History Vs. Bonus Episode: Theodore Roosevelt Vs. Christmas Trees


Mental Floss has a new podcast with iHeartRadio called History Vs., about how your favorite historical figures faced off against their greatest foes. Our first season is all about President Theodore Roosevelt. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts here, and for more TR content, visit the History Vs. site.

It’s 6:45 a.m. on Christmas morning, 1902, and Theodore Roosevelt’s children—Alice, Ted, Kermit, Ethel, Archie, and Quentin—are pounding at the president’s bedroom door. As per tradition, their stockings, which TR notes are “all bulging out with queer angles and rotundities,” are hanging above the fireplace in their parents’ room. Theodore and his wife, Edith, get up, remove the stockings, light a fire, and let the children in.

The kids eagerly unpack their stockings, and after breakfast, they open bigger presents in the library. Each child’s pile of gifts is on a separate table; among the presents are an electric railroad for Quentin, a rifle and riding boots for Archie, and a pile of books for TR and Edith.

But the day holds an even bigger surprise than the goodies the Roosevelts opened.

Sometime during the festivities, Archie turns to his father. “Just look here for a minute,” he says. “I want you to glance into this old closet.”

He presses a button and opens the closet door to reveal … a Christmas tree.

It’s clear that 8-year-old Archie has been scheming some time. First, he’d drafted a steward to buy the tiny, 2-foot-tall tree for 20 cents at the market and smuggle it into the White House. Then, with the help of the carpenter, he’d rigged it up in a closet his mother rarely used. The building’s electrician had helped him string it with lights, which can be turned on at the push of a button. Gifts for each family member—and for Jack the Dog, Tom Quartz the Kitten, and Algonquin the Pony—adorn the branches.

As Roosevelt friend Robert Lincoln O’Brien will write a year later, “All of the family were there, as was Quentin’s nurse, but none appeared more astonished than Mr. Roosevelt himself at the sight of this diminutive Christmas tree.”

You might be wondering: Why would a Christmas tree be so surprising? Well, the Roosevelts didn’t typically have a Christmas tree, because—according to legend, anyway—Theodore Roosevelt, avid conservationist, had banned them. The stories would have you believe that when Archie revealed his festive stunt, his father gave him a patented TR lecture. But what actually happened?

From Mental Floss and iHeartRadio, this is History Vs., a podcast about how your favorite historical figures faced off against their greatest foes. I’m your host, Erin McCarthy, and this week, in honor of the upcoming Christmas holiday, we’re doing something a little different—we’re looking at the fact, and fiction, behind a pervasive Theodore Roosevelt Christmas tale. This episode is TR vs. Christmas Trees.

Theodore Roosevelt loved Christmas, which he called “an occasion of literally delirious joy.” That love began in his childhood with the efforts of his parents, Thee and Mittie, who strove to make the holiday special. According to historian Kathleen Dalton, when TR and his siblings were kids, his mother “gloried in piling the Christmas table high with toys for her children, and she loved to watch their glee on Christmas morning.”

TR recalled those days in his autobiography, writing about nabbing big stockings from the grown-ups, hanging them up the night before Christmas, and opening them the morning of on his parents’ bed. After breakfast, Thee and Mittie would throw open the doors of the drawing room, where each child had his or her presents piled on their own table. They kept up the tradition even when they were traveling; and when they spent the holiday in the city, Thee would often go to one of the charitable organizations he supported for dinner—the Newsboys’ Lodging-House, for example—and bring his kids along.

In his autobiography, TR wrote that “I never knew any one else have what seemed to me such attractive Christmases, and in the next generation I tried to reproduce them exactly for my own children.” And he did just that, repeating the stocking-breakfast-presents-on-the-table tradition year after year.

Of one Christmas morning in 1890, when TR was in D.C. serving on the Civil Service Commission, he wrote to his sister Bamie that “the children enjoyed it with the same wild rapture we ourselves felt twenty-five years ago.” In 1903, he wrote to his sister Corinne, “I wonder whether there ever can come in life a thrill of greater exaltation and rapture than that which comes to one between the ages of say six and fourteen, when the library door is thrown open and you walk in to see all the gifts, like a materialized fairy land, arrayed on your special table?”

The family loved snow around Christmas—the kids would have “all kinds of romps in the snow,” TR wrote one year, “coasting, having snow-ball fights, and doing everything—in the grounds back of the White House.” When in Long Island, they’d bundle up and take a sleigh ride to church on Christmas Eve. And there was plenty of physical activity, of course: The Roosevelts finished up their first holiday in the White House by dancing a Virginia Reel in the East Room. According to historian Edmund Morris, TR’s wild dance moves made Edith laugh until she cried. On Christmas 1902, TR and Ted took a three-hour-long horse ride, and the president played a game of single stick with some friends that left him with “a bump over one eye and a swollen wrist.” You know, typical Theodore Roosevelt stuff.

But though they had many beloved traditions surrounding the holiday, a Christmas tree wasn’t one of them. And while that seems weird to us now, Christmas was celebrated much differently in the 19th century than it is today. In a blog post for the Theodore Roosevelt Center website, Keri Youngstrand notes that, back then, “Christmas was a quiet religious holiday marked by private family traditions brought from the old world.”

As Jamie Lewis writes at The Forest Society’s history blog, up until the late 1840s, many Americans thought Christmas trees were pagan symbols, so they weren’t pervasive in homes. The same held true for the Executive Mansion: Christmas trees wouldn’t become an integral part of the holiday celebration there until the 1920s.

But what makes the Roosevelt case somewhat unusual was that, in the 19th century, Americans often did have a tree if the household had young children. Lewis writes that adults would put presents under or on the tree for the kids. Grover Cleveland and Benjamin Harrison both had trees in the White House.

At home in Oyster Bay, the Roosevelts provided a Christmas tree—which TR cut down himself, in the woods of Sagamore Hill, with the help of an employee—to Cove Neck elementary school, where it was decorated by a teacher. Then, Roosevelt acted as Santa Claus: According to a 1920 article in the New-York Tribune, when the tree was unveiled, TR was “on hand early … his arms full with the store of mysterious packages and bundles and his eyes critically appraising the last minute decorations. … The Colonel, beaming from ear to ear, announced that he had been delegated by Saint Nick to act as his emissary, and began reading from the packages which crowded the foot of the tree the names of the various fortunate recipients.”

He even brought them his favorite hard candy from when he was a kid. In the words of his friend Jacob Riis, “Mr. Roosevelt made a good Santa Claus.”

But still, there was no tree at home.

We’ll be right back.


The fact that the Roosevelts, with a household full of young kids, didn’t have a tree in the White House made national news basically every year.

In 1901, The New York Daily Tribune noted that “following an established custom in the Roosevelt household, there will be no Christmas tree this year at the White House.” That same year, The Washington Times said that White House attendees were disappointed about the lack of tree, writing that, “They had supposed that, with so many children, the tree would be indispensable.” The following year, the New York Sun reported the same thing—no tree!—although, thanks to Archie’s surprise, they would be wrong. In 1903, Georgia’s The Brunswick Daily said that “following the custom of last year it has been decided to have no Christmas tree at the White House,” and in 1904—well, you get the idea.

After Archie went rogue, though, Lewis writes that the papers wondered, each holiday season for the rest of TR’s presidency, “what will happen and if Archie will pull a fast one.”

There was much speculation as to why the Roosevelts went treeless on Christmas. The Washington Times reported that the Roosevelt kids didn’t even like trees, and that TR preferred to celebrate according to the customs of Holland. (The Dutch version of Santa, or Sinterklaas, was big on leaving gifts in footwear.)

South Carolina’s Greenville News wrote in 1904 that Santa would visit the White House as he did other homes in the U.S., but he would not “furnish a Christmas tree, and the president and his wife do not bother about providing one. Whether they think Santa Claus would not like for them to do something he had failed to do cannot be officially stated.”

But as soon as 1903, another explanation had emerged: That TR opposed Christmas trees because of environmental concerns. As O’Brien wrote in Ladies’ Home Journal, “The President’s love for the living things of the forest in their own natural setting is so great, it has been suggested, that he prefers not to encourage the wanton slaughter of small trees.”

By December 1909, it was being reported as fact in the press. Gifford Pinchot, Chief of the Division of Forestry, was thrown into the tale for good measure. He supposedly “sided with Santa Claus and showed how Christmas tree cutting did the forests good in many places.”

It’s true that TR was no fan of destructive lumbering practices—after all, this is the guy who created the U.S. Forest Service and established 150 national forests. In 1905, he gave a speech titled “The Forest in the Life of a Nation” in which he noted that things like fire and destructive lumbering practices, combined with legitimate lumbering, “are destroying our forest resources far more rapidly than they are being replaced,” and that if there was nothing done to curb the destruction of forests, a timber famine would be inevitable. “Remember,” he added, “that you can prevent such a timber famine occurring by wise action taken in time, but once the famine occurs there is no possible way of hurrying the growth of the trees necessary to relieve it.”

The guy clearly loved trees. And national sentiment at the time was decidedly anti-Christmas tree. An 1899 editorial suggested that an inventor create a wire Christmas tree “Warranted to bear a gift for every member of the family and to be absolutely fireproof. As wire is durable, a large family of children could be brought up on one Christmas tree and much timber would be saved.”

According to Lewis, President McKinley got letters asking him to forgo a tree—the writers called cutting down trees for Christmas “arboreal infanticide.” And by the time TR became president, opposition to the practice had reached its peak, with the public arguing against cutting trees for reasons ranging from destructive harvesting practices to wastefulness. One paper called the trees “an absurd fad” that were resulting in “the woods … being stripped.”

In his piece for Ladies’ Home Journal, O’Brien noted that if TR disapproved of the practice on conservation grounds, “he has not so informed his closest friends.”

Lewis writes that Theodore Roosevelt never came out specifically against harvesting Christmas trees, and when he spoke with writer Brigit Katz for a Mental Floss piece on this subject, Lewis was emphatic: “Ultimately, [Roosevelt] had no ban on Christmas trees,” he told Katz.

As for why the press was so interested in the Roosevelts’ lack of tree, Lewis had an explanation for us. He said that not only were the Roosevelts “a dynamic, fascinating family that the press loved covering,” but that the papers might have been wanting for content as the holiday approached. Lewis told Katz that “Congress would have adjourned weeks before. So [the media is] desperate for copy, and here we have this fascinating family. I think some of the myth and legend is born out of boredom, frankly.”

Still, despite the lack of evidence, TR’s supposed stance on Christmas trees, and the story about Pinchot stepping in to set him straight, are still reported as fact today. Theodore Roosevelt’s ban on Christmas trees even made it onto an episode of Drunk History.

We’ll be right back.


The fact of the matter is, we may never really know why the Roosevelts didn’t have a tree. Perhaps it’s because Bamie had one at her house, and the Roosevelts were there most Christmases. Or perhaps, as O’Brien wrote, it was because that the Roosevelts favored simplicity; the White House wasn’t decorated gaudily for the season, either. Or maybe, as the Baltimore Sun posited in December 1901, with so many children, and so many visitors, there wasn’t room for one—and that Bamie’s tree would just have to suffice.

Or, as Lewis told Atlas Obscura, it could be that Edith put the kibosh on a tree. After all the Roosevelts had six kids and a veritable zoo of pets—which included, at one time or another, opossums, flying squirrels and kangaroo rats, a pig named Maude, a badger named Josiah, a hyena named Bill, a one-legged rooster, guinea pigs with names like Father O’Grady and Fighting Bob Evans, and, of course, Tom Quartz the kitten, Algonquin the pony, and Jack the dog, among many, many others—to worry about.

But the most likely explanation seems to be that Roosevelt loved the Christmas traditions of his childhood, and those traditions didn’t include a tree. So there was no tree—at least not until 1902.

What we do know is that Archie’s antics that year appear to have been met with delight, not a lecture, from the president. And they may even have started a new Roosevelt family tradition: In 1906, TR wrote to Corinne that Archie and Quentin had created “a variant on what is otherwise a strictly inherited form of our celebration, for they fix up (or at least Archie fixes up) a special Christmas tree in Archie’s room.”

While TR and Edith were admiring Archie’s tree, two kids snuck out of the room to set up “a small lighted Christmas tree” in their parents’ room. It had, TR wrote, “two huge stockings for Edith and myself.” The next year, he wrote to Bamie that “there was a Christmas tree of Archie’s.”

In his Forest Society blog, Lewis notes that the casualness of TR’s comment may suggest that by this point, a tree was actually expected—and perhaps that fact is what led the kids to provide a tree for their parents in 1906. They wanted to surprise TR once again.

Today, Archie’s exploits live on in Gary Hines’s children’s book, A Christmas Tree in the White House.

And if this episode has made you wonder whether you should go with a real tree on Christmas, it’s worth noting that, at least these days, Christmas trees are crops grown on farms. According to The New York Times, it takes under a decade for a tree to reach 5 or 6 feet, and it’s replaced with a new tree when a farmer cuts it down. Christmas tree farming practices are sustainable, and the trees do a lot for the environment before they’re cut down. And they have the potential to do more after, too, if you compost them or donate them to a zoo, where they can be used as enrichment toys or snacks for animals.

We’ll be back next week with a regular episode of History Vs. We hope you have a great holiday!


History Vs. is hosted by me, Erin McCarthy. This episode was written by me, with fact checking by Austin Thompson.

The Executive Producers are Erin McCarthy, Julie Douglas, and Tyler Klang.

The Supervising Producer is Dylan Fagan.

The show is edited by Dylan Fagan and Lowell Brillante.

To learn more about this episode, and Theodore Roosevelt, check out our website atmentalfloss.com/historyvs.

History Vs. Is a production of iHeart Radio and Mental Floss.

Amazon’s Big Fall Sale Features Deals on Electronics, Kitchen Appliances, and Home Décor


If you're looking for deals on items like Keurigs, BISSELL vacuums, and essential oil diffusers, it's usually pretty slim pickings until the holiday sales roll around. Thankfully, Amazon is starting these deals a little earlier with their Big Fall Sale, where customers can get up to 20 percent off everything from home decor to WFH essentials and kitchen gadgets. Now you won’t have to wait until Black Friday for the deal you need. Make sure to see all the deals that the sale has to offer here and check out our favorites below.



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History Vs. Bonus Episode: Theodore Roosevelt and the Perdicaris Affair


The villa on the hill of Djebal Kebir, to the west of Tangier in Morocco, looks more like a palace than a home. Built in the Spanish style, it has white-clad stone walls, and turrets, and looks over the Strait of Gibraltar. The inside is resplendent: Rooms overflow with fine art, pristine porcelains, damasks, and Oriental rugs. There are many, many servants, and a menagerie of animals roam the grounds and the halls, among them dogs, cranes, pheasants, and two monkeys that jump into the owners’ laps and eat orange blossoms from their hands.

The villa is known as Aidonia, or the Place of Nightingales. It’s May 18, 1904, and inside the villa, 64-year-old globetrotter Ion Perdicaris, along with his wife, Ellen Varley, and her son, Cromwell, are sitting down to dinner, attended to by a servant in knee-length scarlet pants and a jacket embroidered with gold.

Ion is the son of Gregory Perdicaris, a Greek-American who made his fortune in the gas industry, and he has reaped the benefits of his family’s immense wealth by buying residences all around the world before he built the Place of Nightingales in 1877. Tonight, as every night, they dine lavishly, then retreat to the drawing room to relax—at least until the peace is shattered by the sound of screams coming from the servants’ quarters.

What happens next will soon become an international incident that garners the intervention of none other than President Theodore Roosevelt.

From Mental Floss and iHeartRadio, this is History Vs., a podcast about how your favorite historical figures faced off against their greatest foes. In this bonus episode, we’ll take a look at how TR used his big stick diplomacy to make the most of an international incident in an election year. This episode is TR and the Perdicaris Affair.

When Ion and Cromwell sprint to source of the commotion, they come upon armed men standing in their home. The villa is under siege.

The bandits have given the butler a swift clubbing with their rifle butts, and Ion and Cromwell are bound and brought to meet the man in charge of this operation.

He introduces himself simply: “I am the Raisuli.”

Alternately described as a bandit, murderer, and folk hero, depending on who’s asking, the man known in English as Raisuli is a charismatic political idealist and insurgent, ruling over groups of bandits dedicated to disrupting the European influence in Morocco and waging war against the sultans who allowed it. And if you know Morocco—as Perdicaris does—you know his handiwork.

But bloodshed isn’t the motivator tonight. Raisuli has political demands he’ll soon reveal.

Ion, his stepson, and an attendant are whisked away on their own horses, leaving the staff and Mrs. Perdicaris to absorb what had just happened.

Word of the incident got out as it was happening—the phone lines to the villa had not been cut, and as Raisuli’s men tore through the Perdicaris home, one of the women of the house placed a call to the central office in Tangier alerting them to the attack and kidnapping. It wasn’t long before Samuel Gummere, the Consul General at Tangier, got involved. He became the point of contact between Mrs. Perdicaris and Washington.

The first cable from Morocco went straight to the State Department on May 19. Gummere described the situation as “most serious” and requested a Man-of-War—basically, the biggest battleship available.

The cable was received by Assistant Secretary of State Francis B. Loomis, who informed President Roosevelt. This was the era of “Big Stick” diplomacy, and Roosevelt ordered that seven warships head immediately to Tangier. But it wasn’t an act of war—it was more like an aggressive flex.

Days after the kidnapping, Raisuli contacted Sultan Abdelaziz of Morocco with his demands to let Perdicaris and Varley free. He wanted political immunity for himself and his followers, the release of all political prisoners connected with his movement, the firing of a local official who had chained him years earlier, 70,000 Spanish silver dollars, and he wanted tax-free control over two of Morocco’s wealthiest districts.

The sheer extravagance of the demands, especially in exchange for the release of a foreigner like Perdicaris, was a non-starter for the sultan. When a messenger from the sultan informed Raisuli there would be no deal, Raisuli had one of his men slit the messenger’s throat.

By May 28, Roosevelt had finally read Raisuli’s demands, which Secretary of State John Hay described as “preposterous.” And while ships were on their way to speed up the talks, in reality, the men knew their hands were tied. The president couldn’t really force the sultan to accede to Raisuli’s outlandish list—he could only make strong suggestions. And he couldn’t just send troops into Morocco to retrieve Perdicaris by force—Gummere knew Raisuli would kill Ion and Varley long before they could reach him.

“I hope they may not murder Mr. Perdicaris, but a nation cannot degrade itself to prevent ill-treatment of a citizen,” Hay said.

Still, TR’s brand of pressure could be very persuasive, and early on the morning of May 30, the imposing USS Brooklyn was first seen near Tangier harbor. It would soon be joined by six other ships. Roosevelt biographer Edmund Morris wrote that “some 30,000 tons of American gunmetal should soon persuade the sultan to start negotiating.”

Upon hearing the news of the arrival of American warships, Raisuli actually showed relief—with this type of pressure on the sultan, those “preposterous” demands were more likely to become a reality.

Once the fleet was settled in the harbor, Hay cabled Gummere:

“President wishes everything possible done to secure the release of Perdicaris. He wishes it clearly understood that if Perdicaris is murdered, this government will demand the life of the murderer.”

In America, the press and public were outraged at the situation and wanted action. Any crime against an American on foreign soil was seen as a crime against the country as a whole. For Roosevelt—a president both adored and criticized for his overt imperialist intentions—this was a prime opportunity to show the world what this so-called “American century” was all about.

As Barbara W. Tuchman wrote at American Heritage, “The president’s instant and energetic action on behalf of a single citizen fallen among thieves in a foreign land made Perdicaris a symbol of America’s new role on the world stage.”

The situation stretched into early June, and the number of countries involved kept growing. Now, a British warship, the Prince of Wales, had come to Tangier, and Hay had contacted the French foreign minister, Théophile Delcassé, to put more pressure on the sultan. France had been increasing its presence in Morocco, so this tactic carried plenty of weight.

Soon after, there seemed to be a breakthrough: The Moroccan government had apparently accepted all of Raisuli’s demands, outside of the ransom, which still needed to be “reasonably negotiated,” according to Morris.

But once Raisuli was close to getting what he asked for, he simply came back with more demands: He now wanted additional districts to control.

Secretary of State John Hay, clearly frustrated with Raisuli’s games, wrote to Roosevelt, “I feel that it would be most inexpedient to surrender to him. We have done what we can for Perdicaris.”

And something else was emerging at this time that may have weakened Hay’s already questionable enthusiasm for the whole episode: Evidence was mounting that Perdicaris might not actually be a U.S. citizen.

We’ll be right back.


In June 1904, with Ion Perdicaris and his stepson still being held hostage by Raisuli in Morocco, President Theodore Roosevelt was putting pressure on the sultan to acquiesce to the ransom demands to bring them back home.

But the president was about to learn that the man at the center of a potential international incident might not be a U.S. citizen at all.

This information first came to light on June 1, when Hay received a letter from a cotton broker named A.H. Slocomb who had read about the Moroccan crisis in the news. He claimed that he had met Perdicaris in Greece as the Civil War raged in America. Ion had apparently told Slocomb that he had renounced his U.S. citizenship for Greek citizenship during the war—likely in an effort to avoid being drafted by the Confederacy and have his property confiscated by the government.

Within days of the initial claims, Slocomb’s information was confirmed by Greek officials.

According to Morris, Hay sent the news to Roosevelt, who was apparently unaware of the initial whispers about Perdicaris’s citizenship … or lack thereof. Right away, everyone knew that the information simply couldn’t get out—the president had ordered American warships to Tangier, news of the kidnapping was filling newspapers, and even the French and British were involved in exerting pressure on the sultan to make a deal.

TR couldn’t just turn his back on the whole affair now—the political embarrassment would be terrible. It was also an election year, and quite frankly, backing down wasn’t an option.

As this crisis was unfolding, TR was dealing with the start of the Republican National Convention in Chicago. While TR was a no-brainer to secure the nomination, he still had plenty of enemies in his own party, and the last thing he needed was Perdicaris’s citizenship controversy coming out.

As Morris explains in Theodore Rex, Roosevelt chose to rationalize things. Since Raisuli had believed Perdicaris to be a U.S. citizen, he had, in Roosevelt’s mind, taken action against an American, whether it was technically true or not.

Hay recommended that the United States give Raisuli and the sultan one last warning before any real military action needed to be taken. Roosevelt agreed—despite these new findings, Roosevelt knew this was an issue of both pride and politics at this point.

It was up to Hay to write the ultimatum to the sultan, and it needed to be an aggressive one. The result was seven words that hit the exact right note:

“We want Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead.”

Of course, there was more to the cable than just that one chilling warning. But that single sentence so perfectly captured the mood of the message that no one needed to read any further than that. TR, through the words of Hay, was dispatching a concise warning to the sultan, to Raisuli, and to anyone else who dared bring harm to an American citizen—even if they were only American in spirit.

As he prepared to send the wire to Gummere in Tangier, Hay read the draft to Edwin Hood, a news correspondent at the State Department, who loved it so much that he took a copy and sent it over the newswires right as Hay sent it to Morocco.

The warning soon made its way into the public, and it didn’t take long for Republican National Convention chairman Joseph Cannon to get a copy. At approximately 3 p.m. on June 22, he made his way near the convention stage, where Henry Cabot Lodge had just finished a vague spiel on the party’s stances on riveting topics like tariffs and the civil service.

Cannon took his copy of the cable and gave it to a clerk to read to the crowd. At the words “We want either Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead,” the crowd went nuts.

Supporters stood on their chairs. The cheers were deafening. One Republican from Kansas exclaimed, “Our people like courage. We’ll stand for anything those two men do,” while another described it as “Good, hot stuff.”

The message showed action, it showed excitement, it showed that the American people had a president that meant business.

If it wasn’t already set in stone, it was now clear that Roosevelt’s nomination was secure—but over in Morocco, the cable was a moot point.

The sultan of Morocco had already agreed to Raisuli’s demands—paying a $70,000 ransom for the release of Perdicaris and his stepson. On top of that, an extra $4000 was sent to the U.S. for its expenses.

Perdicaris later wrote that “the memory of that evening is … associated with an ineffaceable sense of horror.” Still, he wasn’t terribly traumatized by the ordeal—in fact, he and Raisuli had struck up a friendship. Perdicaris would recall that he was treated more like an honored guest, rather than a prisoner. And upon parting, Raisuli told Ion that if anyone tried to harm him in the future, “I … will come with all [of] my men to your rescue.”

Later, the incident would serve as the basis for a movie starring Sean Connery and Candice Bergen called The Wind and the Lion. Brian Keith, who you may know as the dad in The Parent Trap, played TR.

As for the truth behind Perdicaris’s Greek citizenship? It would remain a secret for another 30 years.


History Vs. is hosted by me, Erin McCarthy. This episode was written by Jay Serafino, with fact checking by Austin Thompson.

The Executive Producers are Erin McCarthy, Julie Douglas, and Tyler Klang.

The Supervising Producer is Dylan Fagan.

The show is edited by Dylan Fagan and Lowell Brillante.

To learn more about this episode, and Theodore Roosevelt, check out our website at mentalfloss.com/historyvs.

History Vs. is a production of iHeart Radio and Mental Floss.