(Ed. Note--The Crimson does not necessarily endorse opinion expressed in printed communications. No attention will be paid to anonymous letter and only under special conditions, at the request of the writer, will names be with held.)
To The Editor of The CRIMSON:
Is there really nothing to be done about that would-be carilloneur who shatters the foggy calm of each early Sabbath morn with one-finger renditions of such dear old favorites as "Nearer My God To Thee" and "Onward Christian Soldiers"? Undaunted by occasional mistakes, undeterred by the combined sarcastic clangor from six other steeples, he crashes out his pathetic revival-meeting cacophonies without benefit of half-notes, but with a boundless enthusiasm comparable only to that of a small boy with a horn on Christmas morning. I don't know which egliso employs this generous artist, but if there is any chance of buying him off, I am willing to contribute as my share a railroad ticket to Padueah Texas. Sedgwick Mead.
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Naked Fakir
