German scientist Gaspar Schott’s 1657 Magia universalis naturæ et artis includes a description of “the music of donkeys”: “the trick, according to Schott, lay in using male donkeys of particular natural pitches and stimulating them to bray with the urine of a female donkey, which will induce the males to make ‘most contented’ noises that the generous might construe as a kind of music.” Schott had argued that “the excessively discordant singing” of men and animals becomes sweeter when encountered rarely.

From Mark A. Waddell, Jesuit Science and the End of Nature’s Secrets, 2015.

Related: the cat organ and the piganino.

Scotland’s Paisley Abbey updated its gargoyles in 1991.

Dion is a person, a whole man. Theon is that part of Dion that does not include the left foot. Theon is a “proper part” of Dion — he’s part of Dion but not identical with him.

Now suppose we remove Dion’s left foot. What has happened? Do we now have two numerically different objects composed of the same matter and occupying the same place? If not, then either Theon or Dion has ceased to exist. Which? How?

(From Chrysippus.)

In It’s About Time (1935), Gerald Lynton Kaufman tells the fanciful story of sailor Timothy J. McCloskey, who was born on Leap Day 1876 and thus had celebrated only five birthdays when he went to sea in 1896. No leap year was observed in 1900, and he awoke after the night of February 28, 1904, to find that his ship had crossed the international date line in the night, bypassing Leap Day.

Thus he had to wait from February 29, 1896, to February 29, 1908, to advance from his fifth birthday (celebrated at 20 years of age) to his sixth birthday (celebrated at 32).

In Gilbert and Sullivan’s 1879 operetta The Pirates of Penzance, hero Frederic thinks he has completed his pirate apprenticeship at the end of his 21st year — but learns that he was born on February 29 and so must serve another 63 years to reach his “twenty-first birthday.”

How quaint the ways of Paradox!
At common sense she gaily mocks!
Though counting in the usual way,
Years twenty-one I’ve been alive,
Yet reckoning by my natal day,
I am a little boy of five!

On the evening of June 18, 1875, a fire broke out near a bonded storehouse on Ardee Street in Dublin, and by 9:30 some 5,000 hogsheads of whiskey had begun to explode in the heat. “Within an hour,” reported the Irish Examiner, “the surrounding streets resembled canals of flame.”

The “blazing stream … turned into Ardee-street, passed Watkins’ Brewery without damage, but catching the premises at the corner of Chamber-street, set fire to these, and continuing its course down into Mill-street, speedily demolished the entire of the row of small houses forming the south side of that thoroughfare.”

The evacuation was relatively rapid, and no one perished directly due to the fire. But “many of the crowd indulged to excess, drinking in some instances out of their shoes and hats, in which they had collected the whiskey.” As the undiluted spirits were much more potent than bottled retail whiskey, some 24 citizens were hospitalized due to alcohol poisoning, and 13 eventually died.

In 1876 the Belgian Society for the Elevation of the Domestic Cat transported 37 cats from Liège to the surrounding countryside. Released at 2 p.m., the first had found its way home by 6:48, and the rest followed within a day.

“This result has greatly encouraged the society, and it is proposed to establish at an early day a regular system of cat communication between Liège and the neighboring villages,” reported the New York Times.

“Messages are to be fastened in water-proof bags around the necks of the animals, and it is believed that … the messages will be delivered with rapidity and safety.” Somehow the plan wasn’t carried through; it’s hard to imagine why.