"Mom, what is that?" asked my son. "The Bride of Chucky?"

    The old doll I was holding was pretty scary. Her glass eyes were especially horrible, closing when she stood upright and flying open when she lay flat. Once she had been loved, but she had been stored in an attic (阁楼) for decades, where the extremes of heat and cold can be hard on a girl's looks. Throw her in the waste bin? Maybe. But first, let's check eBay.

    I clicked, supplied the required information about condition, including defects (i.e., "Only a miracle could save this doll"), and uploaded its photos. I sold it for $5.

    The buyer was happy: "As described!" he wrote on my feedback page. "Super seller!" The doll found a home and, I hope, a new life. Maybe she was used to repair other dolls. Perhaps those strange eyes got fixed and once again can inspire a child's love. It's a win-win, if you ask me.

    I also sold lots of other stuff. None of them brought in a lot of money, though I have been surprised at the occasional bidding war, like, for example, the one over an old swimsuit that would have made Brigitte Bardot look bad. And some customers, let's face it, are strange. Recently I had a hard time convincing an Australian would-be buyer of an Irish souvenir bell that I don't shop internationally; it's just too much trouble. He could have flown to Ireland and bought his own bell for the price he was willing to pay. Another time, a buyer complained that the electric wire on an old radio was dirty. Really? Dirty? The wire was black. But I aim to please, so I offered a refund.

    So why bother with the dealing and small profits? Because I don't like abandoning the past. All these treasures once had stories. They meant something. But the people who gave them that meaning are gone, and I simply cannot rescue everything. I can't even sew. So I find it satisfying that a new owner, discovered via eBay, will continue the story in his or her own way.

    The McDonnells lived in a small brick house in Larchmont, a suburb of New York City. Jim was foreman of mail carriers at the post office where he had worked for 25 years. Married in 1960, he and Anne were childless.

    On the evening of the eleventh anniversary of their marriage, carrying out the garbage, Jim McDonnell slipped on ice­coated steps, and struck his head. A few days later, driving to work, he lost control of the car, hit a telephone pole, and banged his forehead against the windshield. The following day he fell off the stairs, and again he banged his head. Found unconscious, he was hospitalized for three days with a cerebral concussion(脑震荡). One day in the same month, Jim borrowed a friend's station wagon and drove to Kennedy Airport to pick up Anne's brother and family. When he returned the borrowed car at 10 p.m., he was unaware that the wallet containing his identification had slipped out of his pocket onto the floor of the station wagon. After that, he was never seen again.

    So what really happened to Anne's husband? During his walk home, Jim had indeed blacked out(昏厥), losing all ability to remember who he was and where he lived. What happened then is unclear. The next thing he knew was that he was in downtown Philadelphia, a city he had never visited before. Seeing signs advertising the services of a James Peters, a real estate broker, Jim adopted James Peters as his own name. He had no past; his only reality was the present. James Peters got a Social Security card, which could be obtained at that time without showing a birth certificate, and took a job in a health club. He next worked at a cancer research institute, cleaning out animal cages. He also got a night shift job at the P&P luncheonette, where he became well known for his omelets, as well as his courtesy and good humor.

    About a month before Christmas 1985, colleagues noticed that Jim had grown unusually quiet and depressed. Something seemed to be turning in his mind. On December 22, Jim had fallen and banged his head. The next day at work he seemed distracted, and late that afternoon he had fallen again, striking his head. On December 24, he awoke feeling confused, yet delighted. After almost 15 years, he knew who he was! He was James A. McDonnell, Jr., of Larchmont, New York. His wife's name was Anne.

    Anne had just returned home from Christmas Mass, where she lit candles and prayed for Jim. A light snow was falling, and she was in a hurry to leave for Christmas dinner at her sister's before the roads grew slick. Then the doorbell rang. "Oh my," she thought, "this is not a good time for a visitor." Anne opened the door — and saw a man with a full white beard. Immediately she recognized Jim. She couldn't speak.

    To Jim, Anne looked a little older, but prettier too. His heart overflowed.

    "Hello, Anne," he said.

If you've ever seen a sparrow steal your dog food or a crow open a garbage bag, you get a sense of that some birds have learned to take advantage of new feeding opportunities—a clear sign of their intelligence. Scientists have long wondered why certain species of birds are more innovative than others, and whether these capacities stem from larger brains or from a greater number of neurons（神经元）in specific areas of the brain.

It turns out that it's a bit of both, according to a recent study by an international team that included members from McGill University published in Nature Ecology and Evolution.

The researchers used a new technique to estimate the number of neurons in a specific part of the brain called the pallium in 111 bird species. The pallium in birds is equal to the human cerebral cortex（大脑皮层）, which is involved in memory, learning, reasoning, and problem-solving, among other things. When these estimates about neuron numbers in the pallium were combined with information about over 4,000 feeding innovations, the team found that the species with the higher numbers of neurons in the pallium were also likely to be the most innovative.

"The amount of time chicks spend in the nest as their brains develop might also play a crucial role in the evolution of intelligence," says McGill University Emeritus Professor Louis Lefebvre who spent more than 20 years gathering examples of feeding innovations. "Larger species of crows and parrots, which are known for their intelligence, spend longer in the nest, which allows more time for the brain to grow and accumulate pallial neurons."

The results of the study help to deal with previously opposed views of the evolution and significance of brain size and show how a life-history perspective helps to understand the evolution of cognition.

In Hollywood, few actors have experienced a career as diverse and prolific as Harrison Ford. From the fearless Indiana Jones to the charming Han Sol o and the world-weary Rick Deckard, Ford's portrayal（饰演） of iconic characters has left a permanent mark on cinema and pop culture. Yet, the irony lies in how many of his career-defining roles fell into this "late bloomer's" lap by chance.

Born in Chicago, Harrison was discouraged from pursuing a career on the silver screen early on, having failed to land any significant parts. Instead, he turned to professional carpentry（木工） as a means to keep his family fed.

But fate had other plans. While working as a carpenter in Hollywood, Ford crossed paths with numerous celebrity clients such as Joan Didion and, most notably, director George Lucas, who hired him to build cabinets for his office. Little did Ford know that this chance encounter would lead to his breakthrough role as the charming Han Solo in Star Wars. Lucas was impressed by Ford's presence and offered him the iconic role. In time, Ford rose to a star.

Ford's next lucky moment came when he tried out for the role of Indiana Jones in a massive project by Lucas and Steven Spielberg, Raiders of the Lost Ark. Spielberg initially wanted Ford for the role, but Lucas was hesitant as he had already worked with Ford on Star War and 1973'sAmerican Graffiti. Then the production team tried many other possibilities but without luck. Eventually, the role went to Ford, strengthening his status as a Hollywood legend.

The film series became a worldwide sensation, stimulating people's imagination and inspiring a generation of future archaeologists. Over 40 years and four films later, Ford found himself completing the series with the fifth and final installment. Eighty-one-year-old Harrison received a five-minute standing ovation（鼓掌） at the Cannes Film Festival Premiere and picked up an honorary Palmed' Or for his achievements.

Ford's commitment to his career is evident as he said, "I love the work! My luck has been to work with incredibly talented people, to find my way into this crowd of geniuses." Despite his legendary status in Hollywood, Ford's humility shines through.

Upon my arrival at Falconwood Apiary, Kaat Kaye is already engrossed in the meticulous inspection of the apian domiciles, oblivious to my arrival. I find myself privy to her soft murmurings directed towards the bees, their mellifluous drone resonating through the atmosphere, interspersed with her gentle words of encouragement and compromise.

Kaye was born with profound auditory impairment. Although she has the capacity to perceive sounds with the aid of auditory prosthetics, she often dispenses with them during her labors. "Acoustic sensations are alien to my experience," she elucidates. "I revel in the tranquility and stillness. In the company of bees, aural perception is superfluous. My concentration is heightened when not beset by incessant auditory distractions."

Adorned with naught but her cowl, apiarian instrument, and device for the emission of smoke, Kaye proceeds with a measured and deliberate gait. In contrast, I am excessively attired, having donned a comprehensive protective garment for our encounter. She advises me to shed the gloves I've brought along and directs me to a position that will minimize the agitation of the bees. Kaye's tender and cautious methodology instills a sense of calm in my presence among her charges. As our time together accrues, my admiration for Kaye's fervor for apiculture and the manner in which her auditory limitations have sculpted her distinctive methodology deepens.

In her vocation, she champions organic apicultural practices that minimize the utilization of chemical treatments. Moreover, she gathers all the requisite intelligence for the stewardship of the hives by depending on her non-auditory senses. Perhaps most notably, what renders Kaye an extraordinary apiarist is almost metaphysical. Excelling in her vocation is inextricably linked to adaptability, navigating the myriad uncertainties that emerge on any given day. Is precipitation excessive? Scarce? When will the flora reach full bloom? Will it yield a bountiful harvest of honey? She responds with alacrity, ensuring not to disrupt the bees' cadence and equilibrium.

"There is a profound, almost spiritual dimension to the craft of beekeeping," she remarked. "You cannot exert absolute dominion over them, akin to any element of the natural world, indeed. Some years bestow upon us an abundant honey harvest. Other years are fraught with adversity, resulting in the loss of half of the hive. There is considerable sorrow but also considerable delight, too, in simply toiling in the great outdoors with these sentient beings—a living, complex superorganism."