“Oh, perfectly. It was most painful.”
“And what said the distinguished grandfather?”
“He smiled, and nodded to the elder boy.”
Mr. Roosevelt and the Washerwoman.
I took out my pocket-book and handed my hostess a cutting I had made a few days before. It was a letter signed “Edgar S. Walz,” and ran thus:
“To the Editor of the New York Times.
“I read in your Sunday’s issue an item headed ‘Subway Manners: Boys keep their Seats rather than Give to a Sick Old Woman,’ which reminds me of the first time I saw Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, about eight or nine years ago. He was sitting next to me in a Broadway car, and somewhere along about Thirtieth-street the car stopped to let some people on. All secured seats except a coloured woman with a large bundle of clothes. As soon as Mr. Roosevelt saw that she had to stand, he jumped up, took off his hat, and bowed as graciously as though she were the first woman in the land.”
“Yes,” said my hostess, as she handed back the cutting; “you will find these differences.”
“Of course,” I said, “Mr. Roosevelt is a Northerner.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t always mean liberality of feeling nowadays,” was the reply. “I should rather say Mr. Roosevelt is Mr. Roosevelt.”