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.