My Debt To Maine by Theodore Roosevelt - March 20, 1918

My personal First Edition copy; 1919

Update 2-26-2023

  My Debt to Maine by Theodore Roosevelt is one of the sources of information about Theodore Roosevelt's connections in Maine that inspired me to research and now develop what is the Theodore Roosevelt Maine Heritage Trail: Connecting Maine Communities. For those of you not familiar with TR's letter, this post provides it to you. 

    Of course, the fact that TR was a passenger on the Narcissus, on August 18, 1914, was another of the sources that incited my interest to learn more about TR and his connections here in Maine. And now that growing interest is blossoming into the statewide trail of connections. :)

This logo for the trail shows various communities that have

a Roosevelt connection. As research continues to clarify

other communities, each will be added to this logo. More

 info on the trail will be released in the coming days/weeks.

Logo graphic by "Designs by Reece" - Reece Saunders

New in 2022 - First Post for the Theodore Roosevelt Maine Heritage Trail June 16, 2022

    

    My Debt To Maine was a letter written by Theodore Roosevelt and was originally published in 1919 in a book titled, Maine My State, by The Maine Writers Research Club.

    The book above belonged to my father, Warren O. Morse. It was given to him on April 9, 1947 (75 years ago), while he was attending Kennebunk High School. My grandmother, Emily A. (True) Morse, wrote my father's name and the date in the book.

  Within the acknowledgments is written, "Col. Theodore Roosevelt responded to the request for a contribution to this book, by sending the story, and the manuscript, written in pencil by his own hand, is a priceless treasure."

     I have included the pages of his letter from the book. Sometimes, after being uploaded to the blog page, the text is not sharp enough to read, so, you can scroll down to where I have typed the letter out.   

    

My Debt To Maine
by Col. Theodore Roosevelt

     I owe a personal debt to Maine because of my association with certain staunch friends in Aroostook County; an association that helped and benefitted me throughout my life in more ways than one.

    It is over forty years ago that I first went to Island Falls and stayed with the Sewall family. I repeated the visit three or four times. I made a couple hunting trips in the fall, with Bill Sewall and Wilmot Dow; and one winter I spent three or four weeks on snowshoes with them, visiting a couple of lumber camps. I was not a boy of any natural prowess and for that very reason, the vigorous outdoor life was just what I needed.

     It was a matter of pride for me to keep up with my stalwart associates, to shift for myself, and to treat with indifference whatever hardship or fatigue came our way. In their company, I would have been ashamed to complain! And I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was rather tired by some of the all-day tramps, especially in the deep snow, when my webbed racquets gave me "snowshoe feet", or when we wadded up the Munsungin in shallow water, dragging a dugout until my ankles became raw from slipping on the smooth underwater stones; and I still remember with qualified joy the ascent and especially the descent of Katahdin in moccasins, worn because, to the deep disapproval of my companions, I had lost one of my heavy shoes in crossing a river at the riffle.

     I also remember such delicious nights, under a lean-to, by stream or lake, in the clear fall weather, or in winter on balsam boughs in front of a blazing stump, when we had beaten down and shoveled away the deep snow, and kept our foot-gear away from the fire, so that it should not thaw and freeze;-and the meals of venison, trout or partridge; and one meal consisting of muskrat and a fish-duck, which, being exceedingly hungry, we heartily appreciated.

     But the bodily benefit was not the largest part of the good done me. I was accepted as part of the household; and the family and friends represented in their lives the kind of Americanism-self-respecting, duty-performing, life-enjoying-which is the most valuable possession that any generation can hand on to the next. It was as native to our soil as "William Henry's Letters to his Grandmother"-I hope there are still readers of that delightful volume of my youth, even though it was published fifty years ago.

     Mrs. Sewall, the mother, was a dear old lady; and Miss Sewall, the sister, was a most capable manager of the house. Bill Sewall at the time had two brothers. Sam was a deacon. Dave was NOT a deacon. It was from Dave that I heard an expression which after remained in my mind. He was speaking of a local personage of shifty character who was very adroit in using fair-sounding words that completely nullified the meaning of another fair-sounding word that preceded them. "His words weasel the meaning of the words in front of them," said Dave, "just like a weasel when he sucks the meat out of an egg and leaves nothing but the shell;" I always remembered, "weasel words" as applicable to certain forms of oratory, especially political oratory, which I do not admire.

     Once, while driving in a wagon with Dave, up to an exceedingly wet and rocky backwoods road, with the water pouring down the middle, I asked him how in Aroostook County they were able to tell its roads from its rivers. "No beaver dams in the roads," instantly responded Dave.

     At one of the logging camps, I became good friends with a quiet, resolute-looking man, named Brown, one of the choppers; and afterward, I stopped at his house and was as much struck with his good and pretty wife as I had been with him. He had served in the Civil War and had been wounded. His creed was that peace was a great blessing, but that even so great a blessing could be purchased at too dear a price. I did not see him again until thirty-seven years later when he came to a meeting at which I spoke in Portland. He had shaved off his beard and was an old man and I did not at first recognize him; but after the first sentence, I knew him and very glad indeed I was to see him once more.

     In the eighties, I started a little cattle ranch on Little Missouri, in the then territory of Dakota, and I got Bill Sewall and Wilmot Dow to join me. By the time they had both married and brought out Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow. There was already a little girl in the Sewall family, and two babies were born on the ranch. Thanks to Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow, we were most comfortable. The ranch house and all the outbuildings at TR's Elkhorn Ranch were made of cottonwood logs and were put up by Bill and Wilmot who were mighty men with the ax. I got them to put on a veranda; and in one room, where I kept my books and did my writing, we built a big fireplace, and I imported a couple of rocking chairs. (Only one would have made me feel too selfish.) The veranda, the open fireplace, the books, and the rocking chairs represented my special luxuries; I think Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow enjoyed them almost as much as I did.

     We had stoves to keep us warm in the bitter winter weather and bearskin and buffalo robes. Bill and Wilmot and I and usually one or two cowhands worked hard, but it was enjoyable to work and the hunting on which we relied for all our meat was, of course, sheer fun. When the winter weather set in, we usually made a regular hunt to get the winter meat and we hung our game in the cottonwood trees which stretched before our house. I remember once when we had a bull elk and several deer hanging up and another time when we had a couple of antelope and a yearling mountain sheep. The house of hewn logs was clean and comfortable and we were all of us young and strong and happy.

     Wilmot was from every standpoint one of the best men I ever knew. He has been dead for many years. His widow is now Mrs. Pride and her present husband is also one of my valued friends.

     When I was President, the Sewalls and Prides came down to Washington to visit me. We talked over everything, public and private, past and present; the education and future careers of our children; proper attitude of the United States in external and internal matters. We, all of us looked at the really important matters of public policy and private conduct from substantially the same viewpoint. Never were there more welcome guests at the White House. 

- Theodore Roosevelt

     Sagamore Hill, March 20, 1918

A portion of my collection of TR-related books :) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We continue the restoration work on the 1912, Narcissus, the only surviving high-speed, luxury interurban coach of the Portland-Lewiston Interurban. 

Click Here: Narcissus Restoration-Related Posts

Being more than a century old, the stately, "Elegant Ride," Narcissus, is a gem.  This shimmering precious stone of Maine transportation history is brilliantly resplendent as it emanates so many elements of history, including; time, places, people, and events, that it was coupled to, that when just a smattering of its seemingly innumerable stories are shared, the contents captivates, fascinates, then generates, interest to learn more 🙋. The majestic Narcissus is listed in the National Register of Historic Places.

Please consider joining the epic journey to complete the Narcissus Project by making a donation today!

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The restoration of this majestic icon of Maine's electric railway history is but one in a series of captivating stories containing an abundance of incredible coalition of narratives.

Click Here: History-Related Posts - Narcissus and Portland-Lewiston Interurban

     The Narcissus is featured in the national Gold Award-winning novel, Teddy Roosevelt, Millie, and the Elegant Ride. The "Elegant Ride" is the Narcissus. Theodore Roosevelt was a passenger on the Narcissus on August 18, 1914, between Lewiston and Portland, Maine, while campaigning for the Progressive Party candidates.

Click Here: Bookstores and Businesses promoting the Narcissus Project

Independent book publisher, Phil Morse, holding

the Gold Book Award Winner plaque for

 the Middle Reader category for The Eric

Hoffer Book Award. Congratulations to

award-winning Maine author,

Jean M. Flahive