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 otherwise he chases the cows.  Sedate pony Grant used to draw the cart in which the children went driving when they were very small, the driver being their old nurse Mame, who had held their mother in her arms when she was born, and who was knit to them by a tie as close as any tie of blood.  I doubt whether I ever saw Mame really offended with them except once when, out of pure but misunderstood affection, they named a pig after her.  They loved pony Grant.  Once I saw the then little boy of three hugging pony Grant’s fore legs.  As he leaned over, his broad straw hat tilted on end, and pony Grant meditatively munched the brim; whereupon the small boy looked up with a wail of anguish, evidently thinking the pony had decided to treat him like a radish.

The children had pets of their own, too, of course.  Among them guinea pigs were the stand-bys—­their highly unemotional nature fits them for companionship with adoring but over-enthusiastic young masters and mistresses.  Then there were flying squirrels, and kangaroo rats, gentle and trustful, and a badger whose temper was short but whose nature was fundamentally friendly.  The badger’s name was Josiah; the particular little boy whose property he was used to carry him about, clasped firmly around what would have been his waist if he had had any.  Inasmuch as when on the ground the badger would play energetic games of tag with the little boy and nip his bare legs, I suggested that it would be uncommonly disagreeable if he took advantage of being held in the little boy’s arms to bite his face; but this suggestion was repelled with scorn as an unworthy assault on the character of Josiah.  “He bites legs sometimes, but he never bites faces,” said the little boy.  We also had a young black bear whom the children christened