This also is a mistake. His clothes could
not fit smoothly on his gaunt and bony frame. He was no tailor's
figure of a man; but from the first he clothed himself as well as
his means allowed, and in the fashion of the time and place. In
reading the grotesque stories of his boyhood, of the tall
stripling whose trousers left exposed a length of shin, it must
be remembered not only how poor he was, but that he lived on the
frontier, where other boys, less poor, were scarcely better clad.
In Vandalia, the blue jeans he wore was the dress of his
companions as well, and later, from Springfield days on, clear
through his presidency, his costume was the usual suit of black
broadcloth, carefully made, and scrupulously neat. He cared
nothing for style. It did not matter to him whether the man with
whom he talked wore a coat of the latest cut, or owned no coat at
all. It was the man inside the coat that interested him.
In the same way he cared little for the pleasures of the table.
He ate most sparingly. He was thankful that food was good and
wholesome and enough for daily needs, but he could no more enter
into the mood of the epicure for whose palate it is a matter of
importance whether he eats roast goose or golden pheasant, than
he could have counted the grains of sand under the sea.
In the summers, while he was President, he spent the nights at a
cottage at the Soldiers' Home, a short distance north of
Washington, riding or driving out through the gathering dusk, and
returning to the White House after a frugal breakfast in the
early morning.
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