“Certainly not!” Edith was firm, detecting a faint sign of weakening on her husband’s face. “It’s far too late. Jump into bed quickly. Did Mame give you your tonic, Ted?” “Yes.” He made a wry face. “I hate that gooey stuff.” “You hate being sick, too, and the idea of not growing up as strong as the other boys,” their father reminded him. “I hated that stuff I had to take to make my bones strong,” declared Kermit. “You hated having to wear braces on your legs, too.” His father followed the boys into the nursery, gave each a friendly smack and tumbled them into bed. “But the braces made your legs strong enough so you can swim like the rest of us.” “I still hate getting water in my ears,” stated Ted, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Will there be warmer bedrooms in that palace up in Albany, Father?” “We’ll hope so—and it isn’t a palace. It’s officially called a mansion.” “In storybooks governors always live in palaces. Does the president live in a palace in Washington?” “No, just a big white house. You’ve seen it. You should remember.” “I’ve seen so many places,” sighed Ted, “but I like this house best.” “We all do. We’ll come back to it every summer,” promised Roosevelt. The house was quiet at last but Edith Roosevelt, when they had completed the task of filling all the dangling stockings, lay awake a long time, her thoughts trying to search the future, what lay ahead for all those children. More of war and danger, more heart-racking anxiety for their mother? Perhaps it was best not to know, otherwise life would be one long torment of apprehension. Morning showed a thin cover of snow on the ground, but before day came to reveal it plainly, there was pandemonium in the parents’ quiet bedroom as the children came rushing in lugging their stockings. Only small toys bulged in the stockings, but Alice proudly displayed a little gold bracelet and Archie, round-faced and beaming, bounced up and down on his father’s stomach excitedly cranking a small tin toy that made musical sounds as the handle turned. “Get up, Father,” begged Ethel. “Get up and light the Christmas tree!” “That room will be cold,” objected their mother. “Here, crawl under this blanket, all of you. Theodore, do poke up the fire.” There were some embers left in the fireplace and he strode over, barefoot, in his night garb and jabbed and stirred at them, vigorously, piling on the wood till a roaring blaze was kindled. He liked fires to roar, horses to gallop, he had to put gusto into everything he did, his wife lay thinking. “We’ll have breakfast first,” she said firmly. “No one will be downstairs this early, so all of you take your stockings and crawl back into your beds till Mame comes in. Then after breakfast we’ll light the Christmas trees in the gun room.” “It’s cold in there too,” complained Ted, “cold as anything.” “It’s cold everywhere. This is a winter’s day,” said Theodore. “Scamper now! No one is to stir out of bed again till Mame comes in.”