Part 1

Christmas at Sagamore Hill

WITH THEODORE ROOSEVELT

by Helen Topping Miller

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. NEW YORK · LONDON · TORONTO 1960

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., INC. 119 WEST 40TH STREET, NEW YORK 18

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., Ltd. 6 & 7 CLIFFORD STREET, LONDON W 1

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 20 CRANFIELD ROAD, TORONTO 16

CHRISTMAS AT SAGAMORE HILL

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

FIRST EDITION

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER 60-53227

Printed in the United States of America

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.

“Father’s home!”

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 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.

“They dancing,” he exclaimed delightedly. “Father, fishes dancing!”

“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.

“We were putting the baby to bed. Oh, goldfish! But Theodore—”

“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 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.”

“Is that like being president?” asked Ethel.

“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.”

“Then the children won’t have to go to school,” said Ethel.

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 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.”

“You already have skates,” said his father. “Don’t be greedy.”

“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.”

“Anyway,” Kermit chimed in, “maybe in Albany there won’t be any ice.”

“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.”

“But the Rough Riders were the bravest,” his son persisted.

“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.

Edith, his wise, firm, gentle wife, was waiting at the door.

“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.”

“Frosty outside,” her husband reminded her.

“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 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.”

“Well,” approved Alice, “that will be a little exciting.”

“You need to go to school, young lady,” commented her father.

“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.”

“Let’s all be just nice plain people,” suggested her stepmother.

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 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.”

“Mother, do I have to? I hate that slimy stuff.”

“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 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 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 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.”