“To the Orphan Asylum,” said the President on entering the carriage, in which were several packages, and up in front was a basket of good things. He often drove there, taking me, cousin Rachel (his adopted son’s daughter and the apple of his eye), and John along. It was at that time a small, modest structure with a limited number of patients, but its foundress, Mrs. Van Ness, had secured for it some influential patrons, among whom President Jackson, to whom all orphans were objects of tender solicitude, was not the least zealous. The following conversation enlivened the ride: John: “Uncle” (the name affectionately applied to him by his wife’s nieces and nephews), “did you ever see Sancta Claus?” The President, eyeing John curiously over his spectacles: “No, my boy; I never did.” John: “Mammy thinks he’ll not come to-night. Did you ever know him to behave that way?” 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.