Corinne Roosevelt, about four years old, 1865.
Theodore Roosevelt, aged seven, 1865.
In that same home the spirit of the war permeated through the barriers of love raised around the little children of the nursery, and my aunt writes of the attitude of the small, yellow-haired boy into whose childish years came also the distant din of battle, arousing in him the military spirit which even at four years of age had to take some expression. She says: “Yesterday Teedie was really excited when I said to him that I must fit his zouave suit. His little face flushed up and he said, ‘Are me a soldier laddie too?’ and when I took his suggestion and said, ‘Yes and I am the Captain,’ he was willing to stand for a moment or two to be fitted.” Even then Theodore Roosevelt responded to his country’s call, and equally to the discipline of the superior officer!
II
GREEN FIELDS AND FOREIGN FARING
From the nursery in 20th Street my early memories turn with even greater happiness to the country place which my parents rented at Madison, N. J., called Loantaka, where we spent several summers. There the joy of a sorrel Shetland pony became ours—(Pony Grant was his name)—a patriotic effort to commemorate the name of the great general, still on the lips of every one, whose indomitable will and military acumen had at that very moment been the chief factor in bringing the Civil War to a close. I, however, labored under the delusion that he, the general, was named after the pony, which seemed to me at the time much the more important of the two personalities. The four-legged Grant was quite as determined and aggressive as his two-legged namesake, and he never allowed any of us to be his master. When my father first had him brought to the front door of the country home at Madison, I shall never forget the thrill of excitement in the breasts of the three little children of the nursery. “Who will jump on his back?” called out my father gaily.
It has always been the pride of my life that, although I was only about four years old, I begged for the privilege before the “boys” were quite ready to decide whether to dare the ferocious glance in his dark eyes. Owing to my temerity he was presented to me, and from that time on was only a loan to my brothers. Each in turn, however, we would climb on his back, and each in turn would be repeatedly thrown over his head, but having shown his ability to eject, he would then, satisfied by thus proving his superiority, become gentle as a really gentle lamb. I qualify my reference to lambs, remembering well the singularly ungentle lamb which later became a pet also in the family.
In those country days before the advent of the motor, the woods and lanes of New Jersey were safe haunts for happy childhood, and we were given much liberty, and, accompanied by our two little cousins from Savannah, John and Maud Elliott, who spent those two summers with us, having suffered greatly from the devastating war, we roamed at will, leading or riding our pony, playing endless games, or making believe we were Indians—always responsive to some story of Theodore’s which seemed to cast a glamour around our environment.