“What’s your occupation?” asked one of the policemen of the young man. “I’m a business man,” was the answer as the young man started to trip blithely away. “Wait a minute,” said the cop. “I never saw a business man walk like that.” “Oh,” replied the dapper youth, “but you don’t know what kind of business I’m in!” Thirty days for him. * * * * * During my recent rampage about the American continent it was my pleasure to appreciate the service of Tiajuana, and I could not resist the temptation to contrast this Mexican village with the Canadian metropolis, Montreal. In Montreal I enjoyed a bottle of Pol Roger champagne without being a law breaker, even though it cost me ten cents for a two by four sandwich. From Montreal I hustled to the deer hunting regions of northern Minnesota and found no champagne or other imported wines, but plenty of “mountain dew.” With all due respect to Mr. Andrew J. Volstead, our Minnesota congressman, there is today in this grand and glorious land of the free and home of the brave more rotten booze than it was ever my lot to drink in the pre-prohibition days. But to get back to my deer hunting expedition, I must admit that the deer were scarce but— _But there were polecats and goosehawks,_ _And a four-legged cow;_ _Wild pigs and wild boars,_ _And a thing like a sow._ _There were thousands of screech owls,_ _Turkey buzzards and quail,_ _And a little black jack-ass_ _With a damnable tail,_ _With their fol de dol dol_ _And fol de dol day._ * * * * * While flivvering out near Golden Valley, Minnesota, I dropped in at the farm of my old friend, John Foss, to pass the time of day. I noticed a drove of hogs on his timber lot acting peculiar. They would run up to a tree and squeal like mad, then leave that tree and go to another and do the same thing, continuing in their mad scamper around the timber lot. “What makes them act that way?” I asked John. “Well,” replied old man Foss, “last winter I had a throat infection and lost the power of speech for a month or more and couldn’t call them to their feed, so I taught them to come by rapping on a post or a tree, and now the darn woodpeckers are setting them crazy.” * * * * * At Breezy Point Lodge I have an old gray mare and I love to sing this melody of my boyhood days: _The old gray mare_ _She sits on the single tree,_ _Sits on the whipple tree,_ _Sits on the single tree._ And, believe me, her greatest indoor and outdoor sport is sitting on the single tree. * * * * * Up in the deer hunting grounds of northern Minnesota the jack-pine savages are still singing that old familiar ditty about the much maligned, bird—the woodpecker. These heart throbbing words peal gently through the evening air: