Entries Tagged 'Science & Natural History' ↓

On the broad, brown salt meadows that skirt the Housatonic river just above its mouth is a vast colony of marsh wrens. In the acres of tangled tules and cat-tails they have built nests innumerable, prettily woven affairs of reed and cat-tail leaves. The nests, which are as large as one’s head, are so compactly constructed and so thoroughly thatched as to be entirely weather-tight. As a rule, the thrifty little chattering wrens prefer not to occupy a last year’s nest, so there are eery season hundreds of empty ones. They are not allowed to remain vacant long, however, for there are too many creatures seeking just such snug shelters.

One species of field or meadow mice, take possession of a great many of them, and the old mice can be seen at all times of the day nimbly running up and down the reeds, coming to an going from their cosy homes. Like most squatters, they are not the most desirable settlers, and, sad to say, frequently repay their open-hearted landlords by eating all the pink eggs in the near-by wrens’ nests. If caught in the act, a dozen of the excited birds will organize a vigilance committee, trail the thief to his home and drive him and his family from the nest, tearing it to pieces to prevent any return.

Big spiders, too, love to nest in the abandoned basket-like abodes, and live for many seasons in them.

The most desirable tenants of all are the big black and white hornets. By fare the greater number of the old nests are inhabited by these fiery fellows, and, odd to relate, they are best of friends with the landlords. As if by agreement with the wrens, they keep a perpetual guard over the new nests, as well as those where they live. Let a dog, an unconscious rail or snipe shooter, a bird’s-egging boy, or any creature whatever approach the nests within a few yards, and, suddenly, without warning, a cohort of winged warriors will fall on the intruder, and flight is the only safe course. To fight would mean death, for the hornets would soon be reinforced by other nestfuls until they would cover the victim and sting him to death.

The wrens seem fully conscious of the value of such sentinels, for they take care to build their new nests always very near the old. The birds are themselves very defenseless, and, their nests being easily located on account of size and the noise made by the wrens, they have been in some localities entirely wiped out by egg-collectors. The boys have learned to give this colony a wide berth, however, and the Housatonic marsh-wrens are fast increasing in numbers, and, unless the hornets shift their quarters, are likely to sing happily there in the reeds and raise many a brood of young in years to come.

Since the Unitary Theory explains the structure of the entire Cosmos, from bottom to top, using only the sane rational methods employed by a mechanic in a machine shop, why debase our reason by attempting to explain cosmic construction by mystic flubdub? Suppose we did not understand terrestrial mechanics, but did perfectly comprehend all the outside Cosmos. Would it no then be absurd to assume our earth mechanics were unique, contrary to all outside phenomena, a mushy mystic miasma?

Well, then, in reverse, why guess idiotically about the Outside when we know the Inside? Should it not be all alike? A mathematician has no doubt about the universality of mathematics. But the mystic physicist, who sees it all spread out at his feet, in his eyes and hands, dreams that a lunatic eddingsteinian bedlam of erratic disorder prevails beyond our Sun, tho at the same time he demands that his light come straight thru all the grotesqueries of curveting “empty space,” ether with its “permanent waves,” parallel lines which criss-cross at infinity, reflect and return in reversed parallel, bricks made from buildings, light traveling faster than its own subconstituent units like a train running faster than its diner’s fans thru space; colors with equal speeds because Algol’s winks reach us, at our great distance, as gray in stead of prismatic; gravitation (which “can’t be seen and therefore can’t exist”), but a fairy tale scene shifter in the farce called Regional Geometry (tho a corkscrew on earth shows us how gravity really works); “space eating mass,” the Universe is “running down, expanding and exploding;” space has from four to fifty odd extra (fairy tale) dimensions beyond geometry’s limit of three–length, breadth, depth; gravity nonchalantly and capriciously rolls down warps, ruts and tilting bowling alleys of an uncurvable nothingness, dubbed “curved space,” along its “easiest way,” like a wanton scornful of interfering reactions.

And many other equally wild lunacies, such as the skeery mysteries of the “awful depths” of “empty space” (which should be equally scared of the “awful distant us”); “vast distant nebulae,” fleeing in panic from the ever fixed centric Man-Devil (sizzling thru space at 23 miles per second), at speeds causing light to blush, with a red faced spectrum; tho their light reaches us–they claim–in regular schedule time. Mass spends velocity as a spendthrift spends money–the faster it goes the “shorter” it becomes. All the above is contrary to fact. Nightmares of Mystic Mental Cholic. And if you will only believe all the foregoing, “they will tell you some more.” Allright. Swallow this:

Their pet mascot, Man’s all-cosmic champion light unit, is the sole unique Outlaw and Gangster, privileged to break the universal Cosmic Law of Action and Reaction, of Cause and Effect, of all-impartial Orderliness. It reflects and refracts, to be sure; but only because it desires to do so of its own free will. But it arrogantly refuses to accept velocity reactions from other mass as all other mass units are compelled to do. Man’s light defies the Cosmos–UNLESS–the Mysticks are only Mistooks and you can safely bet your last dollar against them on almost any bet they offer. And they are our leaders? Nerts!

These Mystic Vaudevillians for twenty years have been putting over the greatest Farce in Science. It is time “they got a laugh.” One Great World Roar! Surely the audience has not taken these showmen seriously! They are just having a lot of fun at our expense and, meanwhile, gathering in huge royalties while spoofing us. Readers! Is it not about time we “cleaned house” in Science and swept these goofy mystics out into the backyard? Have you not enough plain common-sense to take their measure, to see what they really are? Well, turn on the Hose of Reason, swab the Ground Floor of Science, draing them down the Sewer to Oblivion, to sink beneath the Sea of Sane Thought–the Ocean of Truth.

An orthod-ox will not believe anything is what it is unless it happens to be just what “he was told” he “must believe” it to be. All of which boils down to the alleged definition by a precocious English child: “Faith is believing what you know is not so.”

Real scientists never believe even a demonstrated fact fanatically. They are ever ready to repair a tentative acceptance to harmonize with later evidence. Fanaticism cannot flourish on Truth, it must feed on Fantasy, where it takes a real effort to “believe” and so should earn a reward for concession and share in its emoluments. It is a “racket.” The truth seeker is never a fanatic. He has no fantasies to be fanatic about So he is serene and humane, civilized. He does not strive to force his opinions on others, since he may soon change them himself. “Live and let live” is his motto. In short, he is “for man.”

“Vast distant stars,” “remote depths of space” and “gigantic nebulae” are but relativities. They exist evertywhere, up and down, around and within us. They are but points of view and everything which ever happens within, to or from, them occurs in replica in all planes of size. Our Home Cosmic Circus is a complete and every bit as good as those distant awful mygodhowwonderful ones. If you feel awed be honest enough to realize you but feel ignorant. Awe means only, “aw! I don’t understand.” Eliminate awe as you would dust from a telescope’s lens or, self-blinded you will never see.

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The Cosmos is one infinite theatre, with stages in every plane of size, each stage ever presenting the same play, plot and scenes. The play is continuous, eternal. The actors come and go. Each actor thinks himself a permanent star, but he is only a temporary “super” in a “one-night” stand. Ho, Hum!

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Now read the Entire Cosmic Play–in the Rational Non-Mystical Cosmos. One act, one actor, one trick–reaction. Duplicated infinetly, endlessly.

GEORGE F. GILLETTE. New York City (1935).

(From an addendum to Orthod Oxen of Science: Synoptic conspectus of author’s Unitary Theory. Published by George F. Gillette, Author of Unity of Universe, Cycle of Power, Rational Non-Mystical Cosmos at the Blackstone Publishers, New York City, 1936.)

Dr. Antonin Martin recommends the drinking of a large glass of water off rusty nails. Immediately the rank taste of the oil is changed to that of fresh oysters, and the unpleasant regurgitations disappear.–(Jour. de méd. de Paris) Can. Pract.

Reported in The Medical Analectic; Volume 2, Issue 9, September 1885. (Edited by Walter S. Wells, M.D.)

Prof. Samuel A. King, the aeronaut, made his two hundred and eleventh ascension on Saturday from Scranton. The balloon used for the occasion was the mammoth “King Carnival,” which requires 25,000 feet of gas for inflation. The story of the voyage can best be told in the words of the aeronaut himself:

“When I escaped the steeple,” he narrated last night, “I turned to salute the crowd, but I was traveling so fast that I guess they failed to see me. It was blowing a perfect gale. Seven minutes after the start I was on a level with the lower cloud strata, or 4,000 feet above the earth. Down below I could see nothing but woods and mountains. I was then rushing through the air at a terrible rate. I had never experienced anything like it before since my Boston ascension several years ago, when I made thirty miles in twenty-five minutes. In nine minutes from the start I got into the second strata of clouds and passed from sight. I then endeavored to keep the balloon down by allowing the gas to escape, so as to keep it from getting into the sunshine. The heat of the clouds, however, caused the gas to expand, and I passed upward again. Looking up I saw a mist, or haze. In a moment more I was above this again, and by making calculations I found that I was two miles up. At the juncture the expansion caused the gas to overflow, and I began to descend; nearing the earth I found nothing under me but woods and forests. The wind was howling through them, and the swaying of the trees produced a sound like a mighty roar. The idea of making a landing there was frightful, and so, throwing out ballast, I went up again. This time I went up into clear air, with nothing above me but the clear, blue sky. All this time I was rushing along at a glorious rate. At an altitude of three miles the sun was very hot, a circumstance which helped me to get rid of the chills which the wind had given me. After traveling on at this altitude about an hour and a half, I determined to make a descent. When I reached the clouds, the sudden coolness caused accelerated speed downward, and I had to throw out all the ballast I had to check it. Through the rifts in the clouds I could see that the country I was passing over was richly cultivated. I got the drag-rope and anchor ready. Presently I heard the noise of a river, which I took to be the Delaware, but which afterward proved to be the Schuylkill. I continued to descend, and at last came to the ground in a field. I threw out the drag-rope, which trailed along the tops of the trees, serving to break my speed. Reaching about thirty feet from the ground, I threw out my anchor, and, taking my collapsing cord in one hand and the valve cord in the other, waited to see what would turn up. Presently the force of the wind sent the balloon over till it touched the ground, uprooting the anchor, and the car, suddenly released, was thrown forward with terrific force toward a pile of fences. These I managed to clear, and then realizing the danger, I decided to use the collapsing cord, which slit the balloon open on one side from top to bottom. The movement of the car was, however, so rapid that in a moment it dashed against a long fence, which it knocked down like a piece of paper, and went away across a field, coming like a broadside against a tree. I managed to jump out just in time to escape the crash. It still continued to rock to and fro and in a little while the branches of the tree had torn it to pieces. Shortly afterward a crowd of countrymen came up and I found that I was in the grounds of the Perkiomen Company, three-quarters of a mile from Oak Station, Montgomery County. When I first touched earth it was ten minutes to two o’clock, so that I had made 140 miles inside of two hours. The country men helped me to pack up the fragments, and here I am again, as safe and sound as ever. But I have never been through the air at that rate, I can tell you, and the landing was anything but a pleasant experience. It is one consolation that, gale or no gale, I shall have no terra firma to encounter in my ocean voyage.”–Philadelphia Record.

A reporter for the Sun some time ago made the acquaintance of a gentleman in Livingston County, who is himself a living illustration of the carelessness with which an excited mob of men are accustomed to fool with a man’s life if they once get him into their clutches. The gentleman alluded to is now in the city, en route with his family to Texas, which State he will make his future home, and from him permission was obtained to make use of the following facts:

The most of our readers are familiar with the details of the murder of Marks, the Evansville commercial traveler, at a point between the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers, known as “The Narrows,” several years ago. The name of the murderer was Sullivant, and he was a merchant at the point named and was in the habit of buying goods of the firm for which Marks was traveling. Marks, on his rounds, called on him as usual. Sullivant invited him to spend the night with himself in the store. That was the last ever seen of the unfortunate “drummer” alive. His mutilated remains were subsequently exhumed from a grave near by, where they had been placed by Sullivant, who undoubtedly slew him for the purpose of robbery.

But with the strange fatality which so often pursues the perpetrator of a great crime, the criminal makes some blunder, which almost invariably makes his detection easy. In this case Sullivant sent a forged receipt for moneys paid and a receipted order for more goods. The firm, knowing that the documents were not in the handwriting of their agent, retained them. And when it was ascertained that he had disappeared, in the hands of detectives they at once furnished the clew which, in the end, secured the capture and conviction of the real criminal.

This is simply as a preface to the story of Mr. George W. McGee.

While the officers were searching for a clue to the whereabouts of Marks, some one, whose name McGee, to this day, does not know, artfully threw suspicioins on Mr. McGee. This suspicion was fanned and kept alive by Sullivant. The result was that McGee was one night taken from his bed by a mob of armed men, a rope attached to his neck, the other end of which was attached to the pommel of a saddle, and away he went. Arriving at a lonely spot in the woods–and one who has ever traveled the country “between the rivers,” as it is called, knows that there are many places in that locality peculiarly adapted to deeds of violence–the rope was detached from the saddle, and while these midnight marauders gathered around by the light of a lantern illuminated by the faint glare of one sickly candle, the line was thrown over the low-hanging branches of a tree, made taut, and McGee at the same time informed that he had better speedily make his peace with God, as he had but a few moments to live. He was urged by the leader to tell the whereabouts of Marks’ remains and, if any, his accomplices in the “taking off.” As McGee was entirely innocent of any knowledge of the dark deed, of course he could only answer that he knew nothing about it. His assertion, “So help me God, gentlemen, I never saw or heard of the man before in my life,” was answered by the remark from Sullivant himself, “George that is too thin!” Mr. McGee says that he distinctly saw the lantern wave twice in the air. He was lifted bodily from the ground into the air; he knew that he was being drawn up over the limb by the rope. There was no pain as long as he was ascending. When he settled back, however, with a slight jerk, his suffering was excruciating. He could feel his eyes turn suddenly into balls of fire and protrude from their sockets. He tried to scream, but no sound issued from his throat. His arms were unpinioned and he endeavored to raise his hands, so as to grasp the rope above his head, that he might relieve that terrible shortening of his breath, which seemed, at each muscular attempt at respiration, as if the air would escape from his lungs and force itself out through the pores of the skin on his breast and back. The muscles of the arm refused to obey his will. His joints experienced a sensation similar to that one would imagine the piercing of red-hot needles would produce. The knees twitched and jerked convulsively. All this in apparently a minute of time. Then a delicious sensation of “cool numbness,” to use his own words, commencing at his extremities, stole gradually over him. He lost all desire to save himself–he preferred to die where he was. Almost every act of his life–no matter how trivial–flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. A distant roar, as of a faraway cataract, grew gradually more and more distinct, until the fearful noise was almost deafening, then changed with the rapidity of thought itself into the most delicious music he had ever heard. Everything became as light as midday (although he could distinguish nothing of his surrounding), and finally unconsciousness. “It was not absolute unconsciousness, either,” said Mr. McGee. “I cannot describe it intelligibly. I do not know of any words that would convey to you a correct idea of the sensation–I was myself, and I was not myself. I seemed to be sailing away through space, as you have seen a large bird float through the atmosphere, without the apparent motion of a wing or feather. Another thing that is indelibly impressed upon my mind, was the terrible, oppressive, horrible silence–worse than silence–stillness, that existed above, below and about me. Still I floated on and on, perfectly contented, asking for nothing, thinking of nothing, hoping for nothing; ever, and with increasing rapidity, moving on and upward.”

But gradually, continued Mr. McGee, this perfectly contented, devil-may-care feeling commenced to disappear. He became conscious of bodily pain again. It seemed as if iron bands had been tightened with screws about his head and chest. He consciously grasped for breath. He heard voices–the words undistinguishable at first; then one or two, here and there, he understood. At last, fully restored to consciousness, he heard his captors quarreling fiercely as to whether he should be strung up again or carried to the Smithland Jail. He was lying on the ground his throat bleeding from the cruel rope, which still encircled his neck. Water was brought from a creek near by and dashed over him. And at last he was mounted upon a horse, and still in a half dazed condition moved away.

He arrived at Smithland about daylight, was locked up in the Jail, where he remained three days and was then released, Sullivant taking his place. The latter is now serving out a life sentence at Frankfort.

“And,” asked the reporter, “you think, then, you came near starting up the golden stairs, Mr. McGee?”

“Starting,” answered that gentleman, “I was already halfway up. They needn’t tell me, sir, there is no hereafter–no next world! I believe I have been nearer to it than any man alive. I do not know what kind of a world it is, but of life after death I am satisfied. You know that all the while I was floating upward my body was dangling by a rope to the limb of a tree, practically, sir, practically, as dead–as dead as a door-nail.”–Paducah (Ky.) Sun

During a recent religious festival at Alvartirunagari, on the banks of the Tambramini, a terrible tragedy was enacted by an elephant. Like most large temples this has its periodical festivals, one of which has just been celebrated. Certain elephants were brought down from Nunguneri and Tinnevelly for the festivities of the occasion. All went smoothly till, unfortunately, the large elephant of Nunguneri, being in a rut, run amuck. The mahout unwittingly took up a little child (son of the Temple Darmakartha) and placed it in front of him on the neck of the elephant. Alarmed at the state of the elephant, the mahout endeavored to quietly pass the child out of danger by handing it to somebody behind. He was not quick enough to elude the sagacity of the elephant, which snatched up the child, put it into his mouth, and began munching it. The mahout, horrified at the sight, jumped down and tried to extricate the child, which he succeeded in doing, but not before the child was well nigh dead. Indeed, it only breathed for a few minutes afterward, and then expired. Enraged beyond all bounds, the animal became furious, and in its mad rage seized the mahout, dashed him to the ground, and then trampled out any little breath that might have still remained in the body. And here comes a strange and touching incident. Repenting seemingly of his awful misdeed, the elephant gathered up what was the moment before his master, proceeded to his (the mahout’s) house, and, depositing his mournful burden at his door, passed on. The people generally, in great dread, closed their doors and windows. The elephant wildly rushed along the streets and came to the temple, the door of which, too, had been closed. It thereupon battered the door, and passing into the enclosure, furiously attacked the little elephant of Tinnevelly, which it pierced with its tusks and soon killed. Emerging thence, the elephant rushed madly along the river close by, where it began throwing mud and sand all over itself. In the meantime, the police constables had got their muskets loaded, and, climbing out of danger, took potshots at the furious animal, which they eventually succeeded in disabling and ultimately killing.

A mere accident, less strange, to be sure, than that which made Berthold Schwarz invent gunpowder, but which, nevertheless, must be regarded as a hint of Providence, directed him to another, and we can now say, the only right way. It was thus: It sometimes happened that quantities of percussion caps were sent back to him, having been spoiled by moisture. In order to prevent this, Dreysse conceived of the idea of protecting them against dampness by covering them with a thin film of paper. The result proved to be the very opposite, for the paper attracted moisture, and a very large order, which had been constructed in this way, was sent back to him, as they were entirely spoiled and unfit for use. This was a great loss to the firm, as copper was very dear at that time. In order to obtain the copper of the caps for further manufacturing purposes. Dreysse decided to remove the fulminating composition. In order to effect this with as little loss of time as possible, he wanted to do it by explosion. After various unsatisfactory attempts, the idea occurred to him of accomplishing it by means of a pin or needle constructed for that purpose. This experiment proved to be entirely successful, and like lightning the idea struck him of using the needle altogether for exploding the cartridge. Not less quickly a second idea dawned on his mind–that of removing the entire explosive material into the cartridge, to save the expensive copper used heretofore for caps. This was the first important step in the construction of the Prussian needle-gun. Dreysse at once set to work, and in the beginning of 1829 the first needle-gun was made.–Hours at Home.

Modern high explosives are again bringing the principle of the old gunpowder engine into prominence. Col. Barker, superintendent of the British small arms factory at Sparkbrook, in recently speaking of the subject, made the point that while one pound of gunpowder was capable of developing over 170,000 foot pounds of energy, the new smokeless powders were capable of still more, and at the same time left no solid residue, as ordinary gunpowder did, on combustion. The latter, too, developed in combustion only about 280 volumes of permanent gases, while the new powders gave off nearly 1,000 volumes. With this encouragement, it is not at all unlikely that the gunpowder engine inventor will set to work with renewed enthusiasm.–Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.