On March, the twelfth, I began “Sheila Vedder.” It was really a continuation of “Jan Vedder’s Wife.” I wrote it at the request of Mrs. Frank Dodd, who said she wanted “to know something more about the Vedders.” The writing of this book was a great pleasure to me, therefore I know that it has given pleasure to others; for if the writer is not interested, the public will not be interested, that is sure.
On April, the sixteenth, I make the short pitiful note, and it brings tears to my eyes yet, “My sweet Alice’s birthday. I could not afford to give her any gift. I asked God to give it for me.”
I finished “Sheila Vedder” on August twenty-fourth, and began making notes for my Stuyvesant novel on August, the twenty-eighth. I was three months in getting the material I wanted, and in fixing it clearly in my mind, but I began this book on the fifteenth of December.
This year, A.D. 1910, I was too poor to keep Christmas. I was not without money, but taxes, insurance, servants’ wages, and a ton of coal every six days, with food, clothing, doctors and medicines, took all the money I could make. And Christmas was not a necessity, though I had always thought it one, and had never missed keeping it for seventy-nine years.
While writing this Stuyvesant novel—which Dodd Mead called “A Maid of Old New York”—a name I do not like, my 465 own choice being “Peter Stuyvesant’s Ward,” I became persistently aware of a familiarity, that would not be dismissed; in fact I recognized in Theodore Roosevelt, a reincarnation of Peter Stuyvesant, Roosevelt having all the fiery radiations of Peter’s character, modified in some cases by the spirit of a more refined age, and intensified in others, by its wider knowledge.
I sent this book to Colonel Roosevelt myself and received the following reply to my letter:
November 8, 1911.
My dear Mrs. Barr:
Any book of yours I am sure to read. I look forward to reading the volume just sent me, which of course has a peculiar interest to me, as a descendant of some of old Peter Stuyvesant’s contemporaries. It would be a pleasure if I could see you some time.
With warm regards, and all good wishes and thanks, I am
Sincerely yours,
Theodore Roosevelt.
The thing that delights me in this pleasant note, is that all the kind words, good wishes and thanks, are written by his own hand, interpolated as it were. I prize it very highly. I would not part with it for anything.
This March twenty-ninth was my eightieth birthday, and I had one hundred and thirty letters and cards full of good wishes, from men and women whom I have never seen, and who were scattered in many states and far distant places.
I finished the Stuyvesant novel on August, the first, 1911, and on September, the eighth, 1911, I began to write this story of my life, which is now drawing rapidly to its conclusion on October twenty-eighth, A.D. 1912.