On June 2 I wrote to my friend “Edie”: “We five children have gotten up a club and meet every Sunday at Aunt Lucy’s, and read the poetry and stories that we have written during the week. When the book is all done, we will sell the book either to mother or Aunt Annie and divide the money; (although on erudition bent, still of commercial mind!) _I_ am going to write poetry all the time. My first poem was called ‘A Sunny Day in June.’ Next time I am going to give ‘The Lament of an American in a German Family.’ It is an entirely different style I assure you.” The “different style” is so very poor that I refrain from quoting that illustrious poem. [Illustration: The Dresden Literary American Club--Motto, “W. A. N. A.” (“We Are No Asses”). From left to right: Theodore Roosevelt, aged 14¾ years; Elliott Roosevelt, aged 13½ years; Maud Elliott, aged 12¾ years; Corinne Roosevelt, aged 11¾ years; John Elliott, aged 14½ years. July 1, 1873.] The work for the D. L. A. C. proved to be a very entertaining pastime, and great competition ensued. A motto was chosen by “Johnnie” and “Ellie,” who were the wits of the society. The motto was spoken of with bated breath and mysteriously inscribed W. A. N. A. underneath the mystic signs of D. L. A. C. For many a long year no one but those in our strictest confidence were allowed to know that “W. A. N. A.” stood for “We Are No Asses.” This, perhaps somewhat untruthful statement, was objected to originally by “Teedie,” who firmly maintained that the mere making of such a motto showed that “Johnnie” and “Ellie” were certainly exceptions that proved that rule. “Teedie” himself, struggling as usual with terrible attacks of asthma that perpetually undermined his health and strength, was all the same, between the attacks, the ringleader in fun and gaiety and every imaginable humorous adventure. He was a slender, overgrown boy at the time, and wore his hair long in true German student fashion, and adopted a would-be philosopher type of look, effectively enhanced by trousers that were outgrown, and coat sleeves so short that they gave him a “Smike”-like appearance. His contributions to the immortal literary club were either serious and very accurate from a natural-historical standpoint, or else they showed, as comparatively few of his later writings have shown, the delightful quality of humor which, through his whole busy life, lightened for him every load and criticism. I cannot resist giving in full the fascinating little story called “Mrs. Field Mouse’s Dinner Party,” in which the personified animals played social parts, in the portrayal of which my brother divulged (my readers must remember he was only fourteen) a knowledge of “society” life, its acrid jealousies and hypocrisies, of which he never again seemed to be conscious. MRS. FIELD MOUSE’S DINNER PARTY BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT--AGED FOURTEEN