The Department of the Bees is Ohn Kemp, and it was tomatoes and apple grapes. No. T sensitivityitive and I was totally left behind. For me and Bede a Solidarity has upsidedown, The neighborhood's globalization and all parents. the house, John Adams of Massachusetts made a prayer upon his entrance at the portals, and he wrote it out that night in a letter to his wife. He wrote, I pray heaven to restore the best of blessings on this house and on all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof. It has never been called a palace or a residency, its dwelling place. It's in a house like other houses, full of life and death, joy and sorrow. A house like other houses. Number 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Northwest Washington, D.C. The architect of the house, Captain James Vauban, was an Irishman. He drew to a degree upon his memories of a stately home built by the dukes of Leinster, near Donson, the classic lands we have retained down through the years. But it was to a raw, undue, unfinished swamp on the concetrous giant of the dwelling that John Adams repaired toward the close of his term in 1800. His wife Abigail joined him in late November, and the end of November in Washington can be... Cool, oh so cold John. It's so damp, so terribly damp. What wood we had I ordered burned in the fireplace to dry out the plaster before you came. The dampness comes from this confounded porous Virginia freestone in the walls. And John, do you know there's no place, no place at all to dry clothes? Well surely we must wash clothes. You just had to make do somehow, Abby. Oh, I'll manage. I've already decided to use the great audience chamber to hang our wash in. Good, good. It's not these small inconveniences that worry me. What is it then? It's you John. Hmm? Never have I seen you so disconsolate, so, so well-begone. And it's not the aid from the walls that makes you so. No, it's not. I suffer from the dampness of the soul. Oh, John, what a strange remark. Oh, I don't think I've ever known you to be sorry for yourself before. Not out loud. I'm not sorry for myself. Would I never ask for this thankless task? Abby, listen to me. Not only have I not been able to get word to these fireplaces from the commissioners, but from that stubborn herd of mule-cow convus I can have nothing. Nothing, John. I've been blocked at every turn. John. Yes, Abby. We have one fire at least. Now stop pacing up and down and sit quietly here while we can be warned. At least turn one side. All right, all right. There. Now listen to me. Do you remember when we were living in Brattle Street in Boston, when we were young, before the war? I do indeed. But do you remember one special night when your friend Samuel Sewell came to call? Hmm. He came in Tory power and glory to offer you a bribe, to win you over to the side of the King's party against your patriot friends. And I refused. Not before you talked with me. We sat late at night at our bedroom window and we heard the watchman's call in the street below. And Samuel Sewell, and all is well. Yes. I can almost hear it now. And Samuel Sewell, and all is well. I listened and I said all is not well. The storm is brewing in Boston town. A blow to put the stars out. The storm will try your strength, John, I said. But it will clear the air. After the storm there'll be brighter stars ahead. I was right, John, then. And now that storm of revolution has tossed us up here at last to this strange, cold house. And there are new storms ahead. There are always storms. Always? But they pass. They do pass. Look, John. Hmm? Look through the window. What do you see? I see the night. Look again, John. It's a clear night. A clear night of stars. After the New England Addamses, Mr. Jefferson, a widower, came to the house from Monticello, where he would have preferred to stay. His hostess, when he needed one, which was seldom with this Spartan Democrat, was Dolly Madison, wife of his closest friend. State occasions were few, but when they did occur, we are told the wines were magnificent. And on one notable occasion, the ingenious Mr. Jefferson outdid himself by inventing something very like Big Alaska. James Madison followed Thomas Jefferson into the house, Jefferson's friend, almost a son or a brother. And the glamorous Dolly came into her own. You should spell her name by the way she did, D-O-L-L-E-Y. But with Jimmy and his lovely bride, they came to the house in June of 1812. British troopers and marines came under Cockburn and Roth, up from the river, closer and closer to the house, and to the President's wife. I am Dolly Madison, and I want to say that it is not true that I tucked the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution into my bodice and ran from the burning house. And it is not true that I hacked the Stuart portrait of George Washington from his frame and carried it off with the British at my heels. But most of all, it is not true that Jimmy, my husband, was a coward and left me alone when the British came. He was with the troops at Bladensburg where he should have been. I went home and I cooked, and on the way I looked back at Washington through the smoke and the lightning of the film. And I saw the height, our height, our lovely height, we're in it, we're in it. We're in it. And so the house, quite young as houses go, was burned. The interior, still unfinished, was a smoke-blackened ruin, completely a ruin. But the free stone walls were left, and the house was rebuilt. Oh yes, it was rebuilt. So the Virginian dynasty resumed with James Monroe and Virginia corporatist and rolls who brought to the house their beautiful French furniture. Then John Quincy Adams, the learned Yankee, who treated White House guests to dispositions on poetry, music, painting, sculpture, all the old books say, of rare excellence and untiring interest. But a new storm was brewing, a storm of votes this time, votes and voters out of the West, newly conscious of political power. Under Andrew Jackson, the old house would dance to a brand new tune. After his inauguration, old Hickory rode from the Capitol to the White House on horseback, and he was followed by a mob of his supporters, rough and ready men and women from beyond the mountains. At the doors of the house, guards and ushers were overwhelmed, and into the stately heat room, the mob pushed its way to the long table where cakes and ice cream and punch were laid out. Disgusting, perfectly disgusting. Reminds one of the days of the French Revolution. I see. Look at that woman. That's a real woman. I see. That's why they might be got hands on the window, Drape. A chair, I can't say. The chairs are much too small for these bears to sit on. Good heavens, they broke them that cute little bed. Help us. Well, that's quieted things down a bit. My, my, this sort of thing would never do in Boston. Never do at all. I don't suppose it would, gentlemen. Well, I find it a rather pleasing spectacle. Really? And here might you be, may I ask? My name is Andrew Jackson. The tune is it in? Yes, I'm the one the fastest for. But this is the people's house. Let them enjoy. You're listening to the Japan Cat and Kate of America in a special Inauguration Day broadcast starring McDonald Carey as our narrator. There was the smooth, clever Martin Van Buren of New York who bought a gold dinner service for the White House and lived to regret it. For he lost reelection because he was said to savor French sauces on golden food. There was much caret, much laughter down the years. And usually there were children. Here in this house, young Tad and Willie Lincoln played with the two Tad boys from Cincinnati. And one day in 62, the four of them made a soldier doll out of rags and old clothes and they called it Jack. Then they sentenced Jack, the soldier doll, to be shot at sunrise or sleeping on century dewy. A gardener brought the news to the president's study. And back to the poor, very small boys came a message. The doll Jack is pardoned by one of the president, A. Lincoln. Old age, Lincoln came, house house togetherness, house house togetherness, house house togetherness. Telling all, Roosevelt has said that if the White House is haunted, it is haunted by the shade of Abraham Lincoln. But many lonely men have walked these halls up and down, up and down, trying to make the right decision. Very soon after the incident at the doll, young Willie Lincoln, who was 11, went riding on his trinity in the chilly rain. And in a matter of hours felt sick of a fever. There was a ball planned for the White House and Mrs. Lincoln couldn't bring herself to call it off. All night, while the Marine Corps band blared its music in the East Room, the parents took turns going up to see Willie. The boy lay ill for a few days and the footsteps echoed outside his bedroom door. Mr. President, sir? Yes, Mrs. Eckley. This little boy, sir, this little boy. He's dead, Mrs. Eckley. Yes, sir. It was very painful. I, I knew. I knew. Mr. President, Mr. McCullough. It's the Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, sir. He wants you to join him at the telegraph office at once. Dispatch from General McClellan. Tell Mr. Stanton to... Tell Mr. Stanton I'll join him within the hour. First, I must see my son. Mrs. Eckley, would you, would you help me, please? And then, out of the horrible burden, a victory note. On a telegraph dispatch form dated April 2nd, 1865, Mr. Lincoln's pen scrawls in haste and joy. Lieutenant General Grant at Appomattox, allow me to tend to you and all with you. The nation's grateful thanks. At your kind suggestion, I think I will visit you tomorrow. Hey, Lincoln. Glory, glory, our flag is the same as in the past. Oh, there was fun too in this house, plenty of fun. It was the beautiful Mrs. Polk who put in gas lighting. But at the first date reception, the gas supply failed. All that had been lost had not been for Theropos Borthot. She had kept candles in the East Room's giant candelabra. No one was left completely in the dark, and the merry time was had by all. Mrs. Benjamin Harrison installed electric lights when she began her campaign to exterminate the notorious White House rats. The current, direct current, was installed by a young mechanic named Ike Hoover, who stayed on at the house for 42 years as Chief Usher. But it was Grover Cleveland who first brightened up the White House with... With a White House wedding. The ceremony took place in the Blue Room, and when the bride, Miss Frank Clara Folsom, arrived... My dears, I wish you could see her in the bridal gown. It's a heavy, oh very heavy, ivory satin with a high plain corsage, elbow sleeves, and a very long train. The bodice is bordered with a narrow band of orange flowers and leaves, and the train, it's at least four yards long, is rounded, ever so slightly rounded. She looks beautiful, just you. The President wore the canonical evening suit of black, and it was this President, Grover Cleveland, who in the depths of the panic of 1893, discovered that he was suffering from a cancer in the roof of his mouth. Rather than further disturb a country in the throes of depression, he put to sea with a team of surgeons and suffered half of his upper jaw to be removed in secrecy on shipboard. The secret was kept for 25 years. Yes, the White House is a place of terrible responsibility, and the sound of the White House is this sound. Back and forth, back and forth. So Woodrow Wilson walked in the Lincoln study on an evening in the spring of 1917. Good evening, Colonel House. Good evening, Mr. President. Sir, I speak your mind, my friend, always. Speak your mind. I have heard that you have made up your mind, sir. I have, Colonel. I shall ask Congress now to recognize that a state of war exists with Germany. What is your advice? Sir, you know that I support your aim to make nations as well as people subject to the moral law. That is my dream, yes. I intend to act in that direction tomorrow. I see you have objections. I scarcely know how to put them. I have spoken honestly with you in the past, you have, my good friend. Let me be utterly honest now. Mr. President, are you fit to conduct a war? Are you? I don't know. Of course you don't. You are too refined, too civilized, too intellectual, not to see the utter absurdity of force. To conduct a briefing vigorous, successful war, it needs a man of course of five. I know, I know. Yet, none of that must be prepared to become men of action. My friend, let me read you a part of the message I shall deliver to Congress tomorrow. This is what I have written. It is a fearful thing to lead this great, peaceful people into war. But the right is more precious than peace. And we shall fight for the things we have always carried near us our hearts. To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes. Everything that we are and everything that we have, the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles against her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can give no other. Lonely, worried, taping men, up and down, up and down. Women, from you to the full and bitterly, the responsibility and penalty of power held by men. The children, like Teddy Roosevelt's young ones, exploring every nook and cranny of a mansion beginning to crumble under the weight of years. And the dogs, they were always there, the White House dogs. The earlier ones had no names, but most of us remember Mr. Harding's laddy boy and Mr. Coolidge's two colleagues, Rob Roy and Priscilla Trinh, and of course the immortal, the ubiquitous Fowler. Valid master was too close to us for words without tears or anger. It was only yesterday, it was only yesterday that the signal bells announced the president's approach to his office. And we stood by the French windows leading out to the colonnade and watched him go by in his armless, cushionless, uncomfortable wheelchair, pushed by his Negro valet. When Fowler came abreast of the wheelchair as it rolled along, the president would reach down and scratch the little dog's neck. And we knew that whatever problems that they might bring, this man would find a wing to handle them. But the house was faltering in all its joints, slipping sidewise and bottom-wise down into the old district swamp. Plaster crumbled, ceilings cracked, and Margaret Truman's piano threatened to descend into the basement kitchen. Presidents from Teddy Roosevelt Hall and had noticed the trembling of the old timbers, rigid as they were by countless experiments and improvements. Finally, just yesterday under Harry Truman, the house was built anew, with everything of grace and charm preserved and kept, but with a new foundation of proud stability registered in steel. And today, under the eyes of all the world, the 34th chief executive has come to take his place in the home of presidents. In a time when the storm clouds gather again, and with a warning more grim than the past has ever known, Dwight D. Eisenhower, survivor of many storms, victor in the free state for yore, takes up his enormous burden under a roof that has sheltered much greatness, much sorrow, much joy. All America wishes him well. This genial man with the habit of victory. For him, we re-echo the prayer of John Adams, the prayer carved over the fireplace in the state dining room of the White House. I pray, Heaven, to bestow the best of blessings on this house and on all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof. May this house, for all to praise, may this place, by night and day, dwell above and in every place, for all to well be seen. May this house, for all to praise, may this place, by night and day, dwell above and in every place, for all to well be seen. Our thanks to McDonough, Cary, and McAlphynCade players for tonight's story.
