erful pagan philosopher as ever. He swims like a
little duck; rides well; stands quite severe injuries without complaint,
and is really becoming a manly little fellow. Archie is devoted to
the _Why_ (sailboat). The other day while Mother and I were coming in,
rowing, we met him sailing out, and it was too cunning for anything. The
_Why_ looks exactly like a little black wooden shoe with a sail in it,
and the crew consisted of Archie, of one of his beloved playmates, a
seaman from the _Sylph_, and of Skip--very alert and knowing.

SKIP AND ARCHIE

White House, October 23, 1906.

DEAR KERMIT:

Archie is very cunning and has handicap races with Skip. He spreads his
legs, bends over, and holds Skip between them. Then he says, "On your
mark, Skip, ready; go!" and shoves Skip back while he runs as hard as he
possibly can to the other end of the hall, Skip scrambling wildly with
his paws on the smooth floor until he can get started, when he races
after Archie, the object being for Archie to reach the other end before
Skip can overtake him.

A TURKEY HUNT AT PINE KNOT

White House, November 4, 1906.

DEAR KERMIT:

Just a line to tell you what a nice time we had at Pine Knot. Mother was
as happy as she always is there, and as cunning and pretty as possible.
As for me, I hunted faithfully through all three days, leaving the house
at three o'clock one day, at four the next, and at five the next,
so that I began my hunts in absolute night; but fortunately we had a
brilliant moon on each occasion. The first two days were failures. I
did not see a turkey, and on each occasion when everybody was perfectly
certain that I was going to see a turkey, something went wrong and the
turkey did not turn up. The last day I was out thirteen hours, and you
may imagine how hungry I was when I got back, not to speak of being
tired; though fortunately most of the time I was rambling around on
horseback, so I was not done out. But in the afternoon at last luck
changed, and then for once everything went right. The hunter who was
with me marked a turkey in a point of pines stretching down from a
forest into an open valley, with another forest on its farther side. I
ran down to the end of the point and hid behind a bush. He walked down
through the pines and the turkey came out and started to fly across
the valley, offering me a beautiful side shot at about thirty-five
yards--just the distance for my ten-bore. I killed it dead, and felt