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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.
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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.”
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“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.
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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.”