White House gossip

by Edna M. Colman

The horror of the days at Buffalo of the year before was still upon officials, and the appearance in the vicinity of the summer White House of several suspicious-looking characters rumoured to be anarchists brought about the swearing in as deputy sheriffs of five or six hundred citizens, among them the newspaper men stationed in the little town; sixty New York policemen were also added to the staff about the house.

About three o’clock, the procession began its winding journey to the home on top of the hill. Carriages were stopped some distance down the drive, and all occupants required to complete the distance afoot. Coats, shawls, umbrellas, parasols, cameras, lunch boxes, even bouquets, were all scrutinized, and all belongings not actually attached to their owners were required to be deposited under a tree on the lawn. The consequent confusion arising when departing guests tried to redeem their belongings was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect day. These extreme measures were simply in obedience to orders to allow no one to approach the President save with hands exposed and unencumbered. Every precaution was taken to prevent a repetition of the tragedy of the previous year. Threatening letters had added to this fear, which was never absent from Mrs. Roosevelt’s mind. Even parents carrying children were required to show their hands.

A double line of Secret Service men stationed themselves ahead of the President, and as each person came up, he was subjected to double scrutiny. Standing at the President’s side was another guard and protector, whose purpose was not generally known. This was Theodore, Junior, who had armed himself with a pistol, and during the entire afternoon kept his hand in his pocket and his finger upon the trigger, ready for the slightest suspicious move toward his idolized father. He was the object of grave concern to the Secret Service, and of a certain grim amusement to his father, whose reliance upon his son’s judgment was not shared by the others.

No reception of President Roosevelt in Washington equalled this one in all of the elements of human interest. Men and women whom he had not seen in many years came in droves, and his delight in meeting them was genuine and spontaneous. Mrs. Roosevelt at his side shared his pleasure. Did she turn to speak to one of her receiving party for a minute, she was at once recalled enthusiastically to meet some old acquaintance. Once everyone’s attention was centred upon a smallish unpretentious individual, who was greeted thus: “Bless my soul, it’s Jake!” and Jake, red of face, beaming with joy, was dumb with delight. In one of the short lulls, the President told some of the porch party of Jake:

“When I was like Ted,” indicating his eldest son, “I roamed these woods and swamps during holidays and week ends, hunting and fishing. My father engaged Jake as a sort of guide and guardian, to see that I did not get lost or hurt, and that I turned up at home on schedule. Jake and I and the boys who went along had many good times. He used to make us the most delicious ‘Squawk Pie.’ Delicious on a cold day around a camp fire, when you are a boy, tired and hungry! Of course, you don’t know what ‘Squawk Pie’ is!—made out of young, tender swamp herons—regular hunters’ pie—bully!” He laughed reminiscently, glanced out to the side of the house, where Jake was already surrounded by his three younger boys, and resumed his place.

A few seconds later, the whole line was stopped while he and Mrs. Roosevelt greeted two elderly women, one of whom had been his nurse and had brought with her a picture of him when he was five years old. Such a warm, friendly greeting as those two received! They were repaid for the journey of several hundred miles made to bring this little reminder of his childhood. They were taken back into the house and treated with that delightful democratic courtesy so characteristic of this family.

A group of Hungarians brought a beautiful hand-wrought lamp, which, after it had been examined, they were allowed to present to the President.

For three hours, this moving pageant of humanity, beaming with pleasure and admiration and frankly curious of the man himself, filed past him. To each and every one was given that individualistic greeting that was one of his many claims to popularity. As the visitors left the other side of the porch, they were served with raspberry shrub, each person being presented with the little crystal punch cup from which he drank and on which were written the words, “Theodore Roosevelt, 1902.”

The next day, Sunday, everyone in Oyster Bay went to church and gathered about the little church attended by the President. From dawn, police and Secret Service men had been scouring the vicinity for the pair of strangers, alleged anarchists, who had appeared in the town the day before. The air was tense with expectancy and dread. The Roosevelt pew was occupied by the President and his wife and part of their family. As the sermon progressed and lost some of the pathos of its memorial to Mr. McKinley in its tribute to the new ruler, likened to “a young David raised to lead his people,” the President’s countenance flushed with displeasure. His wife’s hand upon his arm restrained any budding impulse to rise or leave.

When the congregation knelt to pray, those seated in the rear of the Roosevelt pew enjoyed the reassuring and edifying spectacle of a formidable revolver protruding from the hip pocket of the Chief Executive.