The tourist was one of that type which for some mysterious reason are more numerously encountered abroad than at home. He was doing the cathedral towns of England, not because he particularly was interested in English towns, or in cathedrals either, but because the guide book advised him to do so. Near the close of a glorious spring afternoon he stood on the greensward facing Canterbury cathedral with his legs planted far apart, his cap on the back of his head, his hands rammed deep into his trousers pockets, his cigar stuck into one corner of his mouth, and on his face an expression betokening profound boredom. The celebrated Canterbury chimes were ringing for vespers, filling all the air with silver melody, when a side door of the cathedral opened and there issued forth a little, plump, pink-cheeked, benevolent clergyman. He approached the visiting stranger and in cultured tones said to him: “I take it, sir, that you are a stranger?” “Hey?” inquired the American, cupping one hand about his ear. The clergyman raised his voice: “I assume, sir, that you are not a resident of these parts?” “Nope,” said the American. “I hail from Wyoming. It’s durned good State, too—best in the Union. You ought to come out there some time, Elder, and give us the once-over.” “Eh—quite so,” said the reverend gentleman. “Then,” he continued, “since you are newly-come to this place it must seem to you, even as it does to those of us who dwell in these cloistered and holy precincts, that the music of our glorious bells comes floating down to one almost like the voice of the Almighty Himself, seeking through the medium of their old brazen throats to communicate the message of peace on earth, goodwill to man, to us His children here below.” “Which?” inquired the visitor, inclining his head somewhat. “Er—what I meant to say,” stated the clergyman, “was that one must carry away from here, after hearing our chimes, the conviction in his soul that really he has been in communication with Deity itself—that the voices of the angels have cried out to him. Er—is it not so, my friend?” The American shook his head. “I’m sorry, parson,” he said regretfully, “but them damn bells is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear a word you say!” § 95 An Appeal to the Senses The editor of a New York evening newspaper has a little niece who, on her sixth birthday, received as presents a wrist-watch and a large bottle of perfumery. Having strapped on the watch, and copiously scented herself, the youngster spent the entire day proudly parading the apartment directing the attention of all and sundry to her new possessions. Eventually she became somewhat of a bore. For the evening some friends of her parents were coming in.