Rabbits, squirrels, and chickens all had their day of popularity, and when they died they were formally and properly interred with all possible funeral pomp and ceremony, and with elaborately marked headstones placed above them in the pet cemetery. Kermit, like his eldest brother, was also a naturalist as a little boy. He, too, roamed the woods and swamps of Oyster Bay and scoured the country around Washington in search of specimens. Not even pets, however, rivalled the joy of a game or a romp of the children with their father, who was always a boy with his boys, and from the experiences of his own health-handicapped boyhood knew just how much sport meant to normal boys. It was a likable trait in him that his understanding of boys was not limited in its sympathy and expression to his own sons, as this little incident shows: Among the callers on a Saturday morning, when important persons with missions and other important persons in want of missions were grouped in his private office, was a boy, a collegian of the athletic sort, who was very desirous of meeting the President. In spite of a bold front, such as is becoming in a dauntless sophomore, it was evident that he was nervous. “Shall I say ‘His Excellency’?” he asked a few moments before his entrance. “It’s just like a presentation at court, you know,” his eldest sister had remarked, with a view of putting the untrammelled football player into the mood of a mere human being; “you’ll have to bow low, of course.” “I don’t believe Mr. Roosevelt is that kind of a man,” he answered with a sinking heart. “Of course not,” said a more consoling voice; “you simply have to say ‘Mr. President,’ stand up while anybody else is standing, and go away when the President rises.” Still, the lad was evidently very uncomfortable and uncertain when he reached the room adjoining the President’s office. It was evident, from the movement of his lips, that he was practising on “Mr. President,” as at least one safe hold on material for conversation. The moment--the unexpected but fearful moment came. The President, on hearing the boy’s name, left the distinguished group with great promptness and made for his guest. “Sit down, Jones,” he said, very cordially. “I want to talk about the races in which your college put up such a good fight. Oh, sit down!” “I’m glad you think we put up a good fight, Mr. President,” said the boy, forgetting everything about the ceremony in the joy--as he afterward said--of talking to somebody who knew. “Some people thought we didn’t, but they were wrong.” Then there followed a whirling talk, in which the President showed such a consummate knowledge of sports and such a sympathy with the boy’s point of view that the lad almost forgot that he was not talking with “another fellow.” But he steadied himself and found his bearings with one or two formal “Mr. Presidents,” and then the two plunged into jujutsu. The President showed the boy a scientific grip.