As the children grew up, Sagamore Hill remained delightful for them.  There were picnics and riding parties, there were dances in the north room—­sometimes fancy dress dances—­and open-air plays on the green tennis court of one of the cousin’s houses.  The children are no longer children now.  Most of them are men and women, working out their own fates in the big world; some in our own land, others across the great oceans or where the Southern Cross blazes in the tropic nights.  Some of them have children of their own; some are working at one thing, some at another; in cable ships, in business offices, in factories, in newspaper offices, building steel bridges, bossing gravel trains and steam shovels, or laying tracks and superintending freight traffic.  They have had their share of accidents and escapes; as I write, word comes from a far-off land that one of them, whom Seth Bullock used to call “Kim” because he was the friend of all mankind, while bossing a dangerous but necessary steel structural job has had two ribs and two back teeth broken, and is back at work.  They have known and they will know joy and sorrow, triumph and temporary defeat.  But I believe they are all the better off because of their happy and healthy childhood.

It is impossible to win the great prizes of life without running risks, and the greatest of all prizes are those connected with the home.  No father and mother can hope to escape sorrow and anxiety, and there are dreadful moments when death comes very near those we love, even if for the time being it passes by.  But life is a great adventure, and the worst of all fears is the fear of living.  There are many forms of success, many forms of triumph.  But there is no other success that in any shape or way approaches that which is open to most of the many, many men and women who have the right ideals.  These are the men and the women who see that it is the intimate and homely things that count most.  They are the men and women who have the courage to strive for the happiness which comes only with labor and effort and self-sacrifice, and only to those whose joy in life springs in part from power of work and sense of duty.

CHAPTER X

THE PRESIDENCY; MAKING AN OLD PARTY PROGRESSIVE

On September 6, 1901, President McKinley was shot by an Anarchist in the city of Buffalo.  I went to Buffalo at once.  The President’s condition seemed to be improving, and after a day or two we were told that he was practically out of danger.  I then joined my family, who were in the Adirondacks, near the foot of Mount Tahawus.  A day or two afterwards we took a long tramp through the forest, and in the afternoon I climbed Mount Tahawus.  After reaching the top I had descended a few hundred feet to a shelf of land where there was a little lake, when I saw a guide coming out of the woods on our trail from below.  I felt at once that he had bad news, and, sure enough,