by Charles Fort
Common sense tells me that probably some especially vicious joker had been scattering venomous snakes around. But some more common sense tells me that I cannot depend upon common sense.
I have received letters upon strange appearances of living things in tanks of rain water that seemed inaccessible except to falls from the sky. Mr. Edward Foster, of Montego Bay, Jamaica, B.W.I., has told me of crayfishes that were found in a cistern of rain water at Port Antonio, Jamaica. Still, such occurrences may be explained, conventionally. But, in the London Daily Mail, Oct. 6, 1921, Major Harding Cox, of Newick, Sussex, tells of an appearance of fishes that is more mysterious. A pond near his house had been drained, and the mud had been scraped out. It was dry from July to November, when it was refilled. In the following May, this pond teemed with tench. One day, thirty-seven of them were caught. Almost anybody, interested, will try to explain in terms of spawn carried by winds, or in mud on the feet of water birds, but I am going right ahead with ideas different from Darwinian principles of biologic distributions. Major Cox, who is a well-known writer, probably reviewed all conventional explanations, but still he was mystified. There would not be so much of the interesting in this story, were it not for his statement that never before had a tench been caught in this pond.
Eels are mysterious beings. It may be that what are called their “breeding habits” are teleportations. According to what is supposed to be known of eels, appearances of eels anywhere cannot be attributed to transportations of spawn. In the New York Times, Nov. 30, 1930, a correspondent tells of mysterious appearances of eels in old moats and in mountain tarns, which had no connection with rivers. Eels can travel over land, but just how they rate as mountain climbers, I don’t know.
In the Amer. Jour. Sci., 16-41, a correspondent tells of a ditch that had been dug on his farm, near Cambridge, Maryland. It was in ground that was a mile from any body of water. The work was interrupted by rain, which fell for more than a week. Then, in the rain water that filled the ditch, were found hundreds of perch, of two species. The fishes could not have developed from spawn, in so short a time: they were from four to seven inches long. But there was, here, a marksmanship that strikes my attention. Nothing is said of dead fishes lying upon the ground, at sides of the ditch: hundreds of perch arrived from somewhere, exactly in this narrow streak of water. There could have been nothing so scattering as a “shower.” Accept this story, and it looks as if to a new body of water, vibrating perhaps with the needs of vacancy, there was response somewhere else, and that, with accuracy, hundreds of fishes were teleported. If somebody should have faith in us, and dig a ditch and wait for fish, and get no fish, and then say that we’re just like all other theorists, we explain that, with life now well-established upon this earth, we regard many teleportations as mere atavisms, of no functional value. This idea of need and response, or of the actively functional, is taking us into a more advanced stage of a conception of an organic existence. For a while, we shall make no progress with this expression, having much work to do, to make acceptable that there is teleportation, whether organic, or not.
Perhaps some sudden and widespread appearances of exotic plants were teleportations. Such appearances in Australia and New Zealand seem to be satisfactorily explained, as ordinary importations: but, in the London Daily News, April 1, 1924, Dr. F.E. Weiss, Professor of Botany, University of Manchester, tells of the Canadian pond weed that suddenly infested the canals and slow-moving rivers of England, about the year 1850, and says that the phenomenon never had been satisfactorily explained.
Cardiff (Wales) Evening Express, July 1, 1919—“The countryside is set by the ears!” That’s a queer way for a countryside or anything else to be set. There may have been a queer occurrence. It is said that, upon land, belonging to Mr. William Calvert, between the villages of Sturton and Stowe, ten miles from Lincoln, wheat had appeared. It was ten years since wheat had grown here. There had been barley, but this year the field had been left fallow. “It was a fine crop of wheat, apparently of more robust growth than some in the cultivated fields around. Farmers from far and near were going to see this phenomenon, but nobody could explain it.”
Perhaps, at the same time, another “mystery crop” appeared somewhere else. Sunday Express (London), Aug. 24, 1919—that, in a field, near Ormskirk, West Lancashire, where, the year before, because of a drought, wheat had died off so that there was nothing worth harvesting, a crop of wheat had appeared. That some of the seeds that had been considered worthless should sprout would not have been considered extraordinary, but this was “one of the best crops of vigorous, young wheat in West Lancashire, for the season.”
Though I am not a very pious theologian, I take respectful notice here. A Providence that gives one snails, or covers one’s property with worms, has to be called “inscrutable”: but we can understand a good crop of wheat better, and that is enough to make anybody grateful, until come following seasons, with no more benefactions.
We take up again the phenomenon of localized repetitions, which suggest the existence of persisting translatory currents. If again we come to the seemingly preposterous, we reflect that we have only preposterous pseudo-standards to judge by. In this instance, the sending of salt-water fishes to a fresh-water lake is no more out of place than, for instance, is the sending of chaplains to battleships: and, of course, in our view, it is what is loosely called Nature that is doing all things. Perhaps what is called Nature amuses itself by occasionally sending somewhat intelligent fellows to theological seminaries, and salt-water fishes to fresh water. Whether we theologians believe in God, or accept that there is an Organism, wherein we agree is in having often to apologize for him or it.
In Science, Dec. 12, 1902, Dr. John M. Clarke writes that a strange-looking fish had been caught in Lake Onondaga, Western New York, and had been taken to Syracuse. Here it was identified as a squid. Then a second specimen was caught.
Whatever thoughts we’re trying to develop did not belong away back in the Dark Age, or the other Dark Age, of the year 1902. Just where they do belong has not been decided yet. Said Dr. Clarke, with whatever reasoning abilities people had in the year 1902: “There are salt springs near Lake Onondaga: so perhaps there is, in the lake, a substratum of salt water.” The idea is that, for millions of years, there had been, in Lake Onondaga, ocean life down below, and fresh water things swimming around, overhead, and never mixing. Perhaps, by way of experiment, Dr. Clarke put salt water and a herring in an aquarium, and then fresh water and a goldfish on top, and saw each fish keeping strictly to his own floor, which is the only way to get along as neighbors.
Another scientist turned on his reasoning abilities. Prof. Ortman, of Princeton University, examined one of the specimens, which, according to him, was “a short-finned squid, of the North Atlantic, about thirteen inches long.” Prof. Ortman reasoned that Atlantic fishermen use squid for bait. Very well: then other fishermen may use squid for bait. So somebody may have sent for squid, to go fishing in Lake Onondaga, and may have lost a couple of live ones.
This is the science that is opposing our own notions. But for all I know, it may be pretty good science. An existence that would produce such explainers, might very well produce such fishermen. So perhaps fishermen of Lake Onondaga, with millions of worms around, send several hundred miles for squid, for bait, and perhaps Atlantic fishermen, with millions of squid available, send all the way to Lake Onondaga for worms. I’ve done foolisher, myself.
It seems to me that there is something suggestive in the presence of large deposits of salt near this lake, but I have heard nothing of salt water in it. There’s no telling about a story that was published, in the New York Times, May 2, 1882, but if it could be accepted, here would be something worth thinking about—that a seal had been shot, in Lake Onondaga. Some years before the appearance of the squid, another sea creature, a sargassum fish, had been caught in Lake Onondaga. It had been exhibited in Syracuse, according to Prof. Hargitt of Syracuse University (Science, n.s., 17-114)
. It has to be thought that these things were strays. If they were indigenous and propagated, they’d be common.
For various reasons, I do not think much of an idea of an underground passage, all the way from the ocean to Lake Onondaga: but, in the London Daily Mail, July 1, 1920, a correspondent expresses an idea, like this, as to mysterious appearances and disappearances of the Barbary apes of Gibraltar, conceiving of a submarine tunnel from Gibraltar to Africa. “All these creatures were well-known to the staff of the signal station on the Rock, many of the apes being named. The numbers sometimes change in the most unaccountable way. Well-known monkeys are absent for months, and then reappear with new, strange, adult monkeys of a similar breed. Those who know Gibraltar will agree that there is not a square yard on the Rock where they could have hidden.”
Chicago Citizen, Feb. 27, 1892—an alligator, 5½ feet long, found frozen to death on a bank of the Rock River, near Janesville, Wisconsin. In the Field, Sept. 21, 1895, it is said that a parakeet had appeared in a farmyard, where it was caught, at Gledhill, Ardgay, Scotland, and that, about two years later, another parakeet appeared in this farm yard, and was caught. Both birds were males. “No one living anywhere near had missed a bird, upon either occasion.”
Later, we shall have expressions upon psychological, and also physiological, effects of teleportative seizures. It may be that a living thing, in California, was, upon the first of August, 1869, shot from point to point, and was torn to pieces, in the passage.
Flesh and blood that fell “from the sky,” upon Mr. J. Hudson’s farm, in Los Nietos Township, California—a shower that lasted three minutes and covered an area of two acres. The conventional explanation is that these substances had been disgorged by flying buzzards. “The day was perfectly clear, and the sun was shining, and there was no perceptible breeze,” and if anybody saw buzzards, buzzards were not mentioned.
The story is told, in the San Francisco Evening Bulletin, Aug. 9, 1869. The flesh was in fine particles, and also in strips, from one to six inches long. There were short, fine hairs. One of the witnesses took specimens to Los Angeles, and showed them to the Editor of the Los Angeles News, as told in the News, August 3rd. The Editor wrote that he had seen, but had not kept the disagreeable objects, to the regret of many persons who had besieged him for more information. “That the meat fell, we cannot doubt. Even the parsons of the neighborhood are willing to vouch for that. Where it came from, we cannot even conjecture.” In the Bulletin, it is said that, about two months before, flesh and blood had fallen from the sky, in Santa Clara County, California.
London Daily Express, March 24, 1927—a butterfly, a Red Admiral, that had appeared in a corner of the Girls’ National School, at Whittlesey. It is said that every year, for sixteen years, a butterfly had so appeared in this corner of this room, about the end of February, or the first of March. I wrote to Miss Clarke, one of the teachers, and she replied, verifying the story, in general, though not vouching for an appearance every one of the sixteen years. I kept track, and wrote again, early in 1928. I copy the letter that I received from Miss E. Clarke, 95 Station Road, Whittlesey. As to the idea of jokes by little girls, I do not think that little girls could get Red Admiral butterflies, in the wintertime, in England.
“On the 9th of February, a few days before I received your letter, a lovely Red Admiral again appeared at the same window. The girls were all quietly at work, when suddenly a voice exclaimed: ‘Oh! Miss Clarke—the butterfly!’ This child was with me, last year, and remembered the sudden appearance then, which I may add, was later, March 2nd, in fact.”
“As I am writing, the visitor is fluttering about the window, and seems quite lively. Last year’s visitor lived about a month after its appearance, and then we found it dead.
“There is nothing else that I can tell you about our annual visitor, but really it does seem remarkable.”
Early in the year 1929, I again wrote to Miss Clarke, but this time she did not answer me. Maybe a third letter was considered too much of a correspondence with somebody who had not been properly introduced. Anyway, people do not like to go upon record, in such matters.
There are circumstances in the story of the children of Clavaux that linger in my mind. It was a story of a double, or reciprocating, current. I have searched for accounts of a mysterious disappearance and an equally mysterious appearance, or something in the nature of an exchange, in the same place.
Upon Dec. 12, 1910, a handsome, healthy girl disappeared somewhere in New York City. The only known man in her affairs lived in Italy. It looks as if she had no intention of disappearing: she was arranging for a party, a tea, whatever those things are, for about sixty of her former schoolmates, to be held upon the 17th of the month. When last seen, in Fifth Avenue, she said that she intended to walk through Central Park, on her way to her home, near the 79th Street entrance of the park. It may be that somewhere in the eastern part of the park, between the 59th Street and the 79th Street entrances, she disappeared. No more is known of Dorothy Arnold.
This day something appeared in Central Park. There was no record of any such occurrence before. As told, in the New York Sun, December 13th, scientists were puzzled. Upon the lake, near the 79th Street entrance, appeared a swan.
Mountainous districts of Inverness-shire, Scotland—mysterious footprints in the bogs—sheep and goats slaughtered. “A large, fierce, yellow animal of unknown species” was seen by a farmer, who killed it. More mysterious tracks in the bogs, and continued slaughter—another large, fierce, yellow animal was shot. Soon a third specimen was caught in a trap. “The body was sent to the London Zoo, where it was identified as that of a lynx.” See the London Daily Express, Jan. 14, 1927. There is no record of the lynx, as indigenous to Great Britain. “It is found, in Europe, in the Alps, and the Carpathians, and more often in the Caucasus. The last specimen, in France, was killed 100 years ago.”
I have a feeling of impiety, in recording this datum. So many of our data are upon a godness that so much resembles idiocy that to attribute intelligence to it may be even blasphemous. Early in this theological treatise we noted a widespread feeling that there is something of the divine in imbecility. But, if these three lynxes were teleported, say from somewhere in the Carpathians, there was good sense to this teleportation, and there was a good shot this time, because they landed in a lynx’s paradise. There is no part of Great Britain that is richer in game than is Inverness-shire, and the country abounds with deer and sheep. However, if into this Eden were shot an Adam and two Eves, and these two Eves cats, we may think of this occurrence with a restored piety.
In the London evening newspapers, Aug. 26, 1926, it was told that a mystery had been solved. People in Hampstead (London) had reported that, in the pond, in Hampstead Heath, there was a mysterious creature. Sometimes it was said that the unknown inhabitant was a phantom, and there were stories of dogs that had been taken to the pond, and had sniffed, and had sneaked away, “with their tails between their legs.” All this in a London park. There was a story of “a huge, black creature, with the head of a gorilla, and a bark like that of a dog with a sore throat.” Mostly these were fishermen’s tales. Anglers sit around this pond, and sometimes they catch something.
Upon the night of August 25th, the line of one of these anglers, named Trevor, was grabbed. He landed something.
This is Mr. Trevor’s story. For all I know, he may have been out on an iceberg somewhere, hunting for materials for his wife’s winter coat, catching something that was insufficient, if he had a large wife. All that can be said is that Trevor appeared at a hotel, near the pond, carrying a small animal that he said he had caught in the pond.
Mr. F.G. Gray, proprietor of the hotel, had an iron tank, and in this the creature was lodged: and the next day the newspapers told that a young seal had been caught. Reporters went to the place, and one of them, the Evening News representative, took along Mr. Shelley, of the London Zoo. Mr. Shelley identified the animal as a young seal and no tame specimen, but a
wild one that snapped at fingers that were poked anywhere near him.
So it was said that a mystery had been solved.
But there were stories of other seals that had been seen or had been heard barking, before the time of the birth of this seal, in this London pond. One would think that the place was somewhere in Greenland. It was Mr. Gray’s statement that for several years, there had been, intermittently, these sounds and appearances. The pond is connected with the River Fleet, which runs into the Thames, and conceivably a seal could make its way, without being reported, from the ocean to this park, far inland in London: but the idea of seals coming and going, without being seen on the way, in a period of several years, whereas in centuries before nothing of the kind had been heard of, was enough to put this story where most of our other stories, or data, have been put. Mostly the opinion is that they should stay there.
London Daily Mail, Nov. 2, 1926—“Tale that taxes credulity!” “A story of two seals, within three months, in a local pond, is taxing the credulity of residents of Hampstead.” But there is a story of another seal that had been caught, after a struggle, dying soon after capture. In the Daily Chronicle, it is said that the “first mystery catch” was still in the tank, in a thriving condition.
I have come upon more, though to no degree enlighteningly more, about the apes of Gibraltar. In the New York Sun, Feb. 6, 1929, Dr. Raymond L. Ditmars tells of an “old legend” of a tunnel, by which apes travel back and forth, between Africa and Spain. No special instances, or alleged instances, are told of. In Gilbard’s History of Gibraltar, published in 1881, is mention of the “wild and impossible theory of communication, under sea, between Gibraltar and the Barbary coast.” Here it is said that the apes were kept track of, so that additions to families were announced in the Signal Station newspaper. The notion of apes in any way passing across the Mediterranean is ridiculous to Gilbard, but he notes that there are so many apes upon the mountain on the African side of the Strait of Gibraltar that it is known as the Hill of Apes.
