The research of G. W. de la Warr in his Oxford laboratory illustrated the power of thought on cellular growth and on photographic emulsion. He has also designed a number of diagnostic and therapeutic instruments that have aided him and his physician wife in diagnosing and treating patients at a great distance through a drop of the patient's blood to which they mentally tune in.

The rapidly growing field of parapsychology is piling up evidence of this type. In this connection I recall an example told me by the well-known student of psychic research Harold Sherman, who described his daily logged mental communications with an arctic explorer. One day Sherman awakened with a severe headache that he was at a loss to explain, inasmuch as he was not subject to headaches. Comparing diary notes on the explorer's return, they discovered that the timing of the headache coincided perfectly with a severe bump on the head his friend had suffered.

There is basically nothing new about these ideas, which we are rediscovering, since they are practiced unconsciously by all forms of life. An amateur naturalist for most of my life, I have been deeply impressed by the cosmic resonance theory as I have listened by the hour to the rhythmic chanting of frogs or the friendly whispering of crickets or watched the instantaneous departure of every member of a flock of cedar waxwings as they received some signal quite imperceptible to me. Many are the stories of this relationship of man to Nature, as told by the Kahunas or the American Indians.

Recently, J. Allen Boone, author of Kinship with All Life and The Language of Silence, described an experience of his that took place in Africa when he was traveling with a group of game hunters. He had heard of a place in the interior where a large band of monkeys frequently congregated and indulged in amazing acrobatic performances for which they had become famous. He set out for the place with the intention to arrive well ahead of his party. Picking a quiet spot under the shade of a tree, he sat down, identified himself with his surroundings, and waited.

After a reasonable lapse of time, monkeys seemed to arrive from everywhere. The out-of-doors became a great stage. They were climbing, swinging, chattering in a performance more remarkable than any zoo or circus could possibly provide In the midst of this rare spectacle, all motion suddenly ceased, and there was a silence so profound it was practically audible. In another moment every monkey had disappeared.

Boone glanced at his watch, for he wished to test a theory that had suggested itself. When the hunting party arrived some hours later, he queried them as to the exact time they had left camp. It was the same time that the monkeys disappeared!^l5

Captain Hounsell, the skipper of one of the Newfoundland coastal steamers, was well known to me during my time of medical service with the International Grenfell Hospital at St. Anthony, Newfoundland. Icebergs and heavy fogs were everyday hazards to these skippers in the days before radar. My wife tells of a trip with the captain to St. John's from our home port of St. Anthony. They were plying their way through White Bay in a dense fog one morning. Mrs. Loomis asked the mate how the captain knew where they were going. The mate replied that he had no idea but knew that the captain had another sense that most of us don't know how to use. Shortly the boat's whistle blew, and the anchor was dropped at Seal Cove. Nothing could be seen but fog and water. Then the motorboats from the shore began to arrive at the ship's side. The trip was completed as if there had been no fog, but how?