“I’ll fetch Tad. If they’ve brought something for him it will sort of make up for this sorry Christmas he had.” Lincoln strode off up the stairs. All day since disciplining Tad his heart had ached in dull, heavy fashion. It was not easy, he was thinking, to be the son of a president. It was not even easy to be a president. He thought again wistfully of that white house in Springfield, of turkey wishbones hung to dry there above the kitchen stove when Tad and Willie were small. Honors came dear. Almost, he decided, a man could pay too much for them. Tad was still awake, lying hunched down in the middle of the huge, high bed. A candle burned on a stand, and the flickering light made his eyes enormous and somehow lost in the round paleness of his face. “I couldn’t get to sleep, Papa,” he explained, scrabbling into his father’s lap when Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed. “It was the drum. I could hear it all the time—bum, bum. When it stopped I waited for it to start again.” “It’s stopped now, Tad. For good. And the boys are downstairs. Our boys. They brought you something. Come on, I’ll carry you down. Put this wrapper around you so you won’t take cold.” “Maybe a new sword. Would you let me wear it, Papa?” asked Tad eagerly. “I’ll see—we’ll see how you behave.” They went down the rear stairway stealthily, through a chilly hall to the back door. But even here was an aide who sprang to open the door and two soldiers appeared out of nowhere, one desperately swallowing some thing he had been chewing on. On the steps outside huddled a crowd of blue-clad men. Snow sifted thinly over their bent shoulders, their drawn-down caps. Every face came up, but to a man they seemed to be holding something, holding tight to a bulk that struggled a little, something that was hairy and odorous and staccato of feet and alive. “Mr. President,” the lieutenant jerked erect, saluted anxiously, “we brought this—for Private Thomas Lincoln—for his Christmas, sir. It’s not the same one. Some of the boys chipped in and bought it off a Negro, sir—but we thought might be it would do—for the boy for his Christmas.” Like a fish Tad was out of his father’s arms, nightshirt flying, bare feet oblivious of the cold stone step. “A nanny goat!” he shrieked in delight. “Papa, it’s a nanny goat! My very own nanny goat!” “Mr. President, your pardon sir, it’s kind of dirty, sir, but we’ll wash it good in the morning. And though it ain’t the same one,” pleaded the corporal, “we thought maybe it would do—for Christmas.” “She licked my hand. She likes me!” Tad squirmed in ecstasy. “Most of anything I wanted me a nanny goat!” “It appears,” stated Abraham Lincoln, “to be a very superior goat. Thank the boys, Tad, and let them take your nanny down to the stables and feed her. She looks a bit gaunt to me. See that she gets a good feed, Corporal, if you please. Now, back to bed, Private Lincoln. Your nanny will still be here, all cleaned up and beautiful for you, in the morning.”