there
are separations by strata. (Wilson.)

The datum that, just at present, leads me to accept that these flints
were made by beings about the size of pickles, is a point brought out by
Prof. Wilson (_Rept. National Museum_, 1892-455):

Not only that the flints are tiny but that the chipping upon them is
"minute."

Struggle for expression, in the mind of a 19th-century-ite, of an idea
that did not belong to his era:

In _Science Gossip_, 1896-36, R.A. Galty says:

"So fine is the chipping that to see the workmanship a magnifying glass
is necessary."

I think that would be absolutely convincing, if there were
anything--absolutely anything--either that tiny beings, from pickle to
cucumber-stature, made these things, or that ordinary savages made them
under magnifying glasses.

The idea that we are now going to develop, or perpetrate, is rather
intensely of the accursed, or the advanced. It's a lost soul, I
admit--or boast--but it fits in. Or, as conventional as ever, our own
method is the scientific method of assimilating. It assimilates, if we
think of the inhabitants of Elvera--

By the way, I forgot to tell the name of the giant's world:

Monstrator.

Spindle-shaped world--about 100,000 miles along its major axis--more
details to be published later.

But our coming inspiration fits in, if we think of the inhabitants of
Elvera as having only visited here: having, in hordes as dense as clouds
of bats, come here, upon hunting excursions--for mice, I should say: for
bees, very likely--or most likely of all, or inevitably, to convert the
heathen here--horrified with anyone who would gorge himself with more
than a bean at a time; fearful for the souls of beings who would guzzle
more than a dewdrop at a time--hordes of tiny missionaries, determined
that right should prevail, determining right by their own minutenesses.

They must have been missionaries.

Only to be is motion to convert or assimilate something else.

The idea now is that tiny creatures coming here from their own little
world, which may be Eros, though I call it Elvera, would flit from the
exquisite to the enormous--gulp of a fair-sized terrestrial animal--half
a dozen of them gone and soon digested. One falls into a brook--torn
away in a mighty torrent--

Or never anything but conventional, we adopt from Darwin:

"The geological records are incomplete."

Their flints would survive, but, as to their fragile bodies--one might
as well sear