“You’ve got it--you’ve got it,” cried the boy, “you’ve got it! It’s great, but don’t you think that if a well-trained American swatted one of those Japs in the belly he’d do for him? Don’t you,” he added, with a sudden return to ceremony, “Mr. President?” The onlookers turned aside--the one most interested in the lad showing some anxiety--but the President set the boy at ease with an anecdote of Theodore, Jr., and the jujutsu which made the boy laugh and say, “Theodore Roosevelt must have a good grip--Mr. President.” The interview closed with a warm shake of the hand between the President and the boy. The President looked after him with a kindly gleam in his eye. It is a great thing to have a boy of one’s own; it gives a man sympathy with all manly boys. As to the boy, he was radiant. “The President’s boys are in luck,” he said. “As long as I live,” he added solemnly, “I don’t think I shall ever meet a finer man or one that knows more about the right things!” One day, to the noon reception in his office came a delegation of schoolgirls from a small Southern college, stiff and stilted with embarrassment, but firmly resolved not to be enthusiastic over a Republican President. They were introduced by their chaperon--“Mr. President, here are some good Southern Democrats.” With that engaging smile he answered, as he put out his hand, “And all good Americans.” In an instant, he knew their college, their states, and when two discovered that he knew one father and a Senator grandfather, his conquest was complete--party lines were forgotten. From attic to cellar, from East Room to stables, the live young Roosevelts roamed at will, monarchs of the home of the Chief Magistrate and its surroundings. But with all of this freedom, they were rarely in evidence in the state apartments during visiting hours. Only once in a while might visitors catch glimpses of small boys with chunks of gingerbread or cookies in their hands and some animal in tow, scurrying through the corridors or mounting the stairs. Upon one occasion a trail of small wet footprints, with little puddles here and there on the polished floor, led to a dripping youngster who had taken a swim in the White House fountain and, trailing shoes and stockings, was dodging the observation of the group of foreign guests calling upon his mother. Ethel, too, had her share of pets, frolics, and playthings. Privileged more than any other girl in the White House before her, she grew up where her charming boudoir, with her piano, opened into her bedroom. Sundays found her teaching a Sunday-school class of coloured children at St. Mary’s Chapel. At Oyster Bay she played the organ in the little Sunday school, and on Saturdays and holidays in Washington she had great fun arranging picnics and outings for her little coloured protégês.