I THINK it very likely that all, or nearly all, who read this book were born before the new century—the one we call the twentieth—began. It is a young century still. Yet there has been time enough for many things to take place in the country we call our own. Some of these you may remember. Others many of you were too young to know much about. So it is my purpose here to bring the story of our country up to the present time.
Roosevelt Surprised by a Giant Hippopotamus.
I have not said much about our Presidents, but there was a President elected in the first year of the twentieth century of whom I must speak, since his election led to a dreadful event. In the following year (1901) a beautiful exhibition was held at Buffalo, New York. It was called the Pan American Exhibition, and was intended to show what the nations of America had done in the century just closed.
I shall say little about the splendid electrical display, the fountains with their colored lights, the shining cascades, the glittering domes and pinnacles, the caverns and grottoes, and all the other brilliant things to be seen, for I have to speak of something much less pleasant, the dark deed of murder and treachery which took place at this exhibition.
President McKinley came to Buffalo early in September to see the fine display and let the people see him, and on the 6th he stood with smiling face while many hundreds of visitors passed by and shook hands with him. In the midst of all this there came a loud, sharp sound. A pistol had been fired. The President staggered back, with pallid face. Men shouted; women screamed; a crowd rushed towards the spot; the man who held the pistol was flung to the floor and hundreds surged forward in fury. "He has shot our President! Kill him! Kill him!" they cried. The guards had a hard fight to keep the murderer from being torn to pieces by the furious throng.
The man who had shot the President belonged to a society called Anarchists, who hate all rulers and think it their duty to kill all kings and presidents. Poor, miserable wretch! he suffered the death he deserved. But his shot had reached its mark, and after a week of fear and hope, President McKinley died. He was mourned by all the people as if each of them had lost a member of his or her own family.
You probably know that when a President dies the Vice-President takes his place. McKinley's Vice-President was a capable man named Theodore Roosevelt. He was very fond of tramping through the wilds and of hunting wild beasts. At the time we speak of, when the news of the death of President McKinley was sent abroad, Vice-President Roosevelt was off on a long tramp through the Adirondack Mountains of New York, perhaps hoping to shoot a deer, or possibly a bear.
When the news came, no one knew where he was, and dozens of the mountain-climbers were sent out to find him. As they spread out and pushed forward, the crack of rifles could be heard on all sides and megaphones were used to send their voices far through the mountain defiles. But hour after hour passed and the shades of evening were at hand, and still no answer came; no sign of Roosevelt and his party could be traced. Finally, when they were near the high top of Mount Marcy, answering shots and shouts were heard, and soon the hunting party came in sight.
When Mr. Roosevelt was told the news they brought—that the President was at the point of death—he could hardly believe it; for the last news had said that he was likely to get well. He knew now that he must get to Buffalo as soon as he could, so that the country should not be without a President, and he started back for the clubhouse from which he had set out at a pace that kept the others busy to keep up with him.