ese friends at one
period was the baker's horse, and on a very rainy day I heard the little
girl, who was looking out of the window, say, with a melancholy shake of
her head, "Oh! there's poor Kraft's horse, all soppin' wet!"

While I was in the White House the youngest boy became an _habitue_ of
a small and rather noisome animal shop, and the good-natured owner would
occasionally let him take pets home to play with. On one occasion I was
holding a conversation with one of the leaders in Congress, Uncle
Pete Hepburn, about the Railroad Rate Bill. The children were strictly
trained not to interrupt business, but on this particular occasion the
little boy's feelings overcame him. He had been loaned a king-snake,
which, as all nature-lovers know, is not only a useful but a beautiful
snake, very friendly to human beings; and he came rushing home to show
the treasure. He was holding it inside his coat, and it contrived to
wiggle partly down the sleeve. Uncle Pete Hepburn naturally did not
understand the full import of what the little boy was saying to me as
he endeavored to wriggle out of his jacket, and kindly started to help
him--and then jumped back with alacrity as the small boy and the snake
both popped out of the jacket.

There could be no healthier and pleasanter place in which to bring up
children than in that nook of old-time America around Sagamore Hill.
Certainly I never knew small people to have a better time or a better
training for their work in after life than the three families of cousins
at Sagamore Hill. It was real country, and--speaking from the somewhat
detached point of view of the masculine parent--I should say there was
just the proper mixture of freedom and control in the management of the
children. They were never allowed to be disobedient or to shirk lessons
or work; and they were encouraged to have all the fun possible. They
often went barefoot, especially during the many hours passed in various
enthralling pursuits along and in the waters of the bay. They swam,
they tramped, they boated, they coasted and skated in winter, they were
intimate friends with the cows, chickens, pigs, and other live stock.
They had in succession two ponies, General Grant and, when the General's
legs became such that he lay down too often and too unexpectedly in
the road, a calico pony named Algonquin, who is still living a life of
honorable leisure in the stable and in the pasture--where he has to be
picketed, because