Some hollow flimflam about an aging, needy fox who decides to become a writer. ("Ha!" says the bulldog boarding-house-keeper. "You call that a job!") When the local fox ne'er-do-wells scoff, he tells them a story of his youthful cleverness; then, down with a chill, attended by doctor and minister, he confesses it wasn't "the whole truth." The next day, amazingly recovered, he announces he's giving up "this writing business." ("It's bad for my health.") Instead, he dons a smock and picks up a palette: "This better be good, Jones," says the bulldog, posing as the Statue of Liberty. Trite and lame.