White House
February 8th, 1864
This morning, early, I heard a low rap-rap on my office door. S. O. S.
The Morse code... S. O. S.
Tad, still in his nightgown, climbed onto my lap.
Together, we figured out how many bales of hay we should order for his pony, and Willie’s pony. How many bushels of grain. We decided that the pony’s halter should be re-adjusted, a new strap over the nose, or a new buckle. We also puzzled over what should be done about the small hole in the new red saddle.
If these were not matters of state, we made them as important—until I showed Tad my pile of correspondence; then, with a wild kiss, he rushed off, banging the door.
February 18, 1864