That same May one lovely afternoon stands out most clearly. John Masefield, the great English poet, had been several times in the country. My brother knew his work well but had not met him, and I had had that privilege. I wished to take him to Oyster Bay, and the invitation was gladly forthcoming. It proved fair and beautiful, and Mr. Masefield and I motored out to luncheon. On the veranda at Sagamore Hill were my brother and Mrs. Roosevelt, their daughter Mrs. Derby and her lovely children, and later John Masefield took little Richard on his lap and wove for him a tale to which we grown people listened, my brother resting his eyes gladly on the little boy’s head as he leaned against the poet. After the story was told, we wandered off to a distant summer-house overlooking both sides of the bay, and there Theodore Roosevelt and John Masefield spoke intimately together of many things. It was a day of sunlight in early spring, and the air was full “of a summer to be,” but under the outward calm and beauty of the sun and sea lay a poignant sadness for our sons who were in a distant land, for the moment had come when the American troops were to show their valor in a great cause. The day after the Carnegie Hall speech for the Red Cross, one of his most flaming addresses, in which he pictured the young men of America as Galahads of modern days, I wrote to him of my gratitude and emotion, and he answers at once (how did he ever find the time to answer so immediately so many letters which came to him): “Darling Corinne:--That is a very dear letter of yours; your sons and my sons were before my eyes as I spoke. I am leaving tomorrow for the West until May 31st. I leave again on June 6th, returning on the 13th, and on Saturday, the 15th, must go to a Trinity College function and stay with Bye. [Referring to my sister, Mrs. Cowles.] Will you take me out in your motor to Oyster Bay for dinner when I return?” Already he had plunged into what he considered his active duty and was overtaxing his strength--that strength only so lately restored, and not entirely restored--in the service of his country. It was at Indiana University in June of that year that he made one of his most significant pronouncements, a pronouncement especially significant in the light of the so-called Sinn Fein activities during the last two years in this country. He was very fond of the Irish, and fond of many of the Irish-born citizens of America, and always loved to refer to his own Irish blood, but he had no sympathy whatsoever with certain attitudes taken by certain Irish-born or naturalized Americans under the name, falsely used, of patriotism, and he speaks his mind courageously and clearly at Indiana University.