After I had fallen asleep in the early morning hours, thinking⁠—with faith in the prophet⁠—to wake up and find a smiling world, I was roused by loud, crackling reports which seemed to be in the immediate vicinity of my windows. I got up and looked out. It was light enough for me to see that the world was icebound and that the storm, instead of abating, had increased in violence. The crackling I had heard was the noise of twigs and tree limbs breaking with the weight of the ice which encased them. It didn’t look hopeful for the Inaugural Ceremonies, and I had a ludicrous vision of a haughty, gold-laced parade sliding, rather than marching with measured precision, down Pennsylvania Avenue, striving to maintain its dignity while it spasmodically lost its footing. But mine was rueful mirth.

In the morning Mr. Taft found President Roosevelt in the great hall below, genially alert.

“Well, Will,” he exclaimed, “the storm will soon be over. It isn’t a regular storm. It’s nature’s echo of Senator Rainer’s denunciations of me. As soon as I am out where I can do no further harm to the Constitution it will cease.”

“You’re wrong,” said Will; “it is my storm. I always said it would be a cold day when I got to be President of the United States.”

It was really very serious. Railroad and telegraphic communications were paralysed all along the Atlantic Coast. Wires were down in every direction and traffic of all kinds was at a practical standstill. Thousands of people, on their way to Washington for the Inauguration, were tied up at points outside the city and it was impossible for awhile even to get a telegram in or out. However, Inaugurations do not wait for fair weather and the programme had to proceed.