A Puny Boy, by Physical Culture, Becomes the Most Vigorous of American
Presidents.
THE way to study a man, I find, is at close range, when he is not on
the platform or under the limelight. Better than any other is his
vacation time, when the armor has been laid aside and the man himself
stands forth. My card of introduction proved a ready passport to the
country seat of Theodore Roosevelt, near Oyster Bay, Long Island. As
I drove up, one bright July morning, the shore of this sequestered
inlet was framed in a background of heavy green. No painter could do
justice to the mirrored loveliness of the water, or the graceful line
of sailboats lazily floating over it. The beach was a silver mat in an
emerald frame, and every tree on the opposite shore was inverted in
the clear depths. The Roosevelt house stands on a hill overlooking a
magnificent view of Long Island Sound. It is three miles away from the
railway station, just the sort of place one would choose for complete
rest. The dreamy beauty of the scene was conducive to indolence, and
so, sure enough, I found Mr. Roosevelt in outing attire, surrounded by
his children and entering with zest into their out-door sports.
Little Theodore was prancing up and down the road on his favorite black
pony, a genuine rough rider in horsemanship, brown as a berry, and an
unmistakable cadet of the Roosevelt house. The president’s war-horse,
“Texas,” whose right ear was clipped by a Spanish “Mauser,” was out for
an airing. Over the veranda flared a pair of great antlers, a trophy
of the chase, while in the big reception hall were other antlers. The
sword worn by Colonel Roosevelt in Cuba has found a resting-place
across the mantel mirror, its leathern strap all ready to be buckled on
again should a military emergency arise. The overcoat is there, too,
with the hat and boots.
I found him averse to politics as a topic for discussion, but I
hinted that I would be pleased to quote his views on young men in
politics,—their chances and their duties.