Cover created by Transcriber, using a photograph from the original book, and placed into the Public Domain.

“GREAT-HEART”

“GREAT-HEART”

The Life Story of
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
By Daniel Henderson

Introduction by
Major-General Leonard Wood
U. S. Army

Illustrated with photographs,
and cartoon by “Ding”

THIRD EDITION

New York
Alfred A. Knopf
MCMXIX

“GREAT-HEART”
The Life Story of Theodore Roosevelt

Copyright, 1919, by William Edwin Rudge
Printed in the United States of America
Published May, 1919

Dedicated to
The Fighting Sons
of
Theodore
Roosevelt

“It is as though Bunyan’s Mr. Greatheart had died in the midst of his pilgrimage, for he was the greatest proved American of his generation.”

RUDYARD KIPLING

INTRODUCTION

In the following pages Daniel Henderson has presented in condensed form the life story of Theodore Roosevelt. The writer has made no serious effort to go into the details of his official and political career or to deal with the great questions of foreign and home policy which came up during his public career.

Theodore Roosevelt’s activities were so varied and the field he covered so wide, that no work of this kind can give more than the barest outline. Nevertheless, the book is so written as to give those who may read it a general idea of his boyhood, his youth, and many of the things he did, his high ideals, his purity of purpose, his intense patriotism, his love of the outdoor life, and his understanding not only of towns and cities, but of the wild places of the world and the people, animals, and birds who dwell in them.

The story brings out his intense Americanism, his love of fair play, and his fearless and straightforward character. He stands out as a man whose life was characterized not only by devotion to country and truth, as he saw it, but to the best interests of mankind. While his spirit was one of intense Americanism, his sympathies were as wide as the world.

It is a book especially fitted for the youth of the country, and the record of achievements therein will serve as an inspiration to all who read it.

Theodore Roosevelt was the most inspiring and, consequently, the most dominant figure in our national life since Lincoln, and his influence on American youth and upon our people as a whole will always be an uplifting one.

His life will always be an inspiration for greater effort and for higher ideals.

“Great-Heart” is dead but his influence lives on!

Leonard Wood

Major General U. S. Army.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

The purpose of the writer has been to show why Rudyard Kipling thought Theodore Roosevelt the incarnation of Bunyan’s character “Great-Heart,” and to reflect the romance and inspiration contained in Roosevelt’s life.

The work has been approached from the viewpoint of one who was not a partisan; of one disposed to be critical; of one who, however, viewing Roosevelt’s career as a whole, was so moved by its grandeur that he became impelled to play what part he could in perpetuating the memory of this inspiring American among his people.

Moreover, there was a natural attraction to write of him whose career from birth to death was a panorama of adventure and climax and achievement; of him whose life had in it those elements which create literature—that human stuff that makes immortal such books as Plutarch’s Lives and Robinson Crusoe.

Full justice to his subject the author could not hope to render. Powerful indeed will be the pen that adequately describes Roosevelt’s life of struggle and triumph, with its warfare against bodily handicaps and political prejudice; warfare against wild beasts in dense jungles; warfare against hunger and exhaustion on inconceivably hard journeys of exploration; warfare against predatory wealth; warfare against men in high places who would grind the faces of the poor; warfare to prepare America to stamp out forever militarism and bloodshed; warfare to lead the race to the loftiest goals.

The writer does not therefore promise that every motive and deed of Roosevelt’s life will be chronicled in this book. He has tried to be faithful to the main facts, and to so group these facts that the narrative will be vivid and moving—typical of the man about whom it is written—so that not only the few, but also the many, will find enjoyment and uplift in the story. The author will be content if the average man or woman or boy or girl, feels beating through these pages the warm pulses of him who was indeed—“Great-Heart.”

Daniel Henderson.

Theodore Roosevelt

THE CONTENTS

THE ILLUSTRATIONS

I
“A Reg’lar Boy”

In Roosevelt, the statesman, still lived “Ted,” the boy. To see this fact in all its clearness one has only to let his thoughts go back to the period when Roosevelt was President and follow him on a camping expedition with his boys and their cousins, come from miles around to share in the expedition.

The beach is reached; the fishing poles are put out; the catch is brought in. Thereupon Roosevelt himself turns cook. It is a big job, for there are many boys and their appetites are keen; but the cook is equal to the task. Then night steals on them. The campfire grows to enormous proportions. Around it the boys sit, listening with breathless interest to the wonder tales of hunting and cow-punching that come from the President who for his boys’ sake has made himself a lad again.

As we recall this scene we remember that the sons of Roosevelt fought for righteousness in France. We recall, too, that campfires and roughly cooked food were the order of the day in the paths these and millions of other boys traveled, and we wonder if, as they bivouacked, there did not come to them the memory of those nights when as boys their father led them out on a hard trail and then, in night-wrapped woods, stood guard over them as they rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound sleep which had no room for the terrible dreams war engenders.

It is when such pictures present themselves to our minds that we say to ourselves that Bayard Taylor wrote facts as well as poetry when he said:

“The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring!”

If a person who knew nothing of Roosevelt’s antecedents were asked to express an opinion as to the type of boy he was, that person, reasoning from Roosevelt’s great vigor and the intensity with which he threw himself into outdoor pursuits, would say that he was a strong, healthy lad.

The reverse, however, is the case. From earliest infancy Theodore Roosevelt had been subject to attacks of asthma that weakened him physically and hindered his growth. He confesses that as a little fellow he was timid, and that when larger boys strove to exercise over him that domination which the boy of an older age thinks himself privileged to exercise over a younger lad, he was backward in opposing them. It was his physical weakness that prevented him from going to school and that led him to be placed under the instruction of various tutors.

“Bill” Sewall, the old woodsman and hunter, who figures in several of Roosevelt’s books, and who, for over forty years had been a close friend of Roosevelt, said after the Colonel’s death:

“No, Theodore’s death did not surprise me. Men thought that he was strong and robust. He wasn’t. It was his boundless energy, his determination and his nerves that kept Theodore Roosevelt turning out the enormous quantities of work he did. Really, he suffered from heart disease all his life.”

There dwelt in the boy Roosevelt an indomitable will. He also possessed a love for sports, travel and adventure such as could only be enjoyed with a strong body. Into his ken came the heroes of Captain Mayne Reid’s novels and also the heroes of Fenimore Cooper’s “Leatherstocking Tales.” He wanted to be like these men. Young as he was, he was keen enough to realize that to enter upon the career of which he dreamed he must have a sound constitution and overflowing energy. His will assumed control of his feeble body. His mind spurred his heart, limbs and lungs. He determined that the next bullying lad would have to contend with a boy with stronger muscles and heavier frame. Even as he resolved the springs of bodily vigor became loosed in the young boy. The town house became too small to hold him. Jacob Riis relates that a woman who lived next door to the Roosevelts told him that one day she saw young Theodore hanging out of a second-story window, and ran in a desperate hurry to tell his mother. What Ted’s mother said as she hurried off to rescue her son made a lasting impression on this woman: “If the Lord had not taken care of Theodore he would have been killed long ago.”

In addition to the streets of New York beautiful Long Island was his for roving, for here his family spent the summer. He ran races with his chums; stole rides on his father’s mounts; swam, rowed and sailed on Long Island Sound. He explored the hills, caves and woods of his country home. He had sisters, and, of course, his sisters had girl companions, and of course he had his special friend among this group of girl playmates. Naturally, his Southern mother made it her rule to promote chivalry in her son, and so Ted played the gallant on many a picnic or horseback ride. Soon his parents saw what the doctors had failed to do the great outdoors was doing. Strong muscles came to him. He lost the fatigue which accompanied his first exertions. His young frame broadened and grew stout enough to stand the rigors of outdoor life. Nature had had little chance with him when he was shut up in New York among his books, but now that he had come to her she gave him the rich blood and the strong nerves which later furnished him the strength to attain the fulfilment of his ambitious plans.

Ted was a sheer boy in these days, and a sheer boy he remained until he went to college. Concerning him an old Long Island stage-driver, in whose stage Ted often rode, remarked to Henry Beech Needham: “He was a reg’lar boy. Always outdoors, climbin’ trees and goin’ bird-nestin’! I remember him particular, because he had queer things alive in his pockets. Sometimes it was even a snake!”

Roosevelt met “Bill” Sewall for the first time when he was eighteen years old. This was when he first came to Sewall’s hunting-camp in Maine, which is still in existence.

“Be very careful with him,” Arthur Cutler, his tutor, warned Sewall. “Don’t take him on such tramps as you take yourself. He couldn’t stand it. But he wouldn’t let you know that for a minute. He’d go till he dropped rather than admit it. He isn’t strong, though. You must watch him carefully.”

TOOK A LOT OF WATCHING

“I did watch him carefully,” said “Bill” Sewall. “He took a lot of watching,” he added. “Yes, a lot of watching. He’d never quit. I remember the time we set out from my place up at Island Falls to climb Mount Katahdin. That’s the tallest mountain we have in Maine. We were crossing Wissacataquoik Creek. The current is very swift there. Somehow Theodore lost one of his shoes. Away it went downstream. All he had with him to take the place of shoes was a pair of thin-skinned moccasins. The stones and crags on the way up cut his feet into tatters. But he kept on, with never a murmur of complaint. That’s a little thing, perhaps; but he was that way in all things—always.”

Later, when Roosevelt had lost his first wife and also his mother, it was to Sewall, the backwoodsman who, in long walks in the Maine forests, had given him his first lessons in the value of unvarnished democracy, that he turned for solace, and it was this Maine guide who went West with him and helped to lead him out of the daze that followed these bereavements.

Roosevelt’s interest in boxing developed when he was fourteen, and rose out of the primitive need of being able to protect himself against boys who sought to impose on him. At that time he ventured forth by himself on a trip to Moosehead Lake and on the stage-coach that bore him there he met two mischievous boys of his own age who proceeded to make life miserable for him. Made desperate by their persecutions, he decided to lick them, but found that either one singly was more than a match for him.

Bitterly determined that he should not be again humiliated in this way, he resolved to learn how to defend himself, and, with his father’s approval, started to learn boxing.

Mr. Roosevelt himself relates how, under the training of John Long, an ex-prize-fighter, whose rooms were ornamented with vivid pictures of ring champions and battles, he first put on the gloves. For a long period he was knocked around the ring with no other fighting quality in evidence but the ability to take punishment. But then, when his boxing master arranged a series of matches, he was entered in a lightweight contest and entrusted to the care of his guardian angel.

Luckily his opponents chanced to be two youths whose ambitions greatly exceeded their science and muscular development, and, to the surprise of all concerned, he emerged the possessor of the prize cup for his class—a pewter mug that, though it would have been dear at fifty cents, was nevertheless a rich compensation for the knockdowns and bruises he had endured during his training.

ROOSEVELT AT COLLEGE

In his account of Roosevelt as an outdoor man Henry Beach Needham furnishes this interesting picture of Theodore in his college days:

“It was a bout to decide the lightweight championship of Harvard. The heavyweight and middleweight championships had been awarded. The contest for the men under 140 pounds was on. Roosevelt, then a junior, had defeated seven men. A senior had as many victories to his credit. They were pitted against each other in the finals. The senior was quite a bit taller than Roosevelt and his reach was longer. He also weighed more by six pounds, but Roosevelt was the quicker man on his feet and knew more of the science of boxing. The first round was vigorously contested. Roosevelt closed in at the very outset. Because of his bad eyes he realized that infighting gave him his only chance to win. Blows were exchanged with lightning rapidity, and they were hard blows. Roosevelt drew first blood, but soon his own nose was bleeding. At the call of time, however, he got the decision for the round.

“The senior had learned his lesson. Thereafter he would not permit Roosevelt to close in on him. With his longer reach, and aided by his antagonist’s near-sightedness, he succeeded in landing frequent blows. Roosevelt worked hard, but to no avail. The round was awarded to the senior. In the third round the senior endeavored to pursue the same tactics, but with less success. The result of this round was a draw, and an extra round had to be sparred. Here superior weight and longer reach began to tell, but Roosevelt boxed gamely to the end. Said his antagonist: ‘I can see him now as he came in fiercely to the attack. But I kept him off, taking no chances, and landing at long reach. I got the decision, but Roosevelt was far more scientific. Given good eyes, he would have defeated me easily.’”

In the summer of 1883 Roosevelt, struggling through a more than usually serious attack of asthma, “went West,” in the hope that outdoor life in Dakota would restore him to strength.

Medora, the place to which fortune directed him, was a little prairie settlement barely inhabited except on pay day, when the cowboys galloped in from the surrounding ranches to spend their well-earned money in the saloons.

Roosevelt had selected Medora as a possible haunt of buffalo-hunters, and he inquired eagerly of the inhabitants as to how he could find a guide for a bison-hunt.

One of the owners of the Chimney Butte Ranch, Joe Ferris, chanced to be in town that day, and while his companions were eyeing the spectacled “tenderfoot” with amusement or suspicion, Ferris, attracted by the newcomer’s friendly and honest looks, invited him to his ranch.

Roosevelt gladly accepted this opportunity to know ranch life at first hand. After a drive of twelve miles, Ferris led him up to a crude ranch house. When Roosevelt entered its door he found its furniture quite as primitive as was the building.

The place was owned by Joe Ferris and his brother, Sylvane, who were in partnership with one Joe Merrifield. The young Easterner handled himself in a way that won the esteem of these hardy, keen-eyed “cow-punchers.” They took him on a trying trip through the desolate “Bad Lands” in search of bison, but Roosevelt endured the hardships without flinching and in the end got what he went after—a bull buffalo.

When the trip was over Roosevelt found himself in love not only with his comrades, but also with their cattle and ponies and crude outfit. He bought the ranch; left Merrifield in charge as his foreman; and came East to enter upon another vigorous term in the Legislature.

Two years later, Roosevelt found himself sick of politics, and at odds with life itself. His adored mother had died, and, a few hours after her passing, his wife had also died in giving birth to his daughter Alice. Leaving the child in the best of care in New York, he went back to Dakota, resolved to devote himself to ranching.

He selected a site for his new ranch house at Elkhorn, and his favorite companions, Sewall and Wilmot Dow, Sewall’s nephew, who came West to join him, had a great deal to do with the building of this house.

Sewall states that Roosevelt at the time intended to take up cattle-raising as a permanent business, having heard that there was “money in it.”

II
Roosevelt in the Bad Lands

“Hell-Roaring Bill Jones,” a citizen of the forlorn little cattle town of Medora, possessed four distinctions: He was sheriff of the county, he was a gun-fighter, he was a handy man with his fists, and he became a friend of Theodore Roosevelt, who had now acquired the two cattle ranches, the Chimney Butte and the Elkhorn.

There was an election in town. A fight was threatened. Roosevelt, fresh from his own political battles in the New York Assembly, heard out on his ranch that one of the parties would import section hands from nearby railroad stations to throw their weight into the conflict. Instantly the place of election became the only spot in the world for him.

The news had been late in reaching him, and when he rode into Medora the election was well under way. Roosevelt inquired if there had been any disorder.

“Disorder, hell!” said a bystander. “Bill Jones just stood there with one hand on his gun and with the other pointing over toward the new jail whenever any man who didn’t have the right to vote came near the polls. The only one of them who tried to vote Bill knocked down! Lord! the way that man fell!”

“Well!” Bill ejaculated, “if he hadn’t fell I’d have walked around behind him to see what was propping him up!”

It was with men like these, in surroundings like these, that young Roosevelt had elected to learn to the full extent the lesson of democracy.

Before his Western trip Roosevelt had already had his manhood and his spirit of brotherhood tested in the hard-waged battles of New York political life. Now was to come a test infinitely greater. The former member of the New York Assembly, the man who had occupied a high place in New York social life, who in his earlier days was noted for his well-tailored figure and his eyeglasses, had turned his back on all this. He told his folks that he was going West to “rough it” and to mix with mankind, and both of these he did to the utmost.

LIFE ON THE RANCH

The place he chose for his home ranch was one of the worst of the undeveloped sections of the country. The ranch lay on both sides of the Little Missouri River. In front of the ranch house itself was a long veranda, and in front of that a line of cottonwood trees that shaded it. The bluffs rose from the river valley; stables, sheds and other buildings were near. A circular horse corral lay not far from the house. In winter wolves and lynxes traveled up the river on the ice, directly in front of the ranch house.

Life at the ranch house was of the most primitive nature. Though they had a couple of cows and some chickens, which supplied them with milk and eggs, they lived for the most part on canned fare.

At the roundups and during his long rides over the range, and on many hunting trips, Roosevelt had his favorite horse as companion—Manitou. This horse was so fond of him that it used to come up of its own accord to the ranch house and put its head into the door to beg for bread and sugar.

When it was not a question of roundup or herding cattle, or driving them to new grazing lands, the men at the ranch house broke in horses, mended their saddles and practised with the rope. Hunting trips broke into regular ranch life. The primitive little sitting-room of the Elkhorn Ranch was adorned with buffalo robes and bearskins of Roosevelt’s own killing; and in winter there was always to be found good reading and a cheery fire.

A MAN AMONG MEN

Roosevelt brushed elbows in Medora with newly arrived hunters from the plains and mountains, clad in buckskin shirts and fur caps—greasy and unkempt, yet strong and resolute men. Then there were teamsters, in slouch hats and great cowhide boots; stage-drivers with faces like leather; Indians wrapped in blankets; cowboys galloping through the streets. These men had all come to town to obtain relief from the monotony of their occupations or from long periods of peril and hardship, and the only entertainment that awaited them were “flaunting saloons and gawdy hells of all kinds,” to borrow Roosevelt’s own description. Among them moved the “bad men,” professional thieves and man-killers, who owed their lives to their ability to draw their weapons before other men could draw theirs.

Roosevelt was deeply interested in these unusual characters and scenes. Indeed, it was to drink in this frank, self-reliant spirit that he had come West. He met these men on their own ground, fearlessly. They saw that, in spite of his eyeglasses, he was a man after their own kind. Often he found himself in places of danger and saw men killed beside him in drunken brawls, yet there was something about him that made bad men pause before they challenged him.

Among Roosevelt’s cowboys was a Pueblo Indian who was a bad lot, a Sioux who was faithful and a mulatto who was one of his best men. The men would carry the “brand” of their ranch even in their own nicknames. Thus it would be said that “Bar Y” Harry had married the “Seven Open A” girl.

It was when he was thrown into contact day after day with the men of his own ranch that the most severe test of Roosevelt as a “good fellow” came.

COPYRIGHT, UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD

ROOSEVELT IN THE BEAR COUNTRY

He came through his initiation into ranch life the idol of his men, though they never got to the stage where they would neglect a chance to poke sly fun at him. He relates how once, when on a wood-chopping expedition, he overheard someone ask Dow, a ranchman bred in the Maine woods, what the total cut had been. Dow, unconscious that he was within hearing, said:

“Well, Bill cut down fifty-three, I cut forty-nine and the boss he beavered seventeen.”

The force of the jest, Roosevelt explains, lies not in the small number of trees his ax felled, but in the comparison of his chopping with the gnawing of the beaver.

At another time Roosevelt, struggling desperately to mount an unwilling horse, heard behind him a cowboy remark to the effect that he would find it hard to qualify for the job of “bronco buster.”

Roosevelt enjoyed these jokes as much as those who made them. The West was a bad place for a coward or a shirker, and the man who permitted himself to be bullied and made a butt was in for an uncomfortable existence. On the other hand, the man who did his work and gave and took jests in the spirit in which they were intended quickly made lasting friends.

One of the stories “Bill” Sewall tells of Roosevelt’s ranch life is this:

“Once on the cattle ranch in North Dakota during a roundup, his horse reared, threw him and then fell on top of him. The spill broke Theodore’s shoulder-blade. But he was afraid the cow-punchers might think he was a quitter. So he stayed out on the roundup for three days, suffering the intensest pain all the while, but never saying a word about it to anyone.”

The men usually carried revolvers, and now and then an ill temper or an excess of drinking led to a shooting affray. Roosevelt was witness to or had first-hand knowledge of several of these. In his book “Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail” he tells how a desperado, a man from Arkansas, had a quarrel with two Irish desperadoes who were partners. For several days the three lurked about the streets of the town, each trying to get the drop on the other. Finally one of the Irishmen crept up behind the Arkansan as he was walking into a gambling hall and shot him in the back. Mortally wounded, the man fell; yet, with the dauntless spirit found in so many of this class, he twisted around as he dropped and shot his slayer dead. Knowing that he had but a few minutes more to live and expecting that his other foe would run up on hearing the shooting, he dragged himself on his arms out into the street and waited. The second partner came up at once, to be slain instantly by a bullet from the revolver of the wounded man. The victor of this gruesome combat lived just twenty minutes after his victory.

On another occasion, Welshy, a saloon-keeper, and a man named Hay had been at odds for some time. One day Hay entered Welshy’s saloon out of temper and became very abusive. Suddenly Welshy took out his revolver and fired at Hay. The saloon-keeper almost fainted with surprise when Hay, after staggering slightly, shook himself, stretched out his hand and gave back to his would-be slayer the ball. It had glanced along his breast-bone, gone into the body and come out at the point of the shoulder, then dropped down the sleeve into his hand. Roosevelt thought the story worthy of the pen of a Wister or a Bret Harte, but the editor of “The Bad Lands Cowboy” mentioned the event merely as an “unfortunate occurrence between two of our most esteemed fellow citizens.”

On still another occasion a Scotchman and a Minnesota man, both with “shooting” records, had a furious quarrel, and later the Scotchman mounted his horse, with rifle in hand, and rode to the door of the American’s mud ranch, breathing threats of slaughter. The latter, however, was not caught napping. From behind a corner of his building he instantly shot down his foolish assailant.

Soon afterward there was a cowboy ball held in the place. Whether or not this was in celebration of the victory is not stated, but a historic fact in connection with the ball is that Roosevelt was selected to open the dancing with the wife of the victor of the shooting affair. The husband himself danced opposite, instructing Roosevelt in the steps of the lanciers.

Sometimes Roosevelt found himself involved in situations that required both a cool head and a sense of humor. When he entered a strange place it always took him a day or two to live down the fact that he wore spectacles, and he found it a justifiable policy to ignore remarks about “four-eyes” until it became apparent to him that his keeping still was being mistaken for cowardice, on which occasion he went at the aggressor hammer and tongs.

An amusing happening in which he was a central figure occurred when he was out on a search for a lost horse. He stopped for the night at a little cow town, but was informed by the owner of the only hotel that the only accommodation left was a room containing two double beds, and that three men were already occupying these beds. Roosevelt accepted the offer of the vacant half bed and turned in.

Two hours later a lantern flashed in his face and he awoke to find himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver. Two men bent over him. “It ain’t him!” said one, and the next moment his bedfellow was covered by their guns, and one of them said, persuasively: “Now, Bill, don’t make a fuss, but come along quiet.”

“I’m not thinking of making a fuss,” said Bill.

“That’s right,” was the answer, “we don’t want to hurt you; we just want you to come along. You know why.”

Bill dressed himself and went with them. “I wonder why they took Bill?” Roosevelt asked naively.

“Well,” drawled one of his neighbors, “I guess they wanted him.”

Roosevelt heard later that Bill had held up a Northern Pacific train and by shooting at the conductor’s feet, made him dance. Bill was more a joker than a train robber, but the holding up of the train had delayed the mails, and the United States Marshal had sent for him.

ROOSEVELT MEETS BAD INDIANS

A peril Roosevelt faced arose from his proximity to bad Indians. In roaming through the uninhabited country surrounding his ranch there was constant danger of meeting bands of young bucks. These redskins were generally insolent and reckless, and if they met a white man when the chances of their detection and punishment were slight they would take away his horse and rifle, if not his life.

One morning Roosevelt had set out on a solitary trip to the country beyond his ranch. He was near the middle of a plateau when a small band of Indians suddenly rode over the edge in front of him. The minute they saw him, out came their guns. Full tilt they dashed at him, whooping and brandishing their weapons in typical Indian style. Roosevelt reined up and dismounted. His horse, Manitou, stood steady as a rock. When the Indians were a hundred yards off, Roosevelt threw his rifle over Manitou’s back and drew a bead on the foremost redskin. Instantly the party scattered, doubled back on their tracks and bent over alongside their horses to shield themselves from Roosevelt’s gun. Out of rifle range, they held a consultation, and then one came forward alone, dropping his rifle and waving a blanket over his head. When he was within fifty yards he yelled out: “How! Me good Indian.” Roosevelt returned the “How,” and assured him that he was delighted to know that he was a good Indian, but that he would not be permitted to come closer. The other Indians came closer, but Roosevelt’s rifle covered them. After an outburst of profanity, they galloped away in an opposite direction from Roosevelt’s route. Later in the day Roosevelt met two trappers, who told him that his assailants were young Sioux bucks, who had robbed them of two horses.

In his account of this episode, Roosevelt takes care to point out that there is another side to the Indian character, as indeed all America has found out since the gallantry of our Indian brothers in the world war. He illustrates this by telling how, while spending the night in a small cow ranch on the Beaver, he lay in his bunk listening to the conversation of two cowboys. They were speaking of Indians, and mentioned a jury that had acquitted a horse-thief of the charge of stealing stock from a neighboring tribe, though the thief himself had openly admitted its truth. One of these cowboys suddenly remarked that he had once met an Indian who was a pretty good fellow, and he proceeded to tell the story.

A small party of Indians had passed the winter near the ranch at which he was employed. The chief had two particularly fine horses. These so excited the cowboy’s cupidity that one night he drove them off and hid them in a safe place. The chief looked for them high and low, but without success. Soon afterward one of the cowboy’s own horses strayed. When spring came the Indians went away, but three days afterward the chief returned, bringing with him the strayed horse, which he had happened to run across. “I couldn’t stand that,” said the narrator, “so I just told him I reckoned I knew where his own lost horses were, and I saddled up my bronco and piloted him to them.”

Still another story is cited by Roosevelt in denial of the saying, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” Once, on visiting a neighboring ranch, he found waiting there three well-behaved and self-respecting Sioux. The woman on the ranch told him that a white man had come along and tried to run off with their horses. Running out, they had caught him, retaken their horses, deprived him of his guns and released him.

“I don’t see why they let him go,” exclaimed Roosevelt’s hostess. “I don’t believe in stealing Indians’ horses any more than white folks’ so I told them they could go along and hang him—I’d never cheep.”

When, many years later, Roosevelt became President, his knowledge of the condition of the Indians led him to become their stanch champion. There was then an enormous amount of fraud practised by white men in obtaining possession of Indian lands. Roosevelt used his executive power to protect Indian rights and appointed as Indian Commissioner Francis E. Leupp, one of the best friends the Indians ever had.

POLICE WORK ON THE PLAINS

There was much horse-stealing and cattle-killing in this part of the country while Roosevelt was a resident of it. Under the direction of the big cattle-owners, vigilantes were organized to rid the territory of the “rustlers”—the cowboys’ name for horse and cattle-thieves.

Roosevelt admitted the need of these stringent methods, but his own way of fighting lawlessness was to accept the office of deputy sheriff for his locality.

It was while filling this office that Roosevelt first made the acquaintance of Seth Bullock, who later became one of his warmest friends and greatest admirers, and who served as marshal of South Dakota under Roosevelt when the latter became President.

Roosevelt first met Seth when the latter was sheriff in the Black Hills district. A horse-thief Seth wanted escaped into Roosevelt’s territory and was captured by him, a matter that led Seth to give some attention to the young cub of a deputy two or three hundred miles north of him.

Later, Bill Jones, Ferris and Roosevelt went down to Deadwood on business. At the little town of Spearfish they met Seth. The trip had been a hard one, and the three travelers were dusty and unkempt. Seth’s reception of them at first was decidedly stand-offish, but when their identity became known he unbent. “You see,” he explained to the future President, “by your looks I thought you were some kind of a tin-horn gambling outfit, and that I might have to keep an eye on you!”

Roosevelt’s reputation as an upholder of the law was further enhanced by his arrest of the three desperadoes from whom his neighborhood had suffered. The vigilantes had almost cleared the country of scoundrels, but there remained three men who had long been suspected of cattle-killing and horse-stealing. One was a half-breed, another was an old German of the shiftless type, while the leader was a strapping fellow named Finnigan, with a crop of red hair reaching to his shoulders. These men, finding the neighborhood becoming too hot for them, were anxious to quit that section of the country. Roosevelt possessed a clinker-built boat that had been used to ferry his men across the river.

One day one of the men brought back to the house news that the boat had been stolen. The end of the rope had been cut off with a sharp knife. Near the stream lay a red woolen mitten with a leather palm. These three desperadoes were at once suspected. Undoubtedly they knew that to travel on horseback in the direction they wanted to go was almost impossible and that the river offered them the best avenue of escape. They must also have reasoned that by taking Roosevelt’s boat they would possess the only one on the river and that, therefore, they could not be pursued.

They reckoned without Roosevelt’s fighting spirit, however. With the aid of two of his cowboys, Sewall and Dow, who, coming from Maine woods, were therefore skilled in woodcraft and in the use of the ax, paddle and rifle, they turned out in two or three days a first-class flat-bottomed scow. This was loaded with supplies, and early one morning Roosevelt, Sewall and Dow started down the river in chase of the thieves. On the third day of their pursuit, as they came around a bend, they saw the lost boat moored against a bank. Some yards from the shore a campfire smoke arose. The pursuers shoved their scow into the bank and approached the camp. They found the German sitting by the campfire with his weapons on the ground. His two companions were off hunting. When the two thieves returned they walked into three cocked rifles. Roosevelt shouted to them to hold up their hands. The half-breed obeyed at once. Finnigan hesitated, but as Roosevelt walked a few paces toward him, covering his chest with his rifle, the man, with an oath, let his own rifle drop and threw his hands high above his head.

Then came the hardest and most irksome part of the task—getting the prisoners safely to jail. After many monotonous days and nights, in which it was necessary to keep a close guard on the prisoners and at the same time navigate the river, they came to a cow camp. There Roosevelt learned that at a ranch fifteen miles off he could hire a large prairie schooner and two tough broncos for the transportation of his prisoners to Dickinson, the nearest town. This was done. Sewall and Dow went back to the boats. Roosevelt put the prisoners in the wagon along with an old settler, who drove the horses while he walked behind, ankle-deep in mud, with his Winchester over his shoulder. After thirty-six hours of sleeplessness the wagon jolted into the main street of Dickinson, where Roosevelt delivered his prisoners into the hands of the sheriff, and received, under the laws of Dakota, his fees as a deputy sheriff, amounting to some fifty dollars.

III
Broncos and Bears

Hunting lost broncos was one of the commonest and most irksome of Roosevelt’s ranch duties. On one occasion, when three horses under his charge had been running loose for a couple of months and had become as wild as deer through their stolen liberty, he had to follow at full speed for fifteen miles, until by exhausting them, he was able to get them under control and headed toward a corral.

At other times he and his men were not so lucky. Two horses had been missing from the ranch for nearly eighteen months. They were seen by his men and pursued but the horses of the pursuers became exhausted and broken before they caught up with the runaways.

On another occasion a horse that had been on the Roosevelt ranch nine months developed a case of homesickness, went off one night and traveled two hundred miles back to its former roaming grounds, swimming the Yellowstone to achieve its goal.

When Roosevelt was attending one of the recent national political conventions, up came George Meyer, one of his former ranchmen, with this tale of Roosevelt’s roundup days on the Little Missouri:

“When the Colonel gets into a mix-up like he is in at this convention the picture comes to me of the time when he and I started to get two calves across the river. I singled out the meekest looking, grabbed it up in my arms, held it while I managed to get on my horse, and started to cross the river. Half way across I turned to see how ‘the boss’ was getting along.

“He had roped his calf and was dragging it toward the river. The calf, bleating and bouncing, swung round under the horse’s tail. This set the bronco on a rampage. The river bank was high, but over it he bucked. I saw ‘the boss’ clutching the reins with one hand and the calf rope with the other. The sudden tautness of the rope as the horse plunged into the water hurled the calf into the air, landing him beside ‘the boss.’ Through the water the horse plunged, and back of bronco and rider floundered the calf. It arrived on the other shore half strangled and half drowned, but it was still bleating and bouncing as ‘the boss’ hauled it to the pen.”

THE BRONCO BUSTER

One of the most interesting tasks of the day was the breaking in of a new horse. The professional bronco-buster who did this was always an object of admiration to the strenuous Roosevelt. Roosevelt expressed his respect for these men in unreserved terms. He described their calling as a most dangerous trade, at which no man can hope to grow old. His work was infinitely harder than that of the horse-breaker in the East, because he had to break many horses in a limited time. Horses were cheap on the plains. Each outfit had a great many, and the pay for breaking the animals was only $5 or $10.

Giving a keener edge to the work of dealing with broncos is the peril that confronts the ranchmen from vicious horses. One of Roosevelt’s horses would at times rush at a man open-mouthed like a wolf, ready to bury his teeth in the ranchman’s flesh if he was not quick enough to fight him.

COPYRIGHT, UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD

JUST BEFORE ENTERING YELLOWSTONE PARK. JOHN BURROUGHS, THE VETERAN NATURALIST, IS AT THE PRESIDENT’S RIGHT. SECRETARY LOEB AT HIS LEFT

Once in a while a wild stallion was caught. This sort of animal fears no beast except the grizzly; yet, Roosevelt stated, he has one master among animals. That creature is the jackass. A battle between jack and stallions came under Roosevelt’s observation. Among the animals of a certain ranch were two great stallions and a jackass. The latter was scarcely half the size of the stallions. The animals were kept in separate pens, but one day the horses came together, and a fight between them ensued. They rolled against the pen of the jackass, breaking it down. Instantly the jackass with ears laid back and mouth wide open, sprang at the two horses. The gray horse reared on his hind legs and struck at his antagonist with his fore feet, but in a second the jack had grasped the gray by the throat.

The stallion made frantic endeavors to drive him off, but the jack kept his hold. The black stallion now plunged into the scrimmage, attacking both the gray and the jack alternately, using hoofs and teeth in his efforts to kill one or the other. The jack responded to the new attack with increased ferocity, and would doubtless have killed at least one of the stallions had not the ranchmen, by desperate efforts, separated the maddened brutes.

Roosevelt, on his first roundup, had enough experiences with wild broncos to satisfy the most hardened rough rider. It was impossible to bridle or saddle single-handed one of his horses. Another was one of the worst buckers on the ranch. Once it bucked Roosevelt off, resulting in a fall that broke a rib. Another would balk and then throw himself over backward. Roosevelt was once caught under him, and suffered as a result a broken shoulder.

Roosevelt welcomed roundup work as a relief to the monotony of the daily tasks on the ranch. The spring roundup was the big event of the season. The bulk of calves were to be branded then. Out-of-the-way parts of the country where cattle were supposed to have wandered had to be searched, so that the roundup usually extended for six or seven weeks, with no rest for the herders.

First the captain of the roundup was chosen. His qualifications were an ability to command and control the wild rough riders who served under him. The rendezvous was set, and from each ranch a cowboy rode out to meet at this common starting place. A four-horse wagon carried the bedding and food. The teamster acted as cook and was first-rate at both jobs. A dozen cow-punchers accompanied the wagon. Then, to take charge of the horses, there were two horse-rangers.

When the meeting place was reached, several days elapsed in making arrangements for the roundup. The time was passed in racing, breaking rough horses or in skylarking. Horse-racing was a mania with the cow-punchers, both whites and Indians. The horses were ridden bareback. Intense excitement preceded the race, and where the horses participating were well enough known to have partisans there generally arose quarrels between the two sides.

The races were short-distance dashes. Down between two thick rows of spectators, some on foot and some on horseback, the riders passed. Some of the lookers-on yelled and shouted encouragement at the top of their lungs. Some fired off their revolvers. All waved their hats and cloaks in encouragement. Naturally, the excitement made both horses and riders frantically eager to win, and when the goal was reached they were exhausted with nervous excitement.

The most exciting and dangerous part of the roundup comes when the cattle are stampeded by a storm or through fright. Anything may start them—the plunge of a horse, the approach of a coyote, the arrival of new steers or cows. In an instant the herd rises to its feet and rushes off. Then the work of the cowboys is cut out for them. No matter how rough the ground or how black the night, the cow-punchers must ride without sparing themselves to head them off and finally stop them. Even when stopped there is danger of them breaking again. Sometimes a man gets caught in the rush of the beasts and is trampled to death. Roosevelt never experienced this danger, but he knew the very hardest part of the work. On one occasion he was for thirty-six hours in the saddle, dismounting only to change horses or to eat.

At another time he was helping to bring a thousand head of young cattle down to his lower range. At night he and a cowboy stood guard. The cattle had been without water that day, and in their thirst they tried to break away. In the darkness Roosevelt could dimly see the shadowy outlines of the frantic herd. With whip and spurs he circled around the herd, turning back the beasts at one point just in time to wheel and keep them in at another. After an hour of violent exertion, by which time he was dripping with sweat, he and his companion finally quieted the herd.

On still another occasion Roosevelt was out on the plains when a regular blizzard came. The cattle began to drift before the storm. They were frightened and maddened by the quick, sharp flashes of lightning and the stinging rain. The men darted to and fro before them and beside them, heedless of danger, checking them at each point where they threatened to break through. The thunder was terrific. Peal followed peal. Each flash of lightning showed a dense array of tossing horns and staring eyes. At last, however, when the storm was raging in fury, and when it seemed impossible to hold the herd together any longer, the corrals were reached, and by desperate efforts Roosevelt and his companions managed to turn the herds into the barns. It was such work as this that brought Roosevelt self-reliance and hardihood and made him in later life a firm advocate of horsemanship.

Though Roosevelt’s ranch life yielded him big assets in health and experience, financially it proved a failure. It is estimated that he lost $100,000 on the venture. “Bill” Sewall testifies that Roosevelt shared all gains with Dow and him, who were practically his partners, but that when the cattle died Roosevelt assumed all losses without a word of complaint to his comrades.

THE GRIZZLY’S TRAIL

We now enter upon the most adventurous part of Roosevelt’s Western experiences. Of dash, adventure and excitement he had plenty in his life as a ranchman, and yet through it all a still greater adventure called him. About him lay the wilderness. In that wilderness lurked big game. Roosevelt became a hunter. Something of the perils and hardships of the wild life he was about to enter upon can best be illustrated by the story he tells in his book “Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail” of the experiences of two starving trappers.

These two men had entered a valley in the heart of the mountains where game was so abundant that they decided to pass the winter there. As winter came on they worked hard at putting up a log cabin, killing just enough meat for immediate use. Winter set in with tremendous snowstorms. Game left the valley, abandoning it for their winter haunts. Starvation stared the trappers in the face. One man had his dog with him. The other insisted that the dog should be killed for food. The dog’s owner, who was deeply attached to the animal, refused. One night the other trapper tried to kill the dog with his knife, but failed. The scanty supply of flour the partners possessed was now almost exhausted. Hunger was beginning to intensify their bad feelings. Neither dared to sleep for fear that the other would kill him.

Finally the man who owned the dog proposed that, to give each a chance for life, they should separate. He himself agreed to take one-half of the handful of flour that was left and to start off in an attempt to get home. The other was to stay. If one tried to interfere with the other after the separation it meant a fight to the death. For two days the man and his dog plunged through snowdrifts. On the second evening, looking back over a high ridge, he saw his companion following him. He followed his own trail back, lay in ambush and shot down the man following him as if he had been a wild beast. The next evening he baked his last cake and divided it with the dog. Only a short stretch of time stood between them and death. Just then, however, the dog crossed the tracks of a wolf and followed its trail. The man staggered after and came at last to where the wolf stood over the body of a deer it had killed. The meat of the deer replenished the strength of the trapper and dog, and they continued their journey. A week later they reached a miner’s cabin.

While Roosevelt in his hunting experiences never had an adventure so harrowing as this, he nevertheless managed to crowd into his life as many big moments as most professional hunters and trappers find in a lifetime. At fifteen, an age when most boys are only dreaming of becoming huntsmen, Roosevelt killed his first deer.

His brother, his cousin and himself were camping out for the first time in their lives. Their camp was located on Lake St. Regis. The other two boys went fishing. Roosevelt was not overly fond of this sport, so he went off on a deer hunt. With him went the two guides, Hank Martin and Mose Sawyer. The first day of the hunt he not only did not kill a deer—he failed to see one that stood within range; and, on the way home, shot in mistake for one a large owl that was perched on a log.

The next day, goaded by the teasing of his camp mates, he started out again. This time he had better luck. As his canoe swung out from between forest-lined banks into a little bay, he saw, knee-deep among the water lilies that fringed the shore, a yearling buck. His first shot killed him.

The youthful adventure helped to stimulate Roosevelt’s ardor for hunting. One of the reasons why he went West was that he hoped to find big game, and when he found himself upon the track of the grizzly he was in his element indeed.

We find Roosevelt one day setting out from his ranch on a hunt for grizzly on the Big Horn Range. His eagerness to come in close contact with the grizzly was in no way dampened by the fact that a neighbor of his, while prospecting with two other men near the headwaters of the Little Missouri in the Black Hills country, had had a terrible experience with one.

The neighbor and two other men were walking along the river. Two of them followed the edge of the stream. The third followed a game trail some distance away from them. Suddenly the second heard an agonized shout from the third man, intermingled with the growling of the bear. They rushed to the scene just in time to see their companion in close contact with a grizzly. The bear was so close to the man that he had no time to fire his rifle, but merely held it up as a guard to his head. The immensely muscular forearm of the grizzly, with nails as strong as steel hooks, descended upon the man, striking aside the rifle and crushing the man’s skull like an eggshell.

Still another of the Colonel’s friends, while hunting in the Big Horn Mountains, had pursued a large bear and wounded him. The animal turned and rushed at the man, who fired at him and missed. The bear closed with him and passed on, striking only a single blow, yet that blow tore the man’s collarbone and snapped three or four ribs. The shock was so great that he died that night.

With his interest stimulated by such accounts of grizzly hunting, Roosevelt set out. It was early in September. The weather was cool and frosty and the flurries of snow made it easy to track the bears. There were plenty of blacktail deer in the woods, as well as bands of cow and calf elk, or of young bull. There were no signs of grizzly however.

One day Roosevelt and Merrifield separated, but at last Roosevelt heard the familiar long-drawn shout of a cattleman and dashed toward him on his small, wiry cow pony. Merrifield announced that he had seen signs of bears about ten miles distant. They shifted camp at once and rode to the spot where the bear tracks were so plentiful.

As Roosevelt came home toward nightfall from a vain hunt, walking through a reach of burned forest, he came across the huge half-human footprints of a great grizzly which had evidently passed a short time before. He followed the tracks in the fading twilight until it became too dark to see them, and had to give up the pursuit as darkness closed in about him. The next day, toward nightfall, as the two men were again returning home without having caught sight of the grizzly, they heard the sound of the breaking of a dead stick. It was the grizzly whose tracks they had seen around the remains of a black deer that Merrifield had shot. Again they had to postpone pursuit of him on account of darkness, but they made up their minds that they would get him the next morning.

Merrifield was a skilful tracker, and the next day he took up the trail at once where it had been left off. After a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten path made by the elk. The beast’s footprints were plain in the dust. The trail turned off into the tangled thicket, within which it was almost certain that the quarry could be found.

Still they followed the tracks, advancing with noiseless caution, climbing over dead tree trunks and upturned stumps and taking care that no branches rustled or caught on their clothes. Suddenly Merrifield sank on one knee, his face ablaze with excitement. Roosevelt strode past him with his rifle at the ready. There, not ten steps off, the great bear rose slowly from his bed among young spruces. He had heard his hunters, but did not know their exact location, for he reared up on his haunches and was sidewise to them. Then suddenly he caught sight of them and dropped on his fores, the hair on his neck and shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward them.

Roosevelt raised his rifle. The bear’s head was bent slightly down, and when Roosevelt looked squarely into the small, glittering, evil eyes he pulled his trigger. The bear half rose, then toppled over in the death throes. The bullet had gone into his brain. He was the first grizzly Roosevelt had ever seen, and a huge one at that. Naturally, he felt proud that within twenty seconds from the time he had caught sight of the game he had killed it.

Merrifield’s chief feeling was one of disappointment, not that he had not killed the game, but that Roosevelt had shot and killed him before the bear had had a chance to fight. Merrifield was reckless. He did not fear a grizzly any more than he did a jackrabbit. He wanted to see the bear come toward them in a typical grizzly charge and to bring him down in the rush. However, Roosevelt, not so much a veteran at bear-hunting, was quite contented in looking at the monstrous fellow to have brought him down before his charge commenced.

Lieutenant-Governor William Francis Sheehan once told a story illustrative of the Colonel’s whole-hearted spirit of adventure. Repeating a conversation he had with Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Sheehan described the former President as standing before the mounted skin of a monster grizzly bear which he had shot at close range—so close that the odds at one instant seemed greatly in favor of the grizzly. After a description of the dramatic fight the Colonel suddenly turned to Sheehan and said:

“But, Governor, I shall never be satisfied until I have killed a grizzly bear with a knife!”

When one reads of Roosevelt in such surroundings one does not wonder that the Roosevelt home at Sagamore Hill at times resembled a veritable menagerie. At one time there were a lion, a hyena, a zebra, five bears, a wildcat, a coyote, two macaws, an eagle, a barn owl and several snakes and lizards. Kangaroo rats and flying squirrels slept in the pockets and blouses of the Roosevelt children, went to school with them and often were guests at dinner. While campaigning in Kansas in 1903 a little girl brought a baby badger, carried by her brother, to Roosevelt’s train, whence it was later transferred to the Sagamore Hill menagerie. There was a guinea-pig named Father O’Grady by the children, but this proved to be of the softer sex. One day two of the children rushed breathlessly into a room where the Roosevelts were entertaining mixed company. “Oh! oh!” they cried. “Father O’Grady has had some children!”

As a result of their closeness to nature Roosevelt’s sons became sportsmen and naturalists worthy of their father.

Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., killed his first buck just before he was fourteen, and his first moose, a big bull with horns that spread fifty-six inches, just before he was seventeen. Both of these animals were killed in the wilderness, on hunting trips which tested to the utmost the boy’s endurance and skill.

IV
Champion of Women and Children

Many people misunderstood Roosevelt. Seeing the virile, fighting side of his nature, they came to look at him as representing strength without tenderness. On the contrary, no man was more tender to women, children and animals. He always impressed his close friend, Jacob Riis, as being as tender as a woman.

One day while Theodore Roosevelt was Assistant Secretary of the Navy, he prevailed on Mr. Riis to go home with him. In those days the Roosevelt children were little. Instead of rushing upon Mr. Roosevelt when he entered the door, as was their custom later, they waited their father’s coming in the nursery.

Entering the house, Mr. Roosevelt invited Mr. Riis to go up with him to see the babies. Mrs. Roosevelt met them in the hall with the warning that he was not to play bear, that the baby was being put to sleep. However, when the two arrived in the nursery, the baby itself squirmed out of the nurse’s arms and growled and clawed at the father very much like a little bear cub, and, thus incited, the rest of the children flew upon him with all of the amazing vigor of childhood. The house was in a turmoil. No menagerie in its wildest moment gave forth more shrieks, howls and thumps. As a climax the door opened and Mrs. Roosevelt, wearing a look of great sternness, stood viewing the scene. Thereupon her husband arose meekly from the floor explaining that the baby was thoroughly awake when he arrived. This story explains the following:

One day, when Roosevelt was Police Commissioner, a policeman was ordered before him on charges. Roosevelt reviewed his past offences and resolved to dismiss him. The stage was set for the dismissal; only the formalities remained. But someone had told the culprit the Commissioner’s weak side. In the morning as Roosevelt came from a romp with his babies, the doomed policeman stood before him surrounded by eleven weeping youngsters.

Roosevelt’s stern expression relaxed to one of instant sympathy.

“Where is your wife, O’Keefe?”

“Dead, Sir!”

Dead! And this man, left alone with all these children! Clearly it would be inhuman to discharge him. He must be given one more chance.

COPYRIGHT, LE GENDRE

ROOSEVELT, THE FIGHTER

Out went the patrolman with his new lease of life. And his first duty was to return to his neighbors in the tenement the nine children he had borrowed to accompany his own two in his task of melting the heart of the Comissioner.

Some years ago, a man Roosevelt had met out West wrote this letter to him:

“Dear Colonel: I write you because I am in trouble. I have shot a lady in the eye. But, Colonel, I was not shooting at the lady. I was shooting at my wife.”

Roosevelt replied to his friend in need that while he appreciated marksmanship in almost every form, he drew the line at shooting at ladies, whether or not they were related to the man who held the gun.

COPYRIGHT, LE GENDRE

ROOSEVELT, THE MAN

Roosevelt, much as he understood the character of the Western man, was even more interested in and sympathetic to the Western woman. It was on the prairie that Roosevelt learned the doctrine which he afterward preached, that “the prime work for the average woman must be keeping the home and rearing her children.” When with his men on the ranch he listened by hours to their accounts of the charms and virtues of their sweethearts, while from his own close observation he acquired a knowledge of the homely virtues of the women pioneers of the plains that led him to show small sympathy in later years with the idle, luxury-loving women of the big cities.

In his description of frontier types Roosevelt pictured how the grinding work of the wilderness drives the beauty and bloom from a woman’s face long before her youth leaves her. She lives in a log hut chinked with moss, or in a sod adobe hovel; or in a temporary camp.

Motherhood comes and leaves her sinewy, angular, thin of lip and furrowed of brow. She is up early, going about her work in a dingy gown and ugly sunbonnet, facing her many hard duties, washing and cooking for her husband and children; facing perils and hardships and poverty with the courage her husband shows in facing his own hard and dangerous lot. She is fond and tender toward her children. Yet necessity dictates that she must bring them up in hardihood. One of the wives of Roosevelt’s teamsters, when her work prevented her giving personal care to her flock picketed them out, each child being tied by the leg with a long leather string to a stake driven in the ground and so placed that it could not get into a scuffle with the next child nor get its hand on breakable things.

Independent and resourceful as the frontiersman became in contact with the desolate prairie, his wife was no less similarly developed. Roosevelt met one of these women living alone in her cabin on the plains, having dismissed her erring husband some six months previously. Her living she earned by making hunting shirts, leggins and gauntlets for neighboring cow-punchers and Indians, and every man who approached her cabin door was made to walk the straightest kind of line.

The West had its lewd women—as have our big cities today—but Roosevelt testified that the sense of honor and dignity of the average plainswoman was as high as that found in the centers of culture. In the cowboy balls, to which men and women flocked from the surrounding towns, the greatest decorum was observed, and those behaving unseemingly were banished and punished with typical cowboy celerity and vim.

In his later years Roosevelt wrote a vigorous paper on the parasite woman, appealing therein to American women to rear strong families for their country, and to train them to be prepared for military service if needed. A Michigan woman of the same brave pioneer stamp described above formed the conclusion that Roosevelt was writing without knowledge of the hardships many of her sex were forced to undergo, and wrote to him this letter:

“Dear Sir: When you were talking of ‘race suicide’ I was rearing a large family on almost no income. I often thought of writing to you of some of my hardships, and now when ‘preparedness’ may take some of my boys, I feel I must. I have eleven of my own and brought up three stepchildren, and yet, in the thirty years of my married life I have never had a new cloak or winter hat. I have sent seven children to school at one time. I had a family of ten for eighteen years, with no money to hire a washerwoman though bearing a child every two years. Nine—several through or nearly—of my children have got into high school and two into State Normal School, and one into the University of Michigan. I haven’t eaten a paid-meal in twenty years or paid for a night’s lodging in thirty. Not one of the five boys—the youngest is fifteen—uses tobacco or liquor. I have worn men’s discarded shoes much of the time. I have had little time for reading.

“I think I have served my country. My husband has been an invalid for six years—leaving me the care and much work on our little sandy farm. I have bothered you enough. To me race suicide has perhaps a different meaning when I think my boys may have to face the cannon.

Respectfully.

“MRS. ——”

Roosevelt’s reply to her was warmly sympathetic, but there was no withdrawing from the principles he had set forth. The following paragraphs from his reply illustrate that tender yet just attitude that Roosevelt took toward American women, including, of course, the women of his own household:

“Now, my dear Mrs. ——, you have described a career of service which makes me feel more like taking off my hat to you, and saluting you as a citizen deserving of the highest honor, than I would feel as regards any colonel of a crack regiment. But you seem to think, if I understand your letter aright, that ‘preparedness’ is in some way designed to make your boys food for cannon.

“Now, as a matter of fact, the surest way to prevent your boys from being food for cannon is to have them, and all the other young men of the country—my boys, for instance, and the boys of all other fathers and mothers throughout the country—so trained, so prepared, that it will not be safe for any foreign foe to attack us. Preparedness no more invites war than fire insurance invites a fire. I shall come back to this matter again in a moment. But I will speak to you first a word as to what you say about race suicide.

“I have never preached the imposition of an excessive maternity on any woman. I have always said that every man worth calling such will feel a peculiar sense of chivalric tenderness toward his wife, the mother of his children. He must be unselfish and considerate with her. But, exactly as he must do his duty, so she must do her duty. I have said that it is self-evident that unless the average woman, capable of having children, has four, the race will not go forward; for this is necessary in order to offset the women who for proper reasons do not marry, or who, from no fault of their own, have no children, or only one or two, or whose children die before they grow up. I do not want to see Americans forced to import our babies from abroad. I do not want to see the stock of people like yourself and like my family die out—and you do not either; and it will inevitably die out if the average man and the average woman are so selfish and so cold that they wish either no children, or just one or two children.

“We have had six children in this family. We wish we had more. Now the grandchildren are coming along; and I am sure you agree with me that no other success in life—not being President, or being wealthy, or going to college, or anything else—comes up to the success of the man and woman who can feel that they have done their duty and that their children and grandchildren rise up to call them blessed.

“Mrs. Roosevelt and I have four sons, and they are as dear to us as your sons are to you. If we now had war, these four boys would all go. We think it entirely right that they should go if their country needs them. But I do not think it fair that they should be sent to defend the boys who are too soft or too timid ‘to face the cannon,’ or the other boys who wish to stay at home to make money while somebody else protects them.”

THE BRINGER OF CULTURE

In the lore of the Middle West brilliantly stands out the figure of Johnny Appleseed, who traveled westward distributing apple-seeds to the farmers and ranchers, from whence sprang up the great apple orchards that have blessed these regions.

It was service of a similar kind that Roosevelt performed when he went among these primitive people of the wilderness. Schools were scarce in those days and opportunity for culture was almost entirely lacking. But here had come among them a man who had graduated from one of the great Eastern colleges, and who had brought with him a choice library of books that contained characters and philosophy entirely comprehensible by these untutored minds when interpreted by such an enthusiastic and sympathetic expounder as young Roosevelt.

On the long winter evenings Roosevelt’s fireside became the rendezvous for the ranchers and their wives. Roosevelt would select a classic story and begin reading. The tale would be a familiar one to him, and yet the genius of the author would again cast its spell over him, and he would read with interest and expression that were magnetic. Swiftly the night passed, and when in the late hours his hearers went to their rest they lay awake remembering the poetry of “that chap Browning” or the Rosalind or Lear of “Mr. Shakespeare,” conning them over in their minds until they became part of their beings, to be transmitted later to the minds and lips of their children, and thus to become a part of the civilization of their section.

To the women, with their starved existence—so far as education was concerned—Roosevelt proved a benefactor indeed; but no less did he administer to the mental craving of his men comrades.

Monotonous and threadbare grew the conversation at a cow-camp. Seldom did the talk vary from such topics as these, described by him:

“A bunch of steers had been seen traveling over the buttes to the head of Elk Creek. A stray horse, with a blurred brand on the left hip, had just joined the saddle ponies. The red F. V. cow had been bitten by a wolf. The old mule, Sawback, was getting over the effects of the rattlesnake bite. The river was going down, but the fords were still bad, and the quicksand at the Caster Trail crossing had worked along so that wagons had to be taken over opposite the blasted cottonwood. Bronco Jim had tried to ride the big, bald-faced sorrel belonging to the Oregon horse outfit and had been bucked off and his face smashed in. It was agreed that Jim ‘wasn’t the sure-enough bronco-buster he thought himself,’ and he was compared very unfavorably to various heroes of the quirt and spurs who lived in Texas and Colorado.”

These topics having been exhausted, the rumor was discussed that the vigilantes had given notice to quit to two men who had just built a shack at the head of the Little Dry River, and whose horses included a suspiciously large number of different brands, most of them blurred. Then the talk became more personal. Roosevelt would be asked to write or post letters for the cow-punchers. Then his companions, growing friendly, would make him the confident of their love affairs, and make him listen for an hour to the charms of their sweethearts.

Here Roosevelt’s books stood both him and his companions in good stead. No matter what adverse conditions surrounded the young ranch-owner, favorite volumes were at hand, and out they came at the first opportunity.

On one occasion, while hunting on Beaver Creek for a lost horse, he met a cowboy and made friends with him. Caught in a heavy snowstorm, they lost themselves, and after eight or nine horns of drifting, finally came across an empty hut near Sentinel Butte. Making their horses comfortable in a sheltered nook with hay found in an old stack, the two cold and tired men sat down to spend the long winter evening together. Out of Roosevelt’s pocket came a small edition of Hamlet. His cowboy companion was greatly interested in the reading, and Roosevelt tells us that he commented very shrewdly on the parts he liked, especially Polonius’s advice to Laertes. His final comment was extremely gratifying to the man who had introduced to him the treasures of the world’s greatest dramatist, and would doubtless have given great pleasure to the immortal bard himself:

“Old Shakespeare saveyed human natur’ some!”

On another evening the men at the Roosevelt ranch began to discuss the English soldiers. Thereupon Roosevelt got down “Napier” and read them extracts from his descriptions of the fighting in the Spanish peninsula. He also told them about the fine appearance and splendid horses of the cavalry and hussars he had seen.

Thus when the East called Roosevelt home there was left behind in the minds of the sons and daughters of the great West not only the recollection of a tried and true comrade, but also the seeds of a culture whose fruitage is still springing forth from the lives he touched.

From a business standpoint Roosevelt’s ranching venture was a failure. The country was poorly adapted to cattle-raising. His reviving interest in politics and his engagement to Edith Carow came to draw him back to the fields where happiness and success waited. Sewall and Dow returned East with him.

The duty of a biographer is to record and not to speculate, yet as we look at Roosevelt’s later life in his unpretentious home at Sagamore Hill; when we think of the democratic sewing circle at Oyster Bay to which Mrs. Roosevelt goes regularly to sew garments for crippled children, and when we see the democratic simplicity with which Roosevelt mingled with his neighbors and shared their experiences and confidences; when we read of him or Captain Archie playing Santa Claus to the village children, we are led to pronounce this judgment, which we feel Roosevelt, if he were living, would heartily second—that while he gave to the men and women of the West the best that was in him, he also received from their kind hearts and frank and open natures a deepening and ripening of his sense of brotherhood that was equivalent in value to the finest gifts he gave these frontier folks.

V
Keeping Fit

It is a matter of conjecture how far the attitude of the doughboy is due to the training he got in the army, but the fact remains that boxing and wrestling have been recognized and practised by our army officers as valuable adjuncts to military training. Uncle Sam encouraged the science of fisticuffs on shipboard and in the training camps, under a committee headed by no other than the famous ex-champion, James J. Corbett, because the positions and motions used in boxing are almost the same as those used in bayonet practice. The development of gameness in the recruit is another important benefit derived from the sport.

One of the anecdotes that came out of the trenches has for its hero a short but stocky Yank who, in an encounter with a huge Prussian, dropped his rifle and went for his foe with his fists. He knocked the fight out of the surprised German and brought him in a prisoner. An officer who had watched his exploit thought it proper to caution him as to the danger that lay in this departure from the rules of attack.

“Danger!” spoke up the Yank, “there isn’t a Fritz alive that I can’t lick with just my fists!”

Theodore Roosevelt, had he realized his desire to serve with the colors during the world conflict, would undoubtedly have been an enthusiastic spectator at such of the army’s ring battles as were within reach of him. Indeed, had he been still occupant of the White House it would not have been surprising to have heard of his inviting champions from the various cantonments to test their skill under the White House roof. Mr. Roosevelt was first drawn to two naval chaplains, Fathers Chidwick and Rainey, through his discovery that each of them had bought sets of boxing gloves and encouraged their crews in boxing. While he was President fencing or boxing were Mr. Roosevelt’s favorite indoor exercises. He was also intensely interested in jiu-jitsu, the “muscleless art.” To perfect himself in this exercise he employed one of the best of the Japanese instructors, and took a course of twenty lessons.

After learning the various grips, the President would practise them upon his teacher. He soon mastered the science, and his enthusiasm over it led him to introduce jiu-jitsu instruction at Annapolis and West Point.

When Mr. Roosevelt entered upon his public career heavy burdens were laid upon him, and to keep in condition to meet the hard physical and mental strain he again turned to boxing and wrestling for exercise. When Governor of New York the champion middleweight wrestler of America came several evenings a week to wrestle with him. The news of the purchase of a wrestling mat for the Governor’s mansion at Albany created consternation on the part of the Controller, but was greeted with great enthusiasm by the red-blooded men to whom the Governor had become an idol. Many of these would have paid a great price to have been able to stand at the edge of the mat and cheer their champion in his strenuous amusement. To the middleweight champion the job was a hard one. Not because he experienced any difficulty in downing the Governor, but because he was so awed by the Governor’s position and responsibilities that he was always in dire anxiety lest the Governor should break an arm or crack a rib. This gingerly attitude of his opponent exasperated Roosevelt. He didn’t feel that it was fair for him to be straining like a tiger to get a half-Nelson hold on the champion while the latter seemed to feel that he must play the nurse to him. After repeated urgings he managed to get the champion to throw him about in real earnest—then he was satisfied.

Colonel Roosevelt relates in his reminiscences that, while he was in the Legislature, he had as a sparring partner a second-rate prizefighter who used to come to his rooms every morning and put on the gloves for a half hour. One morning he failed to arrive, but a few days later there came a letter from him. It developed that he was then in jail; that boxing had been simply an avocation with him, and that his principal business was that of a burglar.

Roosevelt was fond of boxing with “Mike” Donovan, trainer at the New York Athletic Club, as well as with William Muldoon, the wrestler and trainer. His opponents testify that the Colonel was handicapped by his poor sight. He wanted to see his adversary’s eyes—to catch the gleam that comes before a blow. Roosevelt always maneuvered to see his opponent’s face, and he liked to “mix in” when boxing.

Hard and heavy was the Colonel’s method, and his opponents forced the colonel to adapt his plan of fighting to theirs. It did not matter to Roosevelt. It was the striving, not the result, that interested him.

An illustration of Roosevelt’s fondness for the Japanese art of wrestling is found in this extract from the diary of John Hay, Secretary of State:

“April 26—At the Cabinet meeting this morning the President talked of his Japanese wrestler, who is giving him lessons in jiu-jitsu. He says the muscles of his throat are so powerfully developed by training that it is impossible for any ordinary man to strangle him. If the President succeeds once in a while in getting the better of him he says, ‘Good! Lovely!’”

Lieutenant Fortescue, a distant relative of the Roosevelt family, sometimes put on the gloves with the Colonel. One day, feeling in fighting trim, Fortescue asked the Colonel to box with him. Finally the Colonel agreed to go four rounds. According to Joseph Grant, detective sergeant of the Washington Police Department, detailed to the White House to “guard” the President, it was the fastest bout he ever saw.

“The Colonel began to knock Lieutenant Fortescue right and left in the second round,” said the detective. “His right and left got to the army officer’s jaw time after time, and the bout was stopped in the third round to prevent the army man from getting knocked out. Then the Colonel turned to me and said: ‘I think I can do the same to you. Put on the gloves!’

“I drew them on reluctantly, and I put up the fight of my life. The best I could do was to prevent a decision and get a draw.”

It was a sporting rule of the Colonel’s not only to give as good a blow as he could, but also to take without squirming the hardest blow his opponent could deliver. The wrestler who hesitated to stand him on his head because he was Governor of New York exasperated him; nor would he have permitted a man to spar with him who held back his blows.

Nothing illustrates this rule better than an episode which the Colonel himself made public. In October, 1917, in the course of an interview with newspaper men, he told this story in explanation of his relinquishing the gloves:

“When I was President I used to box with one of my aids, a young captain in the artillery. One day he cross-countered me and broke a blood vessel in my left eye. I don’t know whether this is known, but I never have been able to see out of that eye since. I thought, as only one good eye was left me, I would not box any longer.”

This story was too promising for the newspaper men to let drop without endeavoring to have it amplified by the soldier who delivered the blow.

A few days later, in “The New York Times,” appeared this interview with Colonel Dan T. Moore, of the 310th Field Artillery Regiment, 79th Division, National Army:

“Colonel Dan T. Moore, of the 310th Field Artillery Regiment, 79th Division, National Army, admits he struck the blow that destroyed the sight of Colonel Roosevelt’s eye.

“‘I am sorry I struck the blow. I’m sorry the Colonel told about it, and I’m sorry my identity has been so quickly uncovered. I give you my word I never knew I had blinded the Colonel in one eye until I read his statement in the paper. I instantly knew, however, that I was the man referred to, because there was no other answering the description he gave who could have done it. I shall write the Colonel a letter in a few days, expressing my regrets at the serious results of the blow.

“‘I was a military aid at the White House in 1905. The boxers in the White House gym were the President, Kermit Roosevelt and myself. The President went further afield for his opponents in other sports, but when he wanted to don the boxing gloves he chose Kermit or myself.’

“‘Tell about the blow that blinded the President.’

“‘I might as well try to tell about the shell that killed any particular soldier in this war. When you put on gloves with President Roosevelt it was a case of fight all the way, and no man in the ring with him had a chance to keep track of particular blows. A good fast referee might have known, but nobody else. The Colonel wanted plenty of action, and he usually got it. He had no use for a quitter or one who gave ground, and nobody but a man willing to fight all the time and all the way had a chance with him. That’s my only excuse for the fact that I seriously injured him. There was no chance to be careful of the blows. He simply wouldn’t have stood for it.’”

Roosevelt to his last days remained keenly interested in ring champions. He numbered among his prizefighting friends John L. Sullivan, Bob Fitzsimmons, Battling Nelson and many another man whose fame was won by strength and skill in the ring. Among his treasures is the pen-holder Bob Fitzsimmons made for him out of a horse-shoe, and the gold-mounted rabbit’s foot which John L. Sullivan gave to him for a talisman when he went on his African trip.

He championed the cause of prizefighters on many occasions, though never hesitating to denounce the crookedness that has attended the commercializing of the ring. He held that powerful, vigorous men of strong animal development must have some way in which their spirits can find vent. His acts while Police Commissioner of New York show clearly how he distinguished between the art of boxing itself and the men who are trying to make money out of it. On one hand, he promoted the establishment of boxing clubs in bad neighborhoods in order to draw the attention of street gangs from knifing and gun-fighting. On the other hand, finding that the prize ring had become hopelessly debased and run for the benefit of low hangers-on, who permitted brutality in order to make money out of it, he aided, as Governor, in the passage of a bill putting a stop to professional boxing for money.

VI
Roosevelt’s “Cops”

The New York Police Department needed a cleaning up. The force at that time was under a heavy cloud. There had been a Mayorality election. Tammany had made a hard fight but the Republican candidate, Strong, had been elected. The vote meant that the citizens thought the time had come for a New York police reform. Mayor Strong asked Roosevelt, then serving on the national Civil Service Commission, to be Police Commissioner.

Roosevelt’s friends thought that he was too big a man to take such a position. He saw a work that needed to be done.

Proctor, a friend and fellow worker, tried to persuade him not to undertake the job. Roosevelt had given the matter earnest thought. He believed himself capable of bringing about the necessary reforms. He knew that such a work would be of great benefit to his fellow citizens.

“Proctor,” he said, “it is my duty. I am going.”

“Go then!” said Proctor. “You must always have your own way. Yet I believe you are right. Clean up the city thoroughly!”

Roosevelt faced a bigger job than he knew. The metropolitan police system was in the hands of corrupt politicians. The Tammany ring exercised a tyranny over the policemen. Incompetency, immorality and dishonesty honeycombed the department. Many of the policemen, instead of being a protection to the people, were a menace.

Promotions went by favor and money. The man who wanted to become a policeman could get the job for from $200 to $300. A police lieutenant could buy his appointment for from $10,000 up. The men who secured positions in this way paid the money with the expectation of getting it back through graft. They had free rope so long as they delivered to the political leaders half of their spoils.

If a saloonkeeper wanted to obey the law and tried to get along without paying tribute to the policemen of his district, he found that a rival saloonkeeper was being accorded extraordinary privileges in order that he himself might be either ruined or forced to “come across.” Gambling dens, saloons and disorderly houses were free from punishment so long as they paid toll. Vice flaunted itself in the face of the law-abiding element of the city.

The very coming of Roosevelt to Mulberry Street was a challenge to the disorderly and corrupt elements of the metropolis. His friends warned him that other commissioners, with good intentions, had tried to do what he was about to attempt, but had found the police force so full of jealousy, favoritism and blackmail that little progress could be made.

“Tom” Byrnes, a detective of national fame, was the head of the New York police at that time. Roosevelt decided that reform should begin at the top. He dismissed Byrnes. The latter hurled at him this challenge:

“The system will break your opposition. You will give in, for you are only human, after all.”

Roosevelt kept on. No one was allowed anything to say concerning his appointments and promotions. Those who were physically and morally weak he banished from the service. Those who showed merit and faithfulness he promoted.

He started in at once to acquire an intimate knowledge of the men who worked under him. He accomplished this by making personal tours at night through the various police districts. Francis E. Leupp, whose previously-mentioned book, “The Man Roosevelt,” will always be a fruitful source to Roosevelt’s biographers, gives this description of such an expedition:

HAROUN-AL-RASCHID

“The friend (Leupp) found the Commissioner at the appointed place and hour, armed only with a little stick and a written list of the patrolmen’s posts in the district which was to be visited. They walked over each beat separately. In the first three beats they found only one man on post. One of the others had gone to assist the man on the third, but there was no trace of the third man’s whereabouts. They came upon a patrolman seated on a box with a woman.

“‘Patrolman,’ asked the Commissioner, ‘are you doing your duty on post 27?’

“The fellow jumped up in a hurry. This pedestrian, though unknown to him, was obviously familiar with police matters; so he stammered out, with every attempt to be obsequious: ‘Yes, sir; I am, sir.’

“‘Is it all right for you to sit down?’ inquired the mysterious stranger.

“‘Yes, sir—no, sir—well, sir, I wasn’t sitting down. I was just waiting for my partner, the patrolman on the next beat. Really, I wasn’t sitting down.’

“‘Very well,’ said the stranger, cutting him short and starting on.

“The officer ran along, explaining again with much volubility that he had not been sitting down—he had just been leaning a little against something while he waited.

“‘That will do; you are following me off post. Go back to your beat now and present yourself before me at headquarters at half-past nine in the morning. I am Commissioner Roosevelt.’

“Another three blocks and the strollers came upon a patrolman chatting with a man and a woman. They passed the group, went a little way, and returned; the woman was gone, but the patrolman and the man were still there, and deep in conversation. The talk was interrupted to enable the officer to answer the Commissioner’s questions. The man seized the opportunity to slip off.