
“I pay the schoolmaster, but ’tis the schoolboys that educate my son.” — Emerson, journal, May 25, 1849

“I pay the schoolmaster, but ’tis the schoolboys that educate my son.” — Emerson, journal, May 25, 1849

When 22-year-old student Christian LeBlanc fed a basket of bananas to a group of elephants on the Thai island of Koh Phangan in 2015, one of them seized his GoPro camera by its mount, and when the self-timer triggered the shutter he got “the worlds first ever Elfie.”
“Elephants are incredibly intelligent and it definitely makes you wonder if it was a conscious action,” he wrote. So who gets the credit? For now, in the judgment of Wikimedia, “This file is in the public domain because, as the work of a non-human animal, it has no human author in whom copyright is vested.”
A brilliant device from the Japanese television variety show Kasou Taishou. Another:

Because he had to earn a living painting portraits, Thomas Gainsborough could not spend as much time sketching outdoors as he would have liked. So he arranged pieces of moss, rock, vegetables, and mirror into tabletop “landscapes” that he could paint at night by candlelight.
Joshua Reynolds recalled him collecting “broken stones, dried herbs, and pieces of looking glass, which he magnified and improved into rocks, trees, and water.” Another visitor wrote, “I … have more than once sat by him of an evening and seen him make models … for landscape scenery on a little old-fashioned folding oak table. … He would place cork or coal for his foregrounds; make middle grounds of sand and clay, bushes of moss and lichens, and set up distant woods of broccoli.”
Holst’s The Planets premiered in 1918, 12 years before Pluto was discovered.
So in 2000 Colin Matthews wrote an eighth movement, “Pluto, the Renewer,” to complete the cycle.
(I’m not sure of its status since 2006, when the International Astronomical Union reclassified Pluto a dwarf planet.)
The library of St John’s College, Oxford, used to hold a copy of Spenser’s The Faerie Queene that bore a student’s penciled comment on the last page:
“First I thought Troilus And Criseyde was the most boring poem in English. Then I thought Beowulf was. Then I thought Paradise Lost was. Now I know that The Faerie Queen is the dullest thing out. Blast it.”
It had been written by Philip Larkin, who had studied English there in the 1940s.
Fixed to the front of the clock case in the north transept of Chester Cathedral is a poem by Henry Twells (1823–1900):
When as a child I laughed and wept,
Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold,
Time strolled.
When I became a full grown man,
Time RAN.
When older still I daily grew,
Time FLEW.
Soon I shall find, in passing on,
Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?
Amen.
He called it “Time’s Paces.”
The plot of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in the meter of Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha, by Martin Woodhead:
You shall hear how Lady Constance,
Tiring of her wounded husband
(Poor Sir Clifford, high war-hero,
Inconvenienced by shrapnel),
Found a gamekeeper called Mellors
Who would teach her in his lunch-hour
(And in language frank and fearless
Such as wives and servants blush at)
To admire the lower orders
While that blighted Bart, Sir Clifford
(Let us waste no pity on him,
For the man was paraplegic),
In his new electric wheelchair
Tried to drive it up a tunock —
Tried and tried, and couldn’t make it.
From a Spectator competition. Chatterley in Field & Stream. Hiawatha in condensed matter physics.

Winner of a clerihew contest sponsored by Games magazine in 1983:
Did Descartes
Depart
With the thought
“Therefore I’m not”?
In 1986, Michael Kinsley, editor of The New Republic, spotted the headline “Worthwhile Canadian Initiative” in the New York Times and challenged his readers to come up with a more boring one. This was a tall order: The Times head, someone said, manages to be “not only boring as a whole, but boring word by word.” Submissions included:
The winner was found in the New York Times science section: “Debate Goes on Over the Nature of Reality.”