The President: “We can only wait and see. I once knew a little boy who not only never heard of Christmas or Sancta Claus, but never had a toy in his life; and after the death of his mother, a pure, saintly woman, had neither home nor friends.”
Chorus of children: “Poor little fellow! Had he come to the White House we would have shared our playthings with him.”
The children, quick to detect emotion, felt that some sad memory stirred the old man’s heart, though we little suspected he was referring to his own desolate childhood.
The President, after some moments’ silence: “The best way to secure happiness is to bestow it on others, and we’ll begin our holiday by remembering the little ones who have no mothers or fathers to brighten life for them.” To the sweet-faced matron who welcomed us he said: “Here I am with some Christmas cheer for your young charges.” The children gathered in the reception room, and it was gratifying to see their faces light up as, greeting each one, he distributed his gifts, and even more gratifying was it to note his pleasure at their grateful surprise. Raising in his arms a crippled boy, who replied to his inquiry, “Better, General; but, oh! so tired,” he gave him a jumping-jack, saying: “Let’s see how this works,” and the delighted child cried: “Ain’t that cute? Hopping up and down just like an organ grinder’s monkey.”
The day, warm and bright, was more like May than December; the parks, then only grassy commons shaded by native trees, were still green, and the roses in the grounds adjoining all buildings were still in full bloom.
Returning home we called at several houses to leave Christmas souvenirs sent by my mother and Mrs. Jackson: a package of snuff for Mrs. Madison, then visiting Washington relatives; a hand-painted mirror for Mr. Van Buren, who was reputed to be on very good terms with his looking-glass, and some embroidered handkerchiefs (Carita’s handiwork) for intimate friends.
During President Jackson’s incumbency the White House family, children included, except on state occasions, met at meal time, breakfast being at eight o’clock, dinner at two, and supper at half-past six. Mrs. Donelson sat at the head of the table, the President at the foot; we stood at our chairs until he asked a blessing, and at the close of meals were excused by a signal—smile or gesture—from my mother. Always serving the children first, saying they have better appetites, less patience, and should not be required to wait until their elders are helped, he encouraged us to talk and ask questions, evidently enjoying our remarks. He often rose early and went with us to Jackson (now La Fayette) Square for a game of mumble-the-peg, and occasionally, when supposed to be wrestling with state problems, hurling anathemas at Clay, Biddle, Adams, and other opponents, he might have been found in our play-room soothing some childish grievance or joining in some impromptu romp.
After supper we began preparations for the all-important, eagerly-anticipated event, hanging up our stockings. Uncle had invited us, overruling my mother’s protest that we might disturb him, to use his room, and thither we merrily trooped, he leading and apparently deeply interested. My brothers, Jackson and John, cousin Rachel and I borrowed Mammy’s stockings, which, as she tipped the beam at 200, were as capacious as the Galilee fishermen’s nets she often referred to. Cousin Rachel and brother Jackson hung theirs to side hooks on the mantel, I mine to the fancy hearth broom, and John, who was a born artist, his to a boot-jack carelessly left on Uncle’s green leather arm chair; two smaller stockings for the babies, my little sister and young cousin, dangled from curtain rings at the foot of the bed. In the center of a large, airy, handsomely-furnished room stood a writing table at which the President and his Private Secretary often sat until the “wee sma” hours, discussing state matters and examining documents relating to them. Amid the papers promiscuously piled up thereon was an Old Testament that had belonged to his mother, his wife’s Bible and a frame holding her miniature.
Surveying with delight the room after we had disposed of our stockings, we declared it reminded us of the Masonic Bazaar being held, which we had attended. Then brother Jackson had a bright idea. “Why not hang up a stocking for Uncle?” and running to the Bureau he took a sock from the bottom drawer, tied it to the tongs and cried: “Now let’s see how Sancta Claus will treat you, Mr. Uncle Jackson, President of all these United States!” Surprised and amazed, the old man said: “Well, well, to think I’ve waited nearly seventy years to hang up a Christmas stocking.” “Better late than never,” added brother Jackson.
We begged to be allowed to sit up to see Sancta Claus come down the chimney and pass through the fire without scorching his bundles, declaring we were not sleepy and promising never to be naughty again; then when Mammy hustled us off nolens volens to bed, we vowed we’d lie awake all night, and, still protesting, sank into tired childhood’s dreamless slumber. About daybreak Mammy’s shrill voice calling “Christmas gift, you sleepy heads!” awoke us, and amazed, indignant, to find we had slept soundly after all, we sprang from bed and darted in our bare feet, unheeding her cries, “Wait till you’re dressed, you’ll catch your death of cold,” across the hall to Uncle’s room and asked, “Did Sancta Claus come?” “See for yourselves,” said he, opening his door. He was up and dressed, had a bright fire, and watched us tenderly, as rushing in we seized our stockings, each one, his included, being well filled, and beneath them the presents we specially desired—for him a cob-pipe, pair of warm slippers and tobacco bag; for brother Jackson, then eight years old and very mannish, talking grandly about shooting on the fly and jumping the hurdle, a small gun, saddle and bridle; for John a hobby horse and drum, for me and cousin Rachel a doll and tea-set each, and for the babies toy rattles. Delighted we voted Sancta Claus to be the nicest old fellow in the world.