- Sir Isaac Newton

Our fuzz-clad friend beholds an artifact previously produced from his prodigious pouch. It is a World War I German Kaiser helmet, complete with a spike protruding from its apex. The wombat turns it over and over in his fuzzy paws, a pensive look on his fuzzy countenance.

"Nice lid", remarks the raccoon from behind his cool shades as he skulks past.

"Thanks, Rocky", replies the wombat as he places the pointy headgear on his head.

Two trees stand nearby. They look like twins, standing several meters apart, straight and tall. Our proud projectile stretches an inner tube, produced not from his pocket, but from the spare tire of the elderly school bus, between the twin trees. As he stands back to look at his work, the Macaw, sitting on a branch nearby, thinks, "Bless his pointy little head. I believe he's taken up archery"

Finally, with a contented sigh and a determined look, bub dons the pointy headgear. He marches Teutonically across the jungle floor, fumbling in his pocket for some other arcane treasure. He produces a can of spray paint and a rather tall stepladder and begins to draw a target on the side of a very large tree. This accomplished, he places the ladder back in his pocket for later use.

The dove, lovely and lighter than air, happens by, flitting through the sky and lights on a branch nearby. Although the first thought that comes to her is, "Gee, there's nothing on earth he looks less like than an arrow", she smiles at the dauntless dart and sings softly, "Good luck, bub. This will be your grandest spectacle of all".

The wombat lost in deep thought, replies, "thank you, love. Er. I mean dove" and blushes beneath his fuzz. He wanders back to his sling and positions his fuzzy round butt at the exact center of the stretched inner tube.

The wombat retreats. The inner tube stretches further. The jungle regulars study the intended flight path and position themselves specifically Somewhere Else.

Huffing, puffing, never bluffing, the Wombat inches backward with all his strength, stretching the inner tube tighter and tighter. The tension of the black rubber sling is eclipsed only by that of those jungle denizens not lucky enough to find the Very Best hiding places.

The audacious arrow lifts four fuzzy feet from the floor of the jungle. Instantly airborne, experiencing the now familiar acceleration tickle, our bespiked ballistic one flies low, chuckling low, headlong toward the spray painted target.

TWACK!

That's the sound of a fuzzy arrow striking the bull's eye of a target painted on the side of a very large tree.

ROAR!!!

That's the sound of the entire citizenry of the jungle ovating at once. For once, it seems, the wombat has pulled off a grand spectacle Without a Hitch. The ovation continues and the wombat, still spiked securely to the side of the tree and unable to bow, wiggles his paws in response.

Eventually the applause dies, but the wombat continues to wiggle his paws enigmatically. When the quiet of the jungle is finally restored, the shouts of "way to go, wombat!" and "nice job, bub" no longer echo through the dark forest, several animals, Going About their Business, notice that the marsupial continues to wiggle his paws.

"Say bub", sez the Moose after watching the wiggling of the wombat's extremities, "have you put any thought into exactly how it is you're gonna get down from there?"

"Actually", replies the thumbtack, "little else has occupied my mind since I became affixed to this tree. Pity I hadn't considered that question during the Planning Phase of this experiment."

"I suppose I could just unstrap the helmet and let gravity do the rest", ponders the wombat. He does Just That, but gravity seems to be taking a cigarette break. "Hmmm", sez the wombat, "my head seems to be stuck"

The dove, light and lovely as ever, flies down to inspect the wombat's current predicament. "Can't anybody help this brave aerialist?" she sings out to the jungle in general.

The monkey, in particular, replies, "Maybe we can jar him loose".

The gray fuzzy pushpin, remembering how it feels to be bottled, has a slight problem with the term "jar", but seizes the concept immediately. He claps his paws together, front to front, back to back, dangling by his head from the impaled tree and bellows, "That's IT! If sufficient force is applied to the base of this tree, it just might set up a harmonic undulation rising up the length of the tree which may just wiggle me loose!"

The monkey doesn't listen to the wombat's theories, he has a plan of his own. He notices that the rhinoceros, standing nearby, and pointed in the general direction of the tree, is lost in thought. The monkey takes some matches, and stealthily creeps up to the rhino and places them in the cleft of the rhino's rear driver's side hoof. Lighting them with yet another match and grinning, he retreats a Safe Distance and watches.

The rhino, as we all know, is a very thoughtful creature. He is currently wondering just what Hamlet thought he was up to, acting so crazy. It is quite a while before he realizes that his hoof seems to be on fire. When the realization strikes him, he takes off at full velocity, running in a kind of panic.

The monkey, already satisfied with the results of the hot-foot, is too busy holding his stomach and rolling on the ground, laughing his prehensile tail off, to see the rhino plow headlong into the trunk of the target tree, setting up a standing wave vibration in the tree which in fact does wiggle the wombat loose.

THUDDLE-DEE-DUDDLE-DEE-DUDDLE-dee-duddle That's the sound of undamped vibration in a tree bumped sufficiently hard to detach a wombat on a spike.

The careful reader would do well to picture a wombat tumbling arse over tip from a distance of some three meters and land astride a blazing rhinoceros, still wearing a spiked helmet. We should remind ourselves at this point that the rhinoceros, too, has a pointy helmet of sorts.

The bespiked pair roars off through the dark forest, stirring an uproar in the emotional states off all who witness the pointy stampede.

Now the unfortunate thing about the deep thinking of a rhinoceros is, especially if you happen to be sitting astride one in full gallop, that it takes over suddenly and whatever Br'er Rhino is doing at that moment stops immediately. Just as the pointy juggernaut reaches maximum velocity, a question occurs to the hooved one. A question so intricate, so slippery, so intriguing, that the rhino, still galloping for all he's worth, pauses to think it over.

SCREEEEEEEE!!!!

That's the sound of fifteen tons of meat, points and intellect pausing.

Another unfortunate thing about rhinos is that they rarely come factory equipped with safety belts. Although the rhino's run terminates, the helmeted Object in Motion astride him Stays in Motion. That is, until acted upon by some outside force.

In this case, the outside force happens to be a low tree branch directly in the wombat's flight path.

IDLEY IDLEY IDELY IDELY

That's the sound of a flying wombat caught on a tree branch, spinning around it four times before flying free in a graceful parabola and landing, point down and spinning on a nearby rock.

WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRR

That's the sound of a fuzzy gray top, spinning madly across the jungle floor.

"Hmmm", says the dizzy dervish, "I seem to have changed from an arrow into a gyroscope."

The wombat whirls. Time passes and the spinning slows. The gyrophysicist comes to rest in a group of ferns and shambles to his feet, staggering as the waves of dizziness pound on the fuzzy shore. Mustering all the dignity he can, the wombat wanders off in all directions at once.

"I think you were right", laughs the monkey to the dove, "this really was the grandest spectacle ever."

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