New York, April 30th, 1868.
My Dear Father
I received your letter yesterday. Your letter was more exciting than Mother’s. I have a request to ask of you, will you do it? I hope you will, if you will it will figure greatly in my museum. You know what supple jacks are, do you not? Please get one for Ellie and two for me. Ask your friend to let you cut off the tiger-cat’s tail, and get some long moos and have it mated together. One of the supple jacks (I am talking of mine now) must be about as thick as your thumb and finger. The other must be as thick as your thumb. The one which is as thick as your finger and thumb must be four feet long and the other must be three feet long. One of my mice got crushed. It was the mouse I liked best though it was a common mouse. Its name was Brownie. Nothing particular has happened since you went away for I cannot go out in the country like you can. The trees and the vine on our piazza are buding and the grass is green as can be, and no one would dream that it was winter so short a time ago. All send love to all of you.
Yours lovingly,
Theodore Roosevelt.
The “excitement” referred to in the first letter was the wonderful reception accorded to my mother on her return to the city of her girlhood days. Her rooms in the hotel in Savannah were filled by her friends with flowers—and how she loved flowers—but not the “buggie ones” in which her young naturalist son says he would “revel!”
One can see the ardent little bird-lover as he wrote “I jumped with delight when I found you had heard a mocking-bird,” and again when he says “Tell me how many curiosities and living things you have got for me.” Insatiable lover of knowledge as he was, it was difficult indeed for his parents to keep pace with his thirst for “outward and visible signs of the things that be.”
More than fifty years have passed since the painstaking penning of the childish letters, but the heart of his sister in reading them thrills hotly at the thought that the little “Conie” of those days was “very much” missed by her idolized brother, and how she treasured the letter written all for her, with the pictures of the cages in which he kept his beloved mice! It was sad that the pictures of the chaffinch, wren, and cat, evidently enclosed for each of the travellers, should have been lost. In the two letters to his father he enlists that comrade-father’s services for his adored “museum” by the plea for “trophies from some battle field,” and the urgent request for the “supple jack,” the nature of which exciting article I confess I do not understand. I do understand, however, his characteristic distress that “one of my mice got crushed. It was the mouse I liked best though it was a common mouse.” That last sentence brought the tears to my eyes. How true to type it was! the “common mouse” was the one he liked best of all—never the rare, exotic thing, but the every-day, the plain, the simple, and he probably liked it so much just because that little “common mouse” had shown courage and vitality and affection! All through Theodore Roosevelt’s life it was to the plain simple things and to the plain simple people that he gave his most loyal devotion.
In May, 1869, because of a great desire on the part of my mother to visit her brothers in England, as well as to see the Old World of which she had read and studied so much, she persuaded my father to take the whole family abroad.
After those early summers at Madison, which still stand out so clearly in my memory, there comes a less vivid recollection of months passed at the beautiful old place at Barrytown, on the Hudson River, which my parents rented from Mr. John Aspinwall, and where a wonderful rushing brook played a big part in the joys of our holiday months.
We “younger ones” longed for another summer at this charming spot and regretted, with a certain amount of suspicion, the decision of the “Olympians” to drag us from our leafy haunts to improve our rebellious young minds, but my parents were firm in their decision, and we started on the old paddle-wheel steamship Scotia, as I have said, in May, 1869.
In a letter from my mother to my aunt, who had married Mr. James King Gracie, and was therefore regretfully left behind, she described with an easy pen some incidents of the voyage across the ocean, as follows:
“Elliott is the leader of children’s sports and plays with the little Winthrop children all day. A short while ago Thee made up his mind suddenly that Teedie must play too, so hunted up the little fellow who was deeply enjoying a conversation with the only acquaintance he has made, a little man, whom we call the ‘one too many man,’ for he seems to go about with no acquaintances. His name is Mr. St. John and he is a quaint little well of knowledge,—very fond of natural history and fills Teedie’s heart with delight. Teedie brought him up and introduced him to me, his eyes dancing with delight and he constantly asks me, ‘Mamma, have you really conversed with Mr. St. John?’ I feel so tenderly to Teedie, that I actually stopped reading the ‘Heir of Redcliffe,’ and talked to the poor little man who has heart complaint so badly that his voice is even affected by it.
“The two little boys were pretty seasick on Sunday and I do not know what I should have done without Robert, the bedroom steward, and an amiable deck steward, who waits on those who remain on deck at meals. He seems a wonderfully constructed creature, having amiable knobs all over his body, upon which he supports more bowls of soup and plates of eatables than you can imagine, all of which he serves out, panting over you while you take your plate, with such wide extended nostrils that they take in the Irish coast, and the draught from them cools the soup!