While lunching at the Friars’ Club on my last visit to New York City, I was cordially invited to a big reception at the Hotel Commodore in honor of Sir Harry Lauder, famous Scottish comedian. The momentous night arrived and I donned by “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes for the great event. Please try to imagine my chagrin and sheepishness when friends who had called to escort me, very courteously and, I might add, diplomatically informed me that “it was to be a full dress affair.” How in heck could a horny-handed tiller of the soil be expected to possess a dress suit? After thanking my kind auditors in as gracious a manner as possible, I suggested that probably Sir Harry might consider overalls more appropriate for me. Anyway I did not attend the reception. Next day my Friar friends told me about it and I was happily regaled with Scottish humor. The chairman, they said, graciously introduced Lauder as his “closest friend.” Will these jokes on Sir Harry’s thrift never cease? * * * * * During recent pilgrimages that carried me east, west, north and south, I ran across many amusing, although sometimes embarrassing situations. Chief among them was the constantly manifested surprise of newly-found friends that there was actually such a personage, in flesh and blood, as Captain Bilious Billy. Here is a fair list of the questions usually dished out by new acquaintances: “Why, I supposed the Whiz Bang was only ‘kidding’ and that ‘Captain Billy’ was merely a book name.” “And do you really drink that horrid moonshine?” “Did you have a hired man named Gus?” “Is Pedro your honest-to-goodness pedigreed bull?” “Is there actually a town named Robbinsdale?” “Did a honeymooning couple really leave their automobile seat with you when they went to the village constable to report the theft of their car?” It was necessary to plead guilty to nearly all the allegations heaped on me. Of course, poor Pedro is no more, he having “kicked the bucket” last July, and Gus, too, has sorta back-slid. Gus always was an in-and-outer anyway. * * * * * Gus, my old time hired man, has busted into poetry again. The old boy must be getting a whiff of the pine forests about Breezy Point Lodge. Well, here you go, Gus,—we’ll publish this one: _I am only a poor old wanderer;_ _I have no place to call my home;_ _No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,_ _As friendless and sadly I roam._ _It is tramp, tramp along though I’m weary;_ _To rest through the long, long day;_ _Through the rain and the snow I must tramp to and fro,_ _For it’s the poor tramp’s way._ _How I long for a place by the fireside,_ _When the night it is cold, chill and damp;_ _Vacant places I see, but there’s no room for me,_ _For I’m only a poor old tramp._ * * * * * The Ornery Pups