During President Jackson’s incumbency the White House family, children included, except on state occasions, met at meal time, breakfast being at eight o’clock, dinner at two, and supper at half-past six. Mrs. Donelson sat at the head of the table, the President at the foot; we stood at our chairs until he asked a blessing, and at the close of meals were excused by a signal--smile or gesture--from my mother. Always serving the children first, saying they have better appetites, less patience, and should not be required to wait until their elders are helped, he encouraged us to talk and ask questions, evidently enjoying our remarks. He often rose early and went with us to Jackson (now La Fayette) Square for a game of mumble-the-peg, and occasionally, when supposed to be wrestling with state problems, hurling anathemas at Clay, Biddle, Adams, and other opponents, he might have been found in our play-room soothing some childish grievance or joining in some impromptu romp. After supper we began preparations for the all-important, eagerly-anticipated event, hanging up our stockings. Uncle had invited us, overruling my mother’s protest that we might disturb him, to use his room, and thither we merrily trooped, he leading and apparently deeply interested. My brothers, Jackson and John, cousin Rachel and I borrowed Mammy’s stockings, which, as she tipped the beam at 200, were as capacious as the Galilee fishermen’s nets she often referred to. Cousin Rachel and brother Jackson hung theirs to side hooks on the mantel, I mine to the fancy hearth broom, and John, who was a born artist, his to a boot-jack carelessly left on Uncle’s green leather arm chair; two smaller stockings for the babies, my little sister and young cousin, dangled from curtain rings at the foot of the bed. In the center of a large, airy, handsomely-furnished room stood a writing table at which the President and his Private Secretary often sat until the “wee sma” hours, discussing state matters and examining documents relating to them. Amid the papers promiscuously piled up thereon was an Old Testament that had belonged to his mother, his wife’s Bible and a frame holding her miniature. Surveying with delight the room after we had disposed of our stockings, we declared it reminded us of the Masonic Bazaar being held, which we had attended. Then brother Jackson had a bright idea. “Why not hang up a stocking for Uncle?” and running to the Bureau he took a sock from the bottom drawer, tied it to the tongs and cried: “Now let’s see how Sancta Claus will treat you, Mr. Uncle Jackson, President of all these United States!” Surprised and amazed, the old man said: “Well, well, to think I’ve waited nearly seventy years to hang up a Christmas stocking.” “Better late than never,” added brother Jackson.