nterbury on
Saturday afternoon, after a short run from London through one of the
loveliest counties of England. Such bewitching shades of green. Such
lovely little hills,--friendly, companionable little hills. I can't
bear mountains. It is like trying to be intimate with queens and
empresses. They overpower me.

Canterbury was enchanted ground to me. We found the very old cellar
over which stood the Canterbury Inn. I could picture the whole thing
to myself. I even reconciled Chaucer's spelling with the quaintness
and curiousness of the old, old town.

We strolled up to St. Martin's Church, said to be the oldest church in
England, and wandered around the churchyard, filled with glorious roses
creeping everywhere over tombs so old that the lettering is illegible.
When the sun set, we had the most beautiful view of Canterbury to be
had anywhere, and one of the most beautiful in all England.

We sat down to a cold supper that night in a charming little inn with
diamond-paned windows. But as Jimmie loves Paris cooking and would
almost barter his chances of heaven for a smoking dish of _sole a la
Normande_ at the Cafe Marguery, he cast looks of deep aversion at a
side table loaded with all sorts of cold and jellied meats. His choice
of evils finally fell upon chicken, and to the purple-faced waiter with
blue-white eyes, who asked what part of the fowl he would prefer,
Jimmie said:

"The second joint."

The waiter frowned and went away. Presently he came back and asked
Jimmie over again, and again Jimmie said, "The second joint."

He went away and came back with a fine cut of beef.

"What's this?" said Jimmie. "I ordered chicken."

"Yes, sir!" said the waiter, mopping his brow, "What part would you
like, sir?"

"The second joint," said Jimmie, with ominous distinctness. "That is
if English chickens _grow_ any."

"Yes, sir, yes, sir," said the poor waiter.

He hurried away, and finally brought up the head waiter.

"What part of the fowl would you like, sir? This man did not
understand your order."

Jimmie leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the waiters without
speaking.

"How many parts are there to a chicken?" said Jimmie. "As your man
does not seem to speak English, you name them over, and when you come
to the one I want, I'll scream."

Both waiters shifted their weight to the other foot and looked
embarrassed.

"I want the knee of the chicken," said Jimmie. "From the knee-cap to