trouble was that the wind was just as enthusiastic in winter, and the curtains at the windows now waved gently as it frolicked around the high gables.

“I thought you’d never come, Father,” he fretted. “Mother says I can’t go out alone.”

“I don’t think he should go out at all,” declared Edith, “but I agreed to leave the decision to you.”

“There’s not enough snow, Ted,” his father told him. “It wouldn’t carry your sled. You’ll have to wait for a heavier snowfall. From the look of those clouds we should get it tonight.”

Ted stared ruefully out the window. “Why is God so stingy? In Albany there won’t be any place to use a sled. Mame said so.”

“There are parks in Albany, Ted,” Edith assured him, “and likely grounds around the capitol building and there is sure to be a hill there somewhere.”

“I saw two flakes of snow falling,” comforted Alice. “I saw them on my muff.”

“Church must have been very short today,” Edith said. “You were only gone an hour.”

“I’m always afraid of that in winter,” she said. “That siege Ted had once weakened him so. That’s why I try to keep him from exposing himself.”

“But first we must all wash our hands,” said the mother. “Run along upstairs. Ted, leave your hat and coat up there. I’m not sure I want you outside today.”

“The outside air can’t hurt him,” demurred Roosevelt, when the troop had pelted off up the stairs.

“You aren’t sure of that. You can be too insistent about toughening up Ted, as the doctor reminded you. After all, you were a frail child yourself.”

“But my life in Dakota toughened me. Now I never have a pain and rarely a cold,” he insisted.

“I suppose you are right. You usually are. Anyway, this is going to be a dour day, although those clouds show a few signs of thinning and letting the sun shine through.” He studied the sky from the window.

They went in to dinner then and there was the usual argument about who should say grace. Ethel won and hurried through the little verse, conscious of impatient looks from her brothers, moving their eyes though their heads were bowed.

There was a bounteous spread on the table and for the first time in days there were no guests. Obviously everyone was respecting a family’s desire for privacy on this holiday and Edith was grateful.

The big turkey that old Davis, the gardener, had fattened in a little pen, feeding it corn and all the scraps from the kitchen, stood brown and beautiful at the head of the table and Theodore sharpened the carving knife on the steel with a ringing noise.

“Only two drumsticks,” he remarked, slicing away, “so somebody has to be content with the second joint.”

The expected shrill protests arose, Kermit insisting that he had never had a drumstick since he could remember.

“You can’t remember long then,” declared Ted, “for you had one at Thanksgiving.”

“We’ll settle this.” Roosevelt took an envelope from his pocket and tore it into strips, two longer than the others. “The long pieces get the drumsticks and no more said about it.” He folded them carefully in his hands with the ends visible and passed them around the table.

Ethel and Archie won and squealed with delight, while Alice remarked philosophically, “I’d rather have breast, anyway. Drumsticks are dry and tough.”

“Ask them in to the fire and invite them to sit down and wait,” said Theodore. “Are they elderly gentlemen?”

He jumped, upsetting his glass of water. “My boys!” he exclaimed, hurrying out while Kermit and Archie scurried after.

“Soldiers, Mother,” Kermit ran back to report, “and Father’s hugging them.”

Oh, me! wailed Edith Roosevelt silently to herself, not even Christmas dinner alone! She rang the bell quickly.

“Set three more places,” she directed the girl who answered. 25 “Mr. Roosevelt will have guests. But you are all to sit still,” she ordered the children.

Edith rose herself to greet the three young men who followed Theodore into the dining room. They were plainly dressed and obviously slightly embarrassed. Roosevelt introduced them by name or rather by nicknames.

“This is Lew, and Ike, and Cricket. They shared their shelter with me one rainy night in Cuba.”

“We hate to bust in this way, ma’am,” said Cricket, who was older than the other two. “We asked the Colonel to let us go and wait and come back.”

“Nonsense! You’ve come a long way and it’s cold outside,” the Colonel said. “Sit here, and here, and you, Ike, over there.” He introduced the children who forgot to eat in their excitement.

“Mighty pretty daughters you’ve got, Colonel. Smart-looking boys, too,” said Ike.

“Thank you,” Edith replied graciously, not looking at Alice, who had murmured thanks and straightened her shoulders, posing a little as she was inclined to do.

Roosevelt ordered the turkey brought back and began carving and filling the three extra plates put before him.

“These boys came up here all the way from South Carolina,” he explained to Edith, “and stopped to call on me.”

“We’re on our way to Pennsylvania. Got jobs in the mills there, ma’am, but when we got near this place we just had to see the Colonel, so we hired a rig and come out here. Never thought about its being Christmas.”

“Did you kill any Spaniards in Cuba?” asked Ted, while the visitors helped themselves gratefully to the food being served by the maid.

“Well, we shot at a lot of them, so we must have hit a few,” replied Cricket.

“Anyway, they were shooting at us from up in trees and under bushes, and there were too many trees and bushes for a man to take any chances.”

“Anyway, we licked ’em,” said Lew. “When a Spaniard runs he runs. And yells.”

“Father has a lot of guns,” observed Kermit. “Ted can shoot, but I can’t.”

“You will be old enough before long,” said his father. “Ted shoots very well for an eleven-year-old.”

“I hit the bull’s eye twice,” Ted bragged, while Edith controlled the little jerk of panic she always felt when she thought of her eldest son with that gun. “Teach him early enough and he’ll know how to handle a weapon wisely,” had been Theodore’s argument when the new light rifle had been brought home.

Edith excused herself when the meal was over and went upstairs but the children refused to follow as she suggested. They followed the men instead, even Alice taking a chair in a corner, tucking her feet up under her, a habit Mame much deplored. Ted sprawled on his stomach on the floor at his father’s feet, chin on palms, while Archie crawled under Roosevelt’s chair and curled up there, half asleep.

The talk was fascinating to the children, even to Ethel, 27 who had never showed any female dismay at violence; indeed she was a real little warrior herself, holding her own with two older brothers. All the Roosevelt children had been taught to stand for the right and fight for it if necessary, and there had been times when their mother secretly regretted this branch of her husband’s education, when Ted came home with a split lip and spectacles bent, or all of them engaged in battles in the nursery.

Alice had her own room now and was inclined to stay aloof when violence threatened, but earlier she had been one of the stoutest fighters.

Kermit leaned on his father’s shoulder drinking in the stories of Spanish ambushes and night attacks, of the renegade Cubans who begged food from the Rough Riders and then carried information to the Spanish headquarters.

“I shot one buzzard,” said Cricket. “He begged for some beans and I only had a spoonful and then he drew out a rusty old pistol. I got him before he could cock it.”

“Well, no. Elsewhere in the body,” replied Cricket delicately. “But the worst thing in Cuba wasn’t the Spaniards or being shot at, it was the goldurn mosquitoes—begging your pardon, Colonel.”

“They were so thick we had to cover up our heads with blankets to get any sleep.” Lew took up the story while Roosevelt smiled ruefully. “We couldn’t light a fire to smoke ’em out most of the times. That was what their sharpshooters were waiting for. Man show himself in the light and down he went!”

“The fever was bad too,” Roosevelt said. “It has already made very doubtful any hope of building a canal across Panama.”

“We had more sick with fever than we had wounded, even when we charged the Hill,” Ike recalled. “Well, we must be heading back, you fellows. It’s been fine seeing you again, Colonel, and we’re sure proud New York elected you governor.”

“Our thanks for a good dinner, sir, and give our thanks to your good wife. We better push on, our man we hired to drive us is waiting and our train leaves at six o’clock and it’s a long way to the station.”

“I’m honored by your visit, boys,” Roosevelt followed them into the hall, the children trotting after.

When the Rough Riders had gone, Roosevelt picked up the sleeping Archie and carried him up the stairs, Ted climbing after, asking with every breath, “Can I go out now, Father? Is there enough snow for my sled?”

“There’s almost no more snow, Ted, but we’ll hope for some to fall overnight. Those fellows,” he said to Edith when he had put Archie on his bed and covered him well, “came out of their way to see me and I was very much honored by their visit. They hired that driver too and I don’t doubt they needed the money. Men who work in mills and have families have little money to spare. At least I know Cricket has a family. He showed me pictures of two boys when we were waiting for transportation in Tampa. He attached himself to me as a sort of unofficial aide. There was not much emphasis on rank in my command.”

“And what there was I’m sure you ignored,” said Edith indulgently. “It was undoubtedly a very democratic organization.”

“When you’re depending on a man to fire in time to save your life you have no use for protocol. That boy Lew, who had so little to say, twice saved my horse from being shot under me. Rank loses its importance when a lot of savage men are attacking you, and you see your men fall and know the next bullet may be for you. They were all gallant, all of them. I owe them more than I can ever repay.”

“Shall we go down now to the fires?” Edith asked. “By the way, Davis won’t be back today. I gave him Christmas afternoon off to be with his family. Some of his children have come home bringing their children with them. Can you attend to the furnaces?”

“I’d better put on some overalls. That’s a dirty job. Then I’m going to take the youngsters out awhile. We can have a romp in the barn. They get too restless in the house all day. I’ll keep Ted’s feet dry,” he promised.

“And don’t let them get overheated,” she warned. “That thermometer downstairs hasn’t risen above freezing all day. It seems awfully cold for so early in the winter. I hear Quentin now. I’ll take him down by the fire so Mame can get some rest.”

He shrugged into a rough army coat and cotton overalls and went below to poke and rattle vociferously at the two furnaces, shoveling out ashes, wondering whimsically what the important politicians of New York would think if they saw their governor-elect carrying a hod? Certainly they would respect him the more if they saw him in working garb at such a menial task, at least the working classes would and there were a lot more of them who had voted for him.

When the furnaces were filled and burning well he carried 30 up several armloads of wood, panting a little from the steepness of the stairs. Edith sat beside the fire holding small Quentin, while Kermit crawled about her feet, pushing a toy cannon about and yelling “Bang!”

“I had overalls over them and a jacket, but I’m going up to change now to take the children out.”

Kermit jumped up and rushed after him, shouting, “Father’s going out to play. Father’s going out to play.”

Alice emerged from her room where she had been stowing away her Christmas presents, and in the nursery Ethel hastily put her doll to bed and flew out.

Archie woke up then and came trudging after his father. “Are you going to shave, Father? May we watch you shave?”

“No, I’m not going to shave. Find your coat and cap. Mame’s asleep and Mother’s busy with the baby. Ted! Where are you? This expedition is about to start. Overshoes for everybody. Bring yours in here, Archie, and I’ll buckle them for you.”

It was Theodore Roosevelt’s favorite march, over the yard and out through the fences to the old barn that he had sentimentally left standing when he built Sagamore Hill because, he told himself, it had such a nice big haymow. When he had pushed forward with his men at San Juan Hill, struggling through thorny brush where poisonous snakes lurked, slipping and sliding over the matted vegetation, he had had the same feeling of leading a troop of 31 trusting souls as he had now, propping the heavy barn door open till the last straggler panted through.

“Can’t we have the pony out, Father?” Ted begged. “Grant hasn’t had any exercise today.”

“No, I promised Mother we’d play inside. It’s fairly warm in here. Who’ll be first up the ladder?”

“Me!” shrilled adventurous Ethel. “But we can’t climb with these overshoes on. They’re too slippery.”

“Stack them all here neatly. And nobody is to turn and jump back down that ladder,” their father ordered.

“You had your stomach in the way of my feet.” Ethel flashed quickly up the ladder. The others came after, Theodore taking the rear to help Archie, who had to be lifted up the last steps. The mow above was high and lighted by a dusty window. The roof had chinks here and there between the aged shingles, letting in pale beams of light that showed the ragged mounds of hay with a pitchfork sticking up out of one stack.

Ted promptly seized this and began waving it, shouting, “I’m a Rough Rider. I choose Father with me. The rest of you can be Spaniards.”

Theodore recovered the menacing weapon firmly and stood it in a far corner. “No Rough Rider fought with a pitchfork. I’ll be the Spaniards. The rest of you can attack from those stacks over there. Remember we beat the Spaniards!”

There was a great deal of yelling “Bang! Bang!” and 32 when the hay was pretty well flattened and the children swarming over him Roosevelt obligingly lay flat pretending to gasp and moan from a lethal wound. His acting was so realistic that Ethel began to cry.

“I don’t like being Spaniards,” she wailed. “I don’t want to hurt Father.”

He sat up, reaching for her. “I’m not hurt,” he comforted, “just slightly out of breath. That hay is dusty. Now everybody help. We’ll pile it up again.” He retrieved the pitchfork and set to work, flinging forkfuls of hay in the air while the children gathered up as much as they could hold.

They achieved a beautifully rounded stack that almost reached the rafters and instantly Kermit and Ethel flung themselves at it, squealing happily.

“Stop! You’ll tear it down,” yelled Ted, blinking as the last ray of sun through the shingles glinted off his spectacles. “I want it all round and pretty.”

“We’ll play Indians and this is the Bad Lands of Dakota,” said his father. “Ted and Kermit will be Indians and the girls and Archie and I will be the settlers hiding from them.”

“I want to be an Indian,” Archie protested. “I can yell loud.” He emitted a piercing whoop to prove it.

“Indians don’t yell,” said Ted, scornfully. “They creep out of ambush very stealthily.” He quoted triumphantly from the stories their father had read to them. “They like to surprise their victims.”

“When they’re on horseback they yell,” Roosevelt said. “But you’ll be prowling Indians. They know how to be still as mice. And twice as deadly.” He twined a spray of hay through Archie’s hair for a feather. Instantly Ted and 33 Kermit had to have feathers too and tying knots in their short hair to hold a dry wisp of hay erect was a slow business.

“I wish we had some war paint,” said Ted, studying his brothers with grudging approval. “I could have used some of my water colors if I’d known we were going to play Indians.”

“Your faces are dirty enough to pass for Indians,” stated their father. “And remember that Mame is good and faithful and devoted to you children. You must always be kind to Mame and respectful and never talk back to her.”

“She swept up my paper doll hats. Anyway, I didn’t kick her hard and I got punished for it.”

Theodore Roosevelt knew that his children, indulged as they were in many ways, were sure that retribution for any misbehavior was certain and swift, relentlessly applied after any wrongdoing. His was always the correcting hand when he was at home, Edith always resigning that job to her husband, and he comforted himself with the idea that when they were bad they were still pretty good children. At least they were truthful, only Kermit now and then letting his facile imagination run ahead of him too fast but he was always sternly corrected for it, and as a rule his brothers and sisters dealt scornfully with his fancies.

“Now, the settlers will hide, and the Indians have to find them, and any redskin who is recognized gets shot,” Roosevelt outlined the rules.

“I wish I had a sunbonnet,” said Alice, as she made a little nest for herself far down in the warm hay. “Settlers’ wives always wore sunbonnets.”

“You’re wearing an imaginary sunbonnet,” said her father. “Tie it tightly under your chin and I’ll get my imaginary gun ready. Keep quiet, boys, and hide far down there behind the hay.”

He helped the girls to crouch deep in the dry stack, Alice disliking the tickle of the hay on her neck and impatiently slapping at it while Ethel burrowed happily as a mole.

“Holler when you’re ready,” called Ted from the opposite side of the stack.

“Settlers never let Indians know where they are hiding,” objected their father, who had dug himself deep into a pile; more excited and intrigued by the game than the young ones.

The Indians finally advanced, stealth being somewhat diminished by giggles from Archie and muttered orders to be quiet from Ted. Kermit gave a war whoop as he sprang at his father but landed in a heap where Roosevelt promptly dispatched him with an imaginary pistol and a very realistic “Bang.” Farther around the pile there were screams and snarls as Ted crept down on Ethel and grabbed her pig-tailed hair.

Ethel promptly rolled on her back, walled up her eyes and made a melancholy face so realistic that Ted began to whimper.

“The game is over,” announced Roosevelt, lifting Kermit 35 to his feet. Close by Alice and Archie had been tussling, Alice subduing the attack by tickling the Indian till he squirmed and giggled. “Brush the hay off your clothes. Now we’ll mend the stack again and see who can jump the farthest.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” bragged Ethel, reviving from the dead. “I can. I always do beat the boys.”

“Stack hay and don’t argue. Archie, take off your jacket, you’ve got the back of your shirt full of hay.”

“If we had been real Indians we wouldn’t have on shirts, we’d just have some stripes of war paint.” Ted began busily piling up the hay. “That game wasn’t fair anyway because Archie giggled and Alice forgot to shoot quick.”

“He fell on me.” She stood up. “Oh me! There’s Mame, scared to death to climb the ladder. Father, don’t make us go in yet.”

Mame’s head, wrapped in a crocheted wool scarf, showed halfway up the ladder. “Gentlemen to see the Colonel,” she announced, “Mrs. Roosevelt says it’s important.”

“I can’t do that, Ted, because from now on I’m the servant of the people of New York. Ask them to wait by the fire, Mame, tell them I’ll be in presently.” Roosevelt shook the hay from his shirt and jacket and studied the disappointed faces of his children. All the faces were definitely grimy but each one reflected woe.

“Go ahead,” Roosevelt directed when Mame had backed 36 gingerly down the ladder. “Oldest jump first. See how high you can land on the hay. We can jump for ten minutes.” He took out his watch.

Fifteen minutes later he led his bedraggled, breathless crew back to the house, entering through the rear door though usually he was most unconcerned about his own appearance, especially when the children were with him. But now, with his new responsibilities, he was beginning to be aware that he owed a certain distinction of attire to these people who had elected him to the most important office in the most important state. Also he was thinking uneasily of Edith’s carefully disciplined but inwardly disapproving attitude.

Mame met them in the hall, her own disapproval not masked at all. “I declare, you always seem to bring them back looking like ragamuffins, Colonel Roosevelt! Hurry up, all of you! Colonel, you’ve got a dirty face yourself. Your guests are in the library. Mrs. Roosevelt had me serve them some wine.”

As he hurried up the stairs Roosevelt was hoping that this waiting group would not be church dignitaries or any others who would resent being served wine. Edith was in their room changing for dinner after tending Quentin all afternoon. She looked at him and shook her head.

“Well, at least you did come up to change.” She sounded relieved. “I don’t know who they are. Mame let them in. After tending the baby all afternoon I wasn’t presentable myself. The nurse will be back at nine o’clock, thank goodness. I let her go home for Christmas. Hurry and change. They’ve already been there half an hour, with a horse waiting out there in the cold.”

Through the window they could see a handsome bay 37 horse and smart carriage waiting outside, the horse well blanketed and secured by an iron weight.

“Looks really important,” said Theodore, as he washed the dust of the loft off his face. “But they could have waited till Christmas was over and given a man a chance for a day in peace with his family.”

“Tomorrow it will be worse,” she reminded him. “You’ll have to be excused to sort your papers and I shall have to oversee the packing. We have just four days to get to Albany and I’d hate you to miss your own inauguration ceremony.”

“Is this jacket all right? After all, I’m supposed to be informal at home.”

“It will do. Straighten your tie. You always seem to get the knot slightly crooked.”

He kissed her, grinning like a boy, and hurried down the stairs thinking that his Edith was still the loveliest thing alive and the best thing that had ever happened to one Theodore Roosevelt.

The three men rose as he entered the library and introduced themselves, though he already knew their identity having had some dealings with them when he was Police Commissioner of New York City. They were all members of the Board of Authority, a department of the city government, and immediately Roosevelt sensed that their mission was to gain some advantage in advance from the governor-elect.

The idea angered him and he made an excuse to mend the fire, poking and banging till he had worked off his momentary attack of spleen. Then he was ready for their proposal which came promptly, voiced in turn by each of 38 the three. Roosevelt said nothing, sitting rubbing the back of his neck as he often did absently when he was trying to keep a cool head, a thing that with his impetuous nature and itch for action was not easy for him to do.

Finally, when their bland recital of their purpose in coming here—intruding on a father’s holiday at home—was all stated, the last part in concert, he jumped to his feet, paced across the room and back and braced himself facing them.

“Gentlemen, you have asked me to intervene in this matter which primarily affects only the City of New York, and your office, authority and functions in that city. Let me remind you in the first instance that I am not yet governor of New York nor will I be for several days. Secondly, I remind you that interference of this type is no function of the governor, and that your appeal (if it is an appeal) should be lodged with the proper authority to consider it. After that, gentlemen, I bid you good day.”

The three men went out grumbling and Theodore stamped up the stairs angrily, to where Edith sat by the fire, rocking Quentin, who had the sniffles, to sleep.

“Low, unprincipled scoundrels,” he stormed, “coming out here on Christmas Day to ask a favor of me knowing all the time it would be utterly outside all order and sense for me even to consider it.”

“There will be a great deal of that in a state like New York,” Edith reminded him. “You might as well make up your mind to accept it and be able to combat it calmly. Your experience as Police Commissioner certainly taught you that.” Edith was not too certain in her mind that anything she said would do any good. Theodore’s first impulse was always to fight any imposition or injustice toward himself or any other innocent party, whether the war was 39 waged against the oppressed Cubans or against civic or national righteousness.

That he was usually effective only increased his crusader’s urge and his wife had her own moments of trepidation about facing his career as governor. She had a clear and analytic mind that was always able to face truth even in its ugliest mien and she had a quiet dread of all those stone walls of intrenched selfishness and evil against which Theodore Roosevelt’s militant nature might hurl itself in vain. He had had so many high periods of satisfaction and achievement these past years he had become an idol to many but she knew that from the dawn of the history of the world the lands of it had been paved with the scattered dust of fallen idols.

She said then, “Mame is bathing the boys and Ethel, and they’ll go to bed early. Then you and I and Alice will have a quiet supper downstairs. The cook came in just a few minutes ago. Poor soul, she spent nearly the whole of Christmas afternoon just going over to see her sister and carry her a white fascinator she had crocheted. She was too conscientious about her duty here to take time even for a Christmas visit.”

But Theodore was still not soothed or mollified. “Those fellows who came here had the presumption to ask me to intervene in a civic matter that concerns only their own interests in the City of New York.” He resumed his angry self-justification, “I practically showed them the door. They were important men and politically powerful and now I have undoubtedly made three powerful and influential enemies.”

“You’ll make more, Theodore. You always have when you were in a position of power just as every man does.”

“Those fellows infuriated me by implying that at this stage of my public life I would risk being devious. All right, my dear, I won’t let them spoil our Christmas, what’s left of it. You are an angel to listen so understandingly to my tantrums. And before I forget it let me tell you you are just as pretty and sweet and cute as you were when you were sixteen years old.” He bent and kissed her.

“When I was sixteen I was an awful prig,” she said. “I remember. I wasn’t much better when you married me.”

“You were perfect when you married me. I was the humblest, most grateful man on earth that you were willing to risk a life with a rough, tactless fellow like me. But it has all been pretty good, hasn’t it, Edie? Now,” he promised, “it will be even better.”

Alice came in then looking a trifle wan. “Aren’t we going to have supper soon? I’m starving. The boys and Ethel are eating already in the nursery. I tried to beg a piece of cold turkey but Mame made me go out and leave them alone. Mame,” she remarked, with a little flare of self-importance, “ought to realize that I’m almost a young lady.”

“Mame will realize it when you act like a young lady,” said her father, “and not like a spoiled child. Let’s go now. Mother has to put the baby to bed, then she’ll be down.”

He took his daughter’s hand, though he sensed that irritated her, but squeezed it gently with a comradely pressure and they ran down the last few steps laughing as they entered the dining room, where a cold supper was spread.

“We’re both out of breath,” he remarked. “We’ve got to run more. We’ll start tomorrow. In Albany—”

“We’d all like to stay here,” he said, “even if there are times when this house is as hard to heat as it has been lately.”

“Davis tends the furnace better,” said Alice with the bluntness that was beginning to be a characteristic of hers. It was like his own forthrightness, he admitted. Fortunately as the years went on an acquired tact and his innate kindness saved him from too many blunders, and Edith’s influence helped tame his impetuous instinct to speak out before he thoughtfully considered a subject.

Edith came in then and Roosevelt gallantly seated his wife and daughter, making both gestures equally formal to Alice’s evident approval. Then he picked up the carving knife but laid it down at an admonishing look from Edith.

“Our bird seems to have suffered from the ravages of a hungry tribe of Roosevelts,” he turned it over. “I do find a little dark meat left and some dressing. And oh yes, here is the intact remainder of the liver. Alice, you may have that. It makes red blood and you’ll need it when you tackle the beginnings of algebra and French. My dear,” he bowed across the table, “how will you have your bones?”

She sat at the foot of the table looking every inch the poised, self-contained and gracious mistress of his house. He knew that she was good for him, taming his occasional warlike impulses as perhaps no other woman could have done. One quieting word from her was usually enough to steady him and calm his rages as she had just done without in the least appearing to do, upstairs.

Alice began her argument again. “Mother, why can’t I go to Albany with the rest of the family?”

“Because your mother’s family want you to have every advantage, Alice.” Edith spoke quietly, waving off an interruption from Theodore with a flick of her hand, “You must be grateful for them and for the education they are able to give you. A girl like you is born with an obligation to make the most of herself and I am sure you will, as I hope my own children will too.”

“That sounds like a lecture,” fretted Alice. “I’ll get enough lectures from my aunts and grandmother. They are always lecturing me to be a lady and I think ladies are stupid. I’d like to go to Dakota with Father and be a cowgirl. I ride better then the boys do now.”

“Your aunt will probably see to it that you have riding lessons in New York,” Edith said.

“I know about those. Side saddle and a derby hat and horses so slow and stodgy they won’t gallop. I had some the last time I was there at grandmother’s, with a silly groom leading the horse around by the bridle.”

Edith sighed. She had devotedly tried to do her best for Theodore’s daughter but Alice, like her father, had been born a rebel with an individuality that would always resent any set pattern of behavior. At least, Edith comforted herself, the responsibility was not hers alone nor could she reproach herself if inherited traits were too strong. Thank goodness there was no rampant individuality in her own small daughter! Ethel was usually as placid as a Dutch housewife, though she could not be imposed upon and always stood stubbornly for her own rights.

Dinner was not quite over when two small figures appeared at the dining room door. In their nightclothes Kermit 43 and Ethel stood there, their small feet blue with cold.

“Go back to bed quickly, you’ll catch your death of cold!” their mother scolded, herding them back toward the stairway.

“I’ll come along,” said Theodore. “I’ll just go back and find the chivalry book, as Ted calls it.”

“You spoil them,” protested his wife. “They were up before dawn this morning.”

“It’s almost nine,” she corrected. “Supper was late because Christmas upset the household routine. Jump in bed, both of you. Kermit, wait—we’ll have to wipe off the bottoms of your feet. You forgot your slippers again.”

“Too black for the sheets.” Mame came in then as Edith was tucking the covers around Ethel.

“They slipped out when I was back in my room,” she explained. “Kermit is always slipping out of his bed. He’d sleep under it half the time if I didn’t watch him, makes me feel like tying him into it.”

“I can untie knots,” he said defiantly, “or I could chew the rope in two.”

“Don’t be saucy,” his mother said, sponging the thin grimy toes. “Run along, Mame, Colonel Roosevelt is coming up to read to them.”

“It’ll be battles or Injun fighting and get them all stirred up and excited,” grumbled Mame as she went out.

Alice followed her father into the nursery. “I’m surely glad I have my own room,” she said. “There’s just no peace or privacy in this nursery any more.”

“It’s time you were in bed too, Alice,” said her stepmother. “You were up before dawn this morning.”

“I want to hear the story,” Alice was plaintive. “I promise to go to bed right after. After all I won’t be with Father very much longer.”

Ted sat up, regarded the book his father was opening. “I vote for Sir Lancelot,” he announced firmly.

“I vote for dragons,” said Kermit. “I like stories with dragons with fire coming out their noses.”

“Are there any dragons in Dakota, Father?” Ethel wanted to know. “Where you shot all the animals? Those up on the wall?”

“Of course not!” Alice was scornful. “Dragons are a fairy tale like gnomes and giants.”

“Goliath wasn’t a fairy tale,” declared Ted. “He is in the Bible and the Bible is the Word of God.”

“Goliath was a tall, strong man,” said his father. “We still see and hear of very tall, strong men who in that day when most men were short would have been called giants. I knew a cowhand in the West who was seven feet tall without his boots. When he rode an average size cow pony his feet almost touched the ground, he could step over a yearling calf or a fence as easily as you can step over a threshold.”

“I can jump over a fence,” bragged Kermit, “if I can climb up a little way.”

“Ponies can jump over without climbing,” said Ted, “but they have very strong muscles in their back legs. They can kick hard too. Grant kicked a pig once and made him roll over and squeal loud. He tried to eat my straw hat once too.”

“You were crawling around under his front legs. He saw 45 the hat and thought it was good to eat,” Alice defended her pet pony.

“That was the summer Father found the big hollow tree and he let us down inside it on a rope. You wouldn’t remember that, Ethel, you were just a baby.”

“She was three. Father let her down too,” Alice recalled, “and she was scared to death and screamed.”

“It was dark down there,” said their father. “We will now end all reminiscing and read the book. But first, Alice, toss a little light wood on that fire.”

“I like open fires better than radiators,” Alice said. “On radiators you can’t toast marshmallows. And if you put your feet on one with rubbers on they smell awful.”

The old tale of Sir Lancelot and the wicked Sir Modred, the wizard and the dragon, held them enthralled for fifteen minutes. Theodore was a slow and dramatic reader and though the book was a simplified version for children it was not too simplified and he skipped none of the long words, but enunciated each clearly, sometimes pausing to make the older ones say what the word meant and speak it several times. Ted already had a mature vocabulary for his age and the children had heard very little baby talk from their parents, though an occasional visitor was apt to gush and coo, to the boys’ thinly veiled disgust.

Archie was already asleep when the story was finished and Kermit’s eyes were glazing though he fought to keep them open. When Alice followed her father out she observed in a suave tone of superiority that reminded Theodore vaguely of his own mother. “After all, Father, we have to remember that they are only children. Archie is practically an infant yet.”

“We’ll remember that, Alice, and be very charitable in 46 our judgments,” he answered with the same gravity. “Now you scamper before Mother scolds both of us.”

Suddenly she flung her arms around him. “Oh, Father, I don’t want to go back to New York. I hate it! Why can’t I go to Albany with you?”

“That has been all decided and explained to you. Your mother’s family are very fond of you and do a great deal for you, and you must be grateful. Not many young girls are so lucky.”

“There are so many rules,” she sighed. “Life is too bewildering and mixed up for a young girl.”

“What a young girl needs at this stage of her growth is sleep.” He gave her a fatherly smack. “Get along with you now, and be content for a few years to leave the problems to older people who love you and want the best for you.”

She was halfway down the stairs and she left him very reluctantly and backed up the rest of the flight, calling “Good night, Father.”

When she was safely in her room he went back to the library fire where Edith was sitting, on her knee a piece of embroidery stretched on a hoop.

“All should now be silent.” He dropped gratefully into a deep chair. “From the way my own eyelids feel I’ll be ready to join them in unconsciousness very soon. This has been a long day.”

“And tomorrow will be another,” she said, “but this has been a good day. For me at least. When none of the children are ailing with anything,” spoke the mother, “I am content. I hope and pray we don’t have too many visitors to usurp your time tomorrow, as no one else can sort and pack most of your personal papers.”

“Undoubtedly the locusts will descend as they usually 47 do on a new man in office. Favors, always favors, and if they can get in a word before the other fellow they have the urge to speak it. And only one answer I can give them now, no matter how righteous their plea. When that is no longer timely I’ll have to depend on the grace of God to give me wisdom but fortunately there will be other people between me and so much importunity.” He got to his feet looking aghast. “Don’t tell me that’s somebody else! I hear a horse and wheels.”

“It may be Davis. Sometimes he borrows a horse to go to his preaching service. You assured him it was all right.” She folded her work and stood too, listening. “No, they are stopping outside, whoever it may be. I’ll go up now, Theodore. No one wants to see me at this time of night.”

The wheels outside were silent and though it was too dark and lowering to see anything, Theodore heard two persons mounting the front steps, moving very lightly. He went to the front door carrying a lamp with him, and held it high to study the faces of his visitors. One was a gaunt, middle-aged woman in a thin coat, her head tied up in a wool scarf, the other a lank boy about fifteen who clawed off his hat and ducked his head in embarrassment.

“Evening, sir,” said the woman, bobbing stiffly. Her ungloved hands were blue with cold, and her lips were blue and bitten. “I’m Dorsie Witten come from away up in Oneida. I’ve come a long way to see you, sir. Part of the ways by train and the rest with this hired rig. I sold two good cows to fetch the money to come to see you when you got elected governor and I hope you’ll listen patient to a heart-broke mother’s story.”

“Come in! Come in out of the cold.” Theodore held the door wide, the raw wind flaring the lamp. When they were 48 inside he said, “Any woman who has come so far deserves to be heard though I can’t promise I can do anything for you. I’m not even governor of New York yet, you know.”

“Well, you will be, sir. Clint here said I should wait till you come to Albany that wasn’t so fur for us to travel, but I said there’d be so many bigwigs crowding in to see you then I’d never even get let in much less get a chance to talk to you.”

“I hope no one will be turned away who really needs to see me, madam, but the governor of a big state like New York is a mighty busy man as you can understand,” he said. “Please sit down here by the fire and tell me your business and make it brief if you don’t mind, for with five children and the Christmas holiday I’ve had a long day.”

“Is this Christmas?” she looked bewildered. “You know since Ollie got in trouble I’ve been so worried and upset I don’t know Sunday from Monday. You see, Governor, Ollie—Oliver he was named for his grandfather—is my oldest boy and my dependence. I tried to raise both of my boys good and honorable and Ollie wasn’t bad, Governor, he wasn’t a bad boy, he was just quick-tempered like his daddy. Eph, my husband, was fire and tow, he had a terrible temper and was easy to get mad, that’s how come Eph to get into trouble.”

“No, sir, can’t nothing be done for Eph. I been to the other governor a’ready. He’s in Sing Sing for the rest of his life. He got mad years ago and cut a man terrible so he died and they sent him up the river for it but it’s Ollie that’s worrying me. Ollie’s only nineteen years old. Ollie killed a man, Governor, and I ain’t defending him but it was in a fair fight. Ollie shot to save his own life.”

“He did not claim he shot in self-defense? A man has a right to defend himself, in law, Mrs. Witten,” Roosevelt said.

“Well, they brought out in the trial that the other feller was shot in the back and didn’t have a gun with him. But he was heading for where it stood, Governor, Ollie said so and I believe him. Ollie was just smart and shot quick, knowing the other feller was a crack shot and would get him from a long ways off. Now they’re sending Ollie up where his father is, and I got nobody to depend on but Clint, and he ain’t just right in his head, and I got three little ones, all girls. Clint forgets everything. Come in from the field and wander off to town and leave the mules out there hitched to the plow all night if the children and I didn’t go out and fetch ’em in. I’ve finished many a field myself, leaving my children playing in a furrow.” She twisted her thin hands together, casting reproachful glances at Clint, whose stolid face showed no emotion whatever.

Roosevelt looked with some compassion at the woman’s ravaged face and thin body. How many such would he see in the next two years, harassed, frightened women, all desperately pleading mercy for violent-tempered husbands or sons? For an instant the prospect appalled him and briefly he dreaded the heavy responsibility of a great human population.

Then sober judgment came, steadying his nerves, and he spoke in a calm, fatherly voice. “Mrs. Witten, I know nothing of the facts in this case of your son. A man who shoots another in the back condemns himself from the first in the minds of all sober men.”

“I been tellin’ Ma that,” stated Clint, speaking for the first time in a voice surprisingly masculine and deep coming 50 from such an undersized, emaciated body. “All the way down here I told her it was a waste of money comin’ way down here just to see you. Them was good cows we sold to pay for it too.”

“You know I’m not yet governor of New York,” Roosevelt reminded her. “I have no legal right to do anything about any case, especially one that has been already settled in the courts and the defendant convicted. What possible defense could your son have for shooting an unarmed man in the back? Didn’t he testify in his own defense?”

“He swore he thought that feller—Morgan Tuttle was his name—was going after his gun and Ollie knowed Morgan was a dead shot. He could have killed Ollie from a hundred yards off and Ollie knowed it. They was huntin’ together up in the mountains.”

“That was what the fight was about,” put in Clint. “Deer they shot up in them hills. Morgan wasn’t going to divide fair.”

“Was that the legal season to kill a deer?” Roosevelt asked. “I thought they were protected by law.”

“No, it wasn’t, but it come out in the trial anyway because Morgan’s wife blabbed to the law,” Clint supplied. “We ain’t paid Ollie’s lawyer yet but he didn’t do nothin’ nohow.”

“He said that,” she admitted, “and he said he aimed to charge us a hundred dollars when he didn’t do nothing.”

“No, sir, he wouldn’t do that. He just said he’d do his best but he didn’t do nothin’,” insisted Clint.

“It’s hard to justify any man who shoots another in the 51 back, even if he has a weapon handy,” argued Roosevelt. “After all Ollie could have run. He didn’t have to stand still and let the other man shoot at him.”

“My men wasn’t never no hand to run away from trouble,” remarked Mrs. Witten. “They always faced up to trouble mighty bold.”

“It’s not being bold to shoot a man in the back,” commented the hero of San Juan Hill, letting a little twinge of guilty memory come over him briefly. How many men of the Spanish troops had he shot in the back in Cuba? But that was war. The enemy had had the same chance to get him from the rear and he had known it. As Ollie had had the chance to run, so had the soldiers of Spain the chance to surrender but no man liked the thought of killing a human being and soldiers had to be hardened before they could do it, except in desperation to save their own lives. Only the toughest ones had no qualms, and it was ironic that usually they made the best infantry troops.

He had had a few timorous and squeamish fellows in his Rough Riders but when the fighting got hot they forgot their scruples and came through gallantly.

He sent the two Wittens away finally, promising to look into the case of Ollie Witten further when he came into office:

“I assume you want an official pardon for your son? There is nothing else that can be done when a man is already serving his sentence except a parole. And with Ollie’s record of violence I doubt that could be attained. A pardon on a hardship plea would be your only hope.”

“He got life like Pa,” Clint said, “and they told us he was mighty lucky.”

“Since October it was,” said the mother. “We a’ready been to the governor—him that was governor before you got elected, sir, but he said he couldn’t do nothin’. So I told Clint we’d wait till a new governor got elected and soon as the corn was in we got somebody to tend the place and we come here.”

“I fear you had a long, expensive and fruitless trip,” said Roosevelt dubiously, escorting them to the door. “Do you plan to go home tonight?”

“Train leaves at midnight and it’s a fur piece from here,” Clint answered. “Come on, Ma, we got to hurry. I told you he wasn’t going to do nothin’, that we was just wastin’ time and money. And a cow home fixing to come fresh any day.”

Theodore Roosevelt went back up the stairs feeling heavy and depressed. Edith looked up from the bed as he came into the room with a lighted candle.

“You look unhappy,” she said. “More office seekers? But I thought I heard a woman’s voice.”

“You did. A poor woman whose husband is in Sing Sing and her son has just been sent there, both for murder. The son killed another man, shot him in the back, but she thought I could do something about it, because she has other children and needs him on the farm. She had a boy with her about fifteen years old, she said he was not right in the head but he seemed shrewd enough, talked as intelligently as his mother and had a clearer idea of the difficulties of doing anything in a case like this than she did.”

“Mothers have too tender hearts always to have good 53 sober judgment,” said Edith quietly. “They have a way of letting their emotions obscure their common sense, especially where their children are concerned. Aren’t you coming to bed? You have a hard day tomorrow with Heaven knows how many interruptions to frustrate you in getting things done.”

“I think I’ll walk outside a little. I don’t feel like sleeping yet. A bit of exercise will steady my nerves.”

“Now and then they take possession of me. Do you know, Edie,” he sat on the edge of the bed, “there are times when I shrink a little from this job I have set myself? After all New York is a big state, the most important state in the Union.”

“And you are a big man,” she consoled him. “And since San Juan Hill you have been about the biggest man in the Union.”

“Hero worship. Public hysteria. It can die as quickly as it flames and it leaves some mighty cold and bitter ashes. There are vast numbers of forgotten heroes in this country, men who rode the crest of a popular wave and deluded themselves into thinking it would last forever. You can be an old story overnight, and forgotten in a month if another object of exciting interest appears. And there’s nothing so forlorn and pitiable as an out-of-date and out-of-fashion hero. Well, I’ll try the open air for a little. Usually it helps my thinking to use my legs and from now on through the rest of the winter I’ll have little time or opportunity to do it.”

He went downstairs and let himself quietly out the front door, first remembering his wife’s admonition to put on a heavy jacket. Buttoning an old army coat up to his chin, he 54 pulled on a battered old campaign hat, rain- and sun-stained and faded, with the insigne of the Rough Riders still pinned upon it, but now slightly tarnished.

A thin spit of snow was still drifting and the air was damp with the feel of the sea in it, but not bitterly freezing. He strode down the hill from the house and took a path that led through the wooded land where he had so often worked off his surplus energies by chopping down trees and carefully cutting them into firewood. There was a pile of cordwood on the edge of the timber and he stopped there and hefted a log, lifting it off the top of the pile, balancing it on his shoulder as woodsmen learn to do.

The rough bark, held close to his face, smelled sharply of acid, so he knew it was a branch from the wild cherry tree that had rotted at the heart. It had been hard and tough to cut, requiring all his muscles to shape it for sawing into logs for the fireplaces, but he had exulted in the job of conquering this old tree just as he had gloried in every strenuous task he had ever set himself.

He laid the log back on the stack, sending down a shower of dry bark, wondering when he would be free to chop wood again or wander these hills followed by his adoring children, or swim in the Bay or teach Quentin to dive off the diving board. He had instructed all the youngsters there, tossing them into deep water relentlessly, ready to fish them out if they foundered, but confident that they would conquer their fears and learn to paddle about, being his own children.

At any rate, he told himself, he was a lucky man, and if there were times when public life irked him a little, bringing a faint regret that outside affairs kept him from the quiet life he loved, he had to balance all the rewards against 55 the slight feeling of frustration, count the honors as recompense.

Destiny had somehow set his feet upon a road and he felt at times a deep secret apprehension of where the road might lead. So far he had found himself adequate to any task that confronted him, and standing still in the quiet night air he felt the muscles of his spirit tense and a glow pervade his body.

He was not blind or deaf to certain portents in the air and, though he never spoke of them or let his mind dwell upon them, they still lingered, buried deep in his consciousness. There was always the echo of casual words spoken, of gay songs being sung.

All doggerel, all wishful thinking, he told himself, yet the idea lingered, and now he let it float uppermost in his mind till there came over him a sense of exhilaration, a promise of yet greater things ahead. Impatiently he put the thought down, but it kept creeping up again till his nerves tightened and he itched to do something tangible, attack something conquerable. On an impulse he strode back to the house and in a tool room found his ax, by the light of a single match.

Back at the log pile he laid a huge branch across two others and hacked away at it with the ax in the faint snow light, planting vigorous strokes and telling blows, though it was difficult to aim a tool in the thin light from the winter sky and more chips flew through the air than bespoke an expert woodsman.

When the branch was all reduced to proper lengths for burning he piled the sticks carefully, wiping the sticky sap from his hands on the sleeves of the old jacket. Then, shouldering the ax, he tramped back to the house, feeling suddenly relaxed and weary in nerve and bone. The sky, he noted, was slowly clearing and now and then a pale wisp of a moon shone fleetingly against the scud of the wind-driven clouds. Over the water a pale whiteness lighted the clouds as the moonlight increased.

Theodore Roosevelt was no mystic or fatuous dreamer, indeed the factual and actual had always been paramount in his mind. He had never had the weakness of nursing hopeful visions trying to bring them to reality. Instead he had always gone out to fight for what he believed in and let dreamers have their dreams.

But why now was that faint glow in the eastern sky slowly taking on the semblance of a great white dome towering against the horizon? In only one place in the land was reared a majestic dome like that.

Transcriber’s Notes

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Christmas at Sagamore Hill with Theodore Roosevelt

Christmas at
Sagamore Hill

Christmas at Sagamore Hill

Transcriber’s Notes

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