The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 12, 1901, Page 6

ARJORIE McKINLEY MORSE, a six-year-old San Franciscan, has held the honor of being called the Baby of the White House. This is an honor seldom permitted one baby to hold alone. During the Presidency of Harrison his grand- children, the little McKees, divided the honors between them. Ruth Cleve- Jand had things all her own way for a while—but it was a very short while. In popped Baby Esther, and then the honors had to be shared. And so it has nearly always been. Presidents seem to have big families. But during the time that Miss Marjorie Morse was there, enthroned in the heart of “Uncle William,” she was sole ruler. She is his grandniecs, by right of being the daughter of Ida McXinley Morse, who in her turn is the daughter of David McKinley. He was William McKinley’s brother, the oldest son of William McKinley Sr. This makes Marjorie’s great- grandparents identical with the ident’s parents, and that is the whole thing, you know, about being a grandniece. There is a very big and a very warm spot in the hearts of both Pres- ident and Mrs. McKinley for all the :ttle people in America—or in the whole world over, for the mat of that. And when one of thess little people happens to be a girl the spct seems to grow even warmer and big- ger than before. For the two graves that sadden their hearts are the graves of teir wee daughters. Ida was the first one to come into their home and hearts. She came oun Christmas day in the year 1871 and it is said by those who saw her that she seemed more like a Christmas angel, come to earth for only a little while, than like a real child of this earth, dry-as-dust old place that it is. Somehow, those who saw her could never quite believe that she was meant to be kept here, frail thing that she was. Perhaps it was no surprise &} even to her parents when she was >/4 ' taken from them, but the grief of it was something from which the mother never recovered. Not long following this death tha other little daughter passed away. % She was Katie, a more vigorous child, z < and one in whom the hopes of all ¥’/ . those who loved her centered. She geg&m had almost reached four proud years. %asoey’ She was growing stronger and mer- y mak- Tr Ere ‘a \/ 2 Nt Laving her little friends who came to , see her and whose calls she returned ¥ with the delight in sociability that came to her a direct heritage from both parents. She was full of all ively childish interests—in her dolls, in her games, in her pets. Life was brightening already for her saddened ! parents when suddenly came theblow .« of her death. y From these griefs Mrs. McKinley has never recovered. The shock of the seccmnd child’s death enfeebled her so that all of her family’s care now cen- tered in her suffering. The major took her away from the home whers all this trouble had come upon her and to the cheery old homestead where she had lived as a girl. But tshe has never been able to heal the « ’J \} great grief of her losses. e All thisshows why Marjorie Morse, that flower-like little lady, has so firm a place in those two bereaved P hearts. Perhaps as “Aunt Ida” cud- dles her close sometimes she fancies for the moment that it is cne of those little wanderers that she loved come back again. Perhaps “Uncle William” can pick her up and place her in stat= upon his knee and remember with the ‘w‘ of sadness that is partly sweet bhow he used to enthrone there an- other small queen of hearts. There is room in the McKinleys’ affections for as many children as the world can hold, but it is no more than natural that Marjorie should be ranked among the first. For she is YA,/ really a niece, and besides—well, she 7 * is Marjorie. 7Y She was three years old when she /*\ last visited atthe White House. Thers JaA 3 was nebody else but grown people in 4 ‘.‘ the whole great place, and she held full sway from end to end. Her moods and caprices, as many as there are breezes in May, were authority. Every morning when Mrs. McKin- ley took herdrive Marjorie went along end chettered to Aunt Ida as fast and as merrily as the sparrows on £ ) 2 jolly day. Every afternoon, just after lunch, when Uncle William took ® half-hour for recreation, she would climb to his knee and tell him tha most wonderful stories that ever were told about bears in the woods and giants in the castles. The last time that a family party visited the White House Marjorie was left behind. Because of a misunder- standing the President and his wife expected her, and when, after a long delay, the party arrived, the two wera still up, contrary to their rule of early to bed. “Where’s Marjorie?” they clam- ored on the instant. When it was explained that she was not of the party their disappoint- ment almost overruled their polite- ness. Of course they were glad to ses the other people—but they had stayed up two long hours for Marjorie. HEN I came upon Marjorie she was sojourning in Los Gatos. This was for the sake of her health. She informed mejthat she was trying her best tb re- bzain strength after a slight indisposition, 1, ’ b 7 3¢ A A THE SUNDAY CALL. —r (Narforic {Morse, Favorite Niece of the President. for Uncle Willlam is soon. to be here and she must be able to “hug him hard.” Whether she is using dumbbells and chest welghts to put her hugging muscles in good form I don’'t know, but I am per- fectly sure that the harder she hugs the better Uncle William will be pleased. “I am going to Monterey to meet him,” she said. . “And will you know him when you see him?” - “’Course.”™ “And will he know you?” “I guess he willl” in reproachful indig- nation. “And how about Aunt Ida?” “Oh, I just want to see her. I guess I do. I love Aunt Ida. If it hadn’t been for driving with her and playing with her T'd have been so lonesome in the Whits House! I wouldn’t have had anything to do but sit around and lick my paws. *Cept just a little while every day when Uncle William talked to me and ’cept when Junior Hobart took me out driving. Junior Hobart was the Vice President's son.” A President is to Marjorle a very mat- ter-of-fact although a much-beloved per- son—he is merely an uncle. But a Vice President—she recalls the drives with Junior Hobart with considerable of a flut- ter. When she flutters she does it all over, from the fluff of tawny-gold curls beneath a huge beruffied hat, all the way down to the knee-length of the airy-fairy white gown in which she flits about a Los Gatos veranda. Marjorie McKinley Morse, the six-year- old, is probably as well acquainted with President Willlam McKinley as is any- body in San Francisco. As his own grand- niece she has had the privilege of visiting in the White House for months at a time and of seeing the busy man off duty. She climbed Into the buggy beside me to tell me about it. The horse was a stranger and it was swwkward to converse with him, not Knowing his name. “Let's give him a name—what?” aid 1. “I like him so we'll name him McKin- ley,” said she proudly. And in the scattering drops of an April shower he was christened. Then she seized the whip, seized the reins, seized everything in sight, hearts included, and with & ringing laugh and a ringing “Get up,” she drove the horse, poor old jog-trot of a beast that he was, till he raced madly down the street where he had never before gone-at more than a mild trot. “Get up!” she shouted, leaning forward where she stood to whip him. She drove with the fury of a Roman charioteer, and the horse, with the wool thoroughly pulled over his old eyes by this time, shouted back a Jolly “Neigh” to her, and pranced delightedly. He could no more Tesist the command of his scarlet- cloaked, rollicking charioteer than can anybody else. Probably he is not the first McKinley, to surrender to her. “See him go!” she cried. “And if he dumps us out and leaves us by the roadside?” She only laughed some more. There isn’t anything in the wide world that she is afraid of. Even electigns can’t upset her nerves, while all other nerves in sight are on the dizzy edge. It was with the cheerfulness of perfect confidence that s.e canvassed votes last fall. “Of course, you are going to Vote for McKinley,” she would say to every man, woman or child who entered her door, without regard to the part that age and sex play in the matter, and she said it with the easy sureness that is hardest to deny. Marjorie’s time spent in Washington was very much with grown people, so Junior Hobart appears to have made a deep impression upon her as being the only child of her Washington circle. “Junior had two Shetland ponies,” she told me, “and a little cart.” A “And he came and Invited me to Eo driving with him nearly every day, I think, and I did. Hurry up, McKinley!” “Was Junior Hobart a little boy?” *“No, he was a big boy—about 10 years old, I think. He was big enough to drive, but they always sent a man along with him to look out for the ponies. My, they = went fast! They went faster than Mc- Kinley. Get up, McKinley!” Junior Hobart was the Beau Brummel of the younger set in Washington when he was at the Shtetland pony stage, and it is sald that he and Marjorie, then three years old, were the social sensation in that same set when they drove abroad. Junior, with his coachman beside him, would drive to the White House, go in for Marjorie and assist her into the ve- hicle like a Chesterfield. He, the glass of fashion and the mold of form always, felt + A RN 5 TR nimselr stix more so when ne had the young lady of the White House beside him, and such a young lady. Her rib- bons and laces, her moods and her whims, were all alike bewildering and bewitching and Junior counted himself a lucky dog. “And you should have seen the flowers he used to send her,” Minnle said. Minnie has tied ribbons and dressed hair for Mar- jorie these five years. “Weren't they pretty flowers, Marjorie?” “U-m-m-m, weren't they!” Marjorie and her maid went into an ec- stasy of reminiscence over the flowers. Junior was bidding for solidity when he sent them, for the young lady is fonder of them than of anything else, not ex- cepting a French doll that says “Com- ment-vous portez-vous” and a. gramo- phone that plays ‘“Where is My Wander- ing Boy To-night?” ‘When she tells stories of her Washing- “where they came from, {1 think,” she said, pointing out a small * minutes by the revelation of how some ton life, first and foremost she reckons the egg rolling. It was the event of her career and she will never forget It em- tirely, no matter how far back it may grow to be. “The children roll eggs on the grass and they exchange with each other,” she re- lates. On the Easter morning when she was present at the egg rolling she saw it from the inside of the White House. All other ‘Washington children had to content them- selves with the outside point of view. Ac- cording to her ideas, they had the best of the bargain, and she vociferously de- manded leave to join them. Her Uncle Willam had carried her to the window to watch the sport. There below them were dozens and scores and hundreds of little folks frolicking and run- ning and scrambling In pursuit of the cggs, rolling and tumbling over each other, romping and pushing, and all in & tumult of laughter and good temper. Marjorie’s curiosity was keen. She ask- ed twenty-five questions to the minute— all about who the children were, and and why they came, and where they got thelr eggs, and what all those policemen were doing on the lawn. She learned that they were all the chil- dren in the city who were able to walk or drive to the grounds—poor children and rich, those who had maids like Minnie tp look after them and take good care of them, and those who had nobody to look after them, but had to play nurse them- selves to smaller brothers and sisters. “That's one of the poor little children, pickaninny whe was rolling herself and her calico-dyed eggs vigorously on the grass. And “that's a poor one” and “that’s a rich one,” and “see the poor lit- tle Jame girl,” and so on until she had in- spected and passed upon every ome in sight. “Closer, take me closer to the window,” she begged. They tried to hold her back to talk. They told her old-time stores of the egg- rolling and of the days when it took place A on the capitol grounds. They pointed out \3 the worldly wise youngsters who were gambling, and explained how they were (3 “pecking eggs” and winning on tWe hard {\ & ones. Her attention was held for a few v ) A= very dishonest boys used china eggs or ¥} shells filled with plaster of paris and pre- > tended that they were like other eggs, and K\ = so won more than they were entitled to. But all the time she was wriggling to go, Q;afi-‘ i and finally the President gave in, tossed 3%, s her to his shoulder and stepped out on the ;‘ : ~ veranda. A On the instant there was a shout. came from hundreds and thousands of \ small throats below on the terrace. The President and the baby of the White House had appeared and a welcome to them went up from every youngster in sight. - Marjorie nodded and smiled and waved her hand. ,[But that was not enough They wanted her, they called for her, they clamored for her, and she wanted to go. In the end it came out as it usually has to when Marjorie wants something. She had her way. Down she went, such a mite of a dainty thing as she was, into the midst of the democracy. The populace on the terrace set up another shout as she approached. For a moment they waited as if for her to join them. Then their eagerness broke loose and with one tremendous lunge they mobbed her. It took two policemen to rescue her, breathless and disheveled, from the crush of their loyalty, and even then she didn't want to come. It was with a tear that tried to wink itself out of sight that she returned to safety inside the house. “P'raps I'll be big enough next time to stay,” is how she consoles herself. S e R R Marjorie’s attendance at a Cabinet meeting is part of White House history. It happened before the war, when all America was waiting for the decision and when the powers that be were con- ferring days and tossing nights with the weight of thousands of lives and their offering-up hanging upon tneir decision. The Cabinet met one fateful morning in the dreaded chamber. Marjorie had been taught what this room was—It was t.e room where Uncle William went when he had important business to at- tend to, and no little girl could ever think of such a thing as crossing its threshold, even for the joy of seeing Uncie Willlam. When he was In there he didn’t have time to talk to little girls, as .he had in his idle half-hour after breakfast. There is a lkelihood that this was the very reason why the little girl wanted to go. It was the same way with the family of children whose mother told them not to swallow any ink while she was away. It had never occurred to them before, but they were delighted when she put the idea into their heads. So on a very important morning, during a very Iimportant meeting, Marjorie slipped away somehow, nobody can ever guess how, and made for the forbidden and forbidding door. The President's head was bowed In thought. The secretaries were about him, likewise deep in thought. Should it be w;rfl or:‘hould it not? en of a sudden *the and'a dessling stream of semignt on upon the gloom of the room. And in the light stood a radiant littls presence, as Wwhite as earthlr things seldom are, and the halo that she had was a wealth of shining hair, She stood there very still. She had meant to scamper to Uncle Willlam, but everybody looked so solemn that she was afraid to. It was the President who spoke first, ‘‘Here comes a ray of sunshine to us,” he said. The sudden presence and the words came like an inspiration to the troubled men. Somebody picked her up and set her down in the midst of the meeting. “She may be an omen of good,” they ail agreed, and the superstition of the thing clung to them all through the anxious times that followed. It was Uncle Willlam himself who car- ried her back to the seeker:.mm utside the chamber. “She has done us 'l good by her presence,” he said as he restored her. SARAH COMSTOCK. It