Last week, bowling along in its perennial path through the heavens, the Earth fell in with some company that it always enjoys on or about Aug. 10—a shower of meteors from the constellation Perseus, probably remnants of "Tuttle's Comet of 1862," now disintegrated. Some of the shrewd little two-legged organisms that scurry hither and thither on the Earth's surface had known of the event in advance and were watching what they call their "northwest" skies to see the meteors come whizzing into terrestrial atmosphere. The latter, being thicker than interstellar ether, caused the hurtling chunks of rock to become incandescent with friction. "Shooting stars," murmured lovers in the dark. "The tears of St. Lawrence," whispered the devout, for Aug. 10 is the anniversary of that saint's martyrdom.* In Manhattan and at Schenectady, certain earthlings, adept at communicating with one another by impulses sent out electrically on the ether that fills in spaces between Earth's atmospheric gas molecules, watched and listened carefully to see if the shower of meteors would cause any waves of disturbance detectable by their instruments. Their reports on this matter were negative but inconclusive. They determined to watch and listen again on Nov. 13, when the Earth passes through a meteor field called the Leonids.
* In what the two-legged creatures of Earth call the year 258 A. D., a tyrant (Valerian) on the peninsula called Italy persecuted people who were conducting a religion of love and humility. One of Valerian's judges commanded Lawrence, deacon of Pope Sixtus II, to bring forth the treasures of his church. Lawrence produced the poor members of the congregation. The Judge had Lawrence burned alive on a gridiron. Why the Aug. 10 meteors should be named St. Lawrence's "tears," it is hard to say. For he was most brave in the midst of his torment. He is said to have exclaimed: "I am roasted enough on this side; turn me over and eat."