But if there were times when Edith Roosevelt yearned for a little privacy, she kept the thought to herself. To be ignored and eventually forgotten would be a living death to a man like Theodore Roosevelt, with a nature so ebullient and outgiving.
He had to express himself either vocally or by action just as he had had to risk his life and health fighting with his Rough Riders in Cuba. There had been a job to be done, a wrong to be righted, and his fierce sense of justice and obligation would not let him ignore it. Of course the excitement had appealed to him, too, just as the thrill of riding and roping cattle on the Dakota ranch had done, the place where already he had sunk too much of the money left him by his father. The only recreation or relaxation that he knew was in doing something vigorous and different. There was, Edith sighed to herself, nothing restful about him.
“Now,” she put in a maternal admonition, “there will be no pillow fights tonight. Everyone must go quietly to sleep, there will be enough excitement in the morning.”
“At least,” said her husband, “may I be allowed to help them hang up their stockings?”
“If you’ll promise to come down immediately and not mar the mantelpiece. And Ted must have some ointment on his chest and a dose of cough medicine. I’ll come up with you, Ted, and see that you are well rubbed. You don’t want to spend Christmas in bed.”
“Mother, do I have to? I hate that slimy stuff.”
“You have to and you have to hold still and not squirm and yell,” insisted his mother. “Come along now, all of you. I want you all in bed and warmly covered before the fires go out.”
“You mean Father isn’t going to tell us even one story?” wailed Kermit, stumbling up the stairs.
“No stories tonight, Kermit.” His father gave him a gentle slap on the rear as he followed him. “Orders from the queen. We must all rest tonight for tomorrow is a big day.”
The doorbell pealed then and over the upper railing they saw the maid admitting some visitors.