JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. IF I were February, I'll tell you what I'd do, My choice would be for sleet and slush and giving I'd give them frost and icicles, a thaw, and then a freeze; I'd change from skates to bicycles, and laugh to hear them sneeze; I'd send the housetop avalanche a-tumbling on their heads, And dash between unsteady legs on bob and single sleds. And when I'd fully carried out my comical designs, I'd make up for my tricks and pranks, with tender valentines. But as I'm not February, gentle friends, we 'll proceed to a letter from our little friend "Bee," describing what seems to have been HARDLY A SQUARE MEAL. known? I wish I knew more about such things; but I am ill a great deal, and can not run about very much. Your loving little friend, BEE. LIVING BAROMETERS AGAIN. JUDGING from this letter from your friend C. F. H., I should say that animals as well as human folk are accustomed to fidget considerably about the weather. Many plants also have this peculiarity, I'm told. DEAR JACK: I wish to follow my letter about the tree-toad with a few facts about other natural barometers. To begin with, many of the wonderful appliances by which we are enabled to determine what the weather will be to-morrow or next day are of comparatively recent invention, and it is within only a few years that we have enjoyed their benefits. How do you suppose, then, our forefathers managed without them? They turned to nature herself, and in many cases were enabled to form opinions almost as correct in the main as those obtained now with absolute certainty by machinery or carefully prepared instruments. And nature is not altogether neglected to-day, as many a farmer does not possess a barometer or even a thermometer; and if we go out to some localities in the country, away from the great centers, we shall see men consulting natural weather prophets. Thus, the birds in their flight and departure foretell the coming cold, and the clouds do the same, so that often by looking up at the sky the farmer can judge about how much of a frost to expect. When he sees the swallows flying very low, skimming along very near the earth, the farmer looks at the clouds, and declares that he "must hurry and get that hay in, for it 's going to rain." I once arranged a miniature artificial lake, really to form a moat around an island in the center, made of rocks and covered with living moss. The island was a prison-house for numerous snails, and slugs; as a rule, they remained concealed in the castle, but several hours before a rain, they would come out and crawl up the leaves of the plants, and so I always knew when it was wise to take an umbrella when I went out walking. Some snails prophesy rain several days in advance, and their bodies seem to undergo certain changes in preparation for the welcome moisture; and I recently read in a newspaper that the natives of the Chiloe Islands make use of a curious natural barometer to tell when bad weather is coming. As described to the Linnean Society of New South Wales, it is the shell of a crab. The shell is nearly white in dry weather, but exhibits small red spots on the approach of moisture. In the rainy season it becomes completely red. And in the same paper it was stated that a scientist had recently drawn attention to the human ear as a barometer. He mentioned the sense of pressure on the ear when a train enters a tunnel, or on rapidly descending a mine, and declared his ear was sensitive in this way to a very slight variation in the moisture of the air. But, of course, the change must be a sudden one, to be felt. Yours truly, C. F. H. A CASE OF REAL DISTRESS. ALL SAINTS' VICARAGE, NORTHAMPTON, ENGLAND. MY DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I suppose you will think me very ignorant when I tell you that I don't know how to make pop-corn. I don't know in what state to get the corn. In England it isn't made much. I am very fond of ST. NICHOLAS. I have taken it for a year. I like American magazines much better than English; they I should like to know more DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: All your children about America and American children. I have three coins from I A BOTTLED FISH. C. H. I HEARD the Little School-ma'am saying, the other day, that a bottle, to which a large number of oysters had attached themselves, was fished up not long ago by a Baltimore oysterman, and that inside the bottle was a fish too large to get out of it. Now I must say, as I'm an honest Jack, that this story puzzles me completely. I've no doubt the dear Little School-ma'am could explain it, but perhaps she 'd agree to leave the question for you youngsters to decide. How did that fish get into that bottle, and if he could get in, why could n't he get out? He must have been Several hands were raised: but most conspicuous among them was one chubby and rather soiled fist. "Well, George, what is Grammar?" I said. "It's what learns us to speak good," was the response. Imagine my feelings! I fear that my labors with that class have not been altogether successful. The school-house in which I teach commands a fine view of the beautiful Niagara River and of the great International Bridge. Yours truly, J. B. H. a very irres olute fish if he grew too big to get out of the bottle while he was thinking about it. WAITING TO BE NAMED. DEACON GREEN wishes me to say that he sends to you, this month, some portraits of your quadruped friends and foes, done up after the manner of a nosegay, so to speak. He thinks that by the aid of your natural histories many of you bright boys and girls will be able to recognize and name nearly all these very serious countenances. He says, moreover, that all wise young folk who are thus successful must feel morally bound to aid their younger brothers and sisters, and, if necessary, their cousins and their uncles and their aunts, in identifying the various members of this queer collection of heads and faces. EDITORIAL NOTES. If Arthur Dart's father made the subject a study, he did so to little purpose, and in these days no boy's mind should be put in doubt as to whether "science wins. " You must know, then, that my profession has to do with "pitching" ball, and though we do not desire to do so, we pitch with a most decided "curve," every time; and when I say "curve here I mean a curve to the right or left, not one due to gravity. When I tell the boys that we can pitch a big 16-inch ball of iron or steel weighing 2000 pounds or more, and comply with Mr. Dart's "threetest every time, no doubt they will think it a harder test than if tried with their balls; but of course I must have the stakes proportionately farther apart, as my pitching is to range some ten miles, more or less. stake" Without going into an explanation of the reasons for the existence of such curves, I think that I can readily place the boys upon the way to a demonstration of the fact, for they all spin tops. Given a top, with a hard, fine point, to spin upon a flat, smooth surface, such as a plate of glass, and the fact of the "curve-pitching ' will be practically demonstrated, and in a manner not to be accounted for by the friction between the point and glass. Spin the top to rotate in one direction, and you will have a right-hand curve; spin it so as to rotate in the opposite direction, and the result will be a left-handed curve, and these curves will always result from the rotation. Rotation, then, is the secret, and that a ball pitcher can acquire the necessary skill to give his ball a given rotation, and thereby secure the desired " curve, seems perfectly simple and easy to believe. But to go back to the big balls, and the big guns with which we pitch them. We do not desire to "pitch with a curve," but as we are obliged to give the ball rotation in order to secure stability of flight, we must of necessity "pitch with a curve," and to pitch or shoot well, we always have to take the curve which we call drift-into account. All of your boy readers know what a rifle is, and as a rifle acts just like the largest guns or cannon, we will consider it. In this country all of our makers give their rifles a "right-handed twist," as can be seen by looking at the bore. Of course the ball rotates, or spins to the right, and the drift resulting is always to the right, and is considerably more than one would imagine. Take, for instance, the army musket. In 1000 yards, the ball from a musket will drift off to the right more than 43 inches. In other words, if you were firing at a target 1000 yards off, with a musket, and aimed so as to hit the bull's-eye without taking the drift into account, you would miss it every time: the curve would be so great that the ball which started out in a line over the "plate," as the base-ball saying is, would curve so much as to go quite behind the batter. In a rifle with a "left-handed" pitch to the grooves, the result would be just the reverse: the ball would curve to the left, and would do so every time. It can, therefore, readily be seen that the "threestake test could be complied with, and that, too, in either direction. To test it in both directions, however, would require two guns, one with a right and the other with a left-handed twist, but otherwise exactly alike, and using the same ammunition. Your boys will no doubt consider the range of 1000 yards,- and I might extend it to ten miles, when the "drift" would be very great,— and imagine that in "proportion" the curve that they can give a baseball will not be much, and some "old boys," who do not like to admit that "science will win," may take the same view. It is only necessary to point out the relative specific gravity of the different balls, and I am ready to believe that a skillful pitcher can give his ball a very decided "drift" or "curve," within a very short distance, and may cause it to deviate either to the right or left at will, and also to vary at will the natural curve due to gravitation. I should also note the fact that our cannon-balls are elongated: this, however, does not alter the fact of the "drift," though it does to some extent change its degree. A. D. S. PHILADELPHIA, November 30. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The question of "curved pitching" is raised in the story of "How Science Won the Game," in your October number, and the fact of its performance and the means to its accomplishment duly set forth. In the December Letter-box, the reality of the curve is re-asserted in the face of skeptical criticism; yet its explanation as a physical problem is but vaguely suggested. I shall not readily forget the chill autumn afternoon, some twelve years ago, when in my first match game played on the grounds of the Naval Academy, the reality of curved pitching was most forcibly and discouragingly brought home to me by "three strikes and The "in curve" was no new thing as an inconstant feature of the "underhand throw"; but this was my first experience of the "out curve," at least, as a matter under the control of the pitcher, and not a mere unintended, accidental course of the ball. Obtaining no help toward an explanation from those to whom I applied (on the contrary, many assurances that it was a physical impossibil ity), I studied the subject and promptly arrived at an easy solution, satisfactory to most persons with whom I have discussed it. As this may be of interest to some of your readers, I take the liberty of presenting it. Out!" The ball in its flight is retarded in its forward motion by the resistance of the air, which acts upon it precisely as though the ball were at rest and the wind blowing against it at a rate equal to the motion of the ball. This exerts a pressure on the front of the ball and a friction on its sides, just as the water so manifestly does upon a vessel. If the ball is merely moving straightforward, the friction is the same on top and bottom, right and left, and the effect is only to slow the forward motion. But if the ball rotates as well as moves forward, we have a changed relation - a part of the ball's surface is moving against the air with greater rapidity than the rest, as a diagram will make clear. If the ball (or strictly its center of gravity) is moving forward (let us say at the rate of one hundred feet per second), and at the same time it is revolving so that points on its equator are traveling around its center at an equal rate, it is evident that dis traveling backward as fast as the ball, as a whole, moves forward; while bis moving forward at its own rate plus that of the centerthat is, twice as fast as c. As the friction of the air increases with the velocity of the moving object, it must be greatest at 6 and least at d, being really zero at dunder the conditions given. The b side of the ball is therefore retarded more than the center or any other part, while the d side suffers no retardation. The result must be a curve toward the retarded side. When the rotation is on a nearly vertical axis, this effect will be at its maximum, and, according to the direction of its "twist," the ball will curve to the right or to the left"in "" or "out." In this explanation the effect of gravity is assumed to be nearly a constant force; and not knowing the approximate velocity of "swift pitching," I do not attempt to consider whether the resistance of the air is proportional in this case to the first power, the square, or the cube of the velocity. These points can affect the question of degree only. This is merely a solution as worked out by a boy, and possibly of interest to other boys. Looking recently at a treatise on gunnery, I found the explanation far more fully and scientifically set forth, with careful consideration of all the elements of the problem, in connection with the "drift of a shot fired from a rifled cannon. Should the above explanation seem sufficiently clear, I should be glad to have it used as an anonymous communication to the Letter-box. Very respectfully. THE LETTER-BOX. NEW YORK. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like the story of the Fragile Palm Tree. I think it is very funny. I like the composition of "The Lion; " it is very nice. Mamma reads every word of you to me. I am seven years old. My little sister is very much excited about the picture, in the December number, of Santa Claus trying to get down the chimney. Your affectionate reader PAULINE T. We print this interesting letter from a Hungarian girl, just as she wrote it, queer spelling, punctuation, and all. HUNGRIA Appony, 3-12, 1885. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS! I live in a very nice village, its name is Appony, we have twenty minutes walk from our hall in which we dwell, to another castle that is a ruin now, it is surrounded by very old oaks. On summer days we go there often, then I wish the trees could speak and tell me all about her. We are six children my eldest brother is 12 and I am 11 years, the youngest the darling of us all, is a lovely baby brother ten months old he walked allready a month ago, and laughs allways, he patters about all day long with his little blue shoes but of course not quite alone. I have been taking you since november 1885, but Mama gave me the two binded volumes of last year. I love you very very much indeed. What a pitty it comes only once every month it seems eternety to wait for the continuation. I would be to happy if you would print my little letter in the letterbox. Our favorit tale is "His own fault" "Little lord Fountleroy" seems very nice too and my little sister Fanny likes "the Magic Watches." the best. your deeply interested little reader P. S. I like the letterboxes very much. THERESA APPONYI. BLACKSTONE, Mass. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have written to you once before, but have never seen my name in the Letter-box, so I will try again. We have taken you ever since you were first published, and " hope you will never die," as Charlie B. says. One evening, when my little sister Alice and I were reading you together, Alice said, "What is home without ST. NICHOLAS? We have just had all our ST. NICHOLASES bound, and Papa has bought a bookcase to put them and the Centurys in; they do look so bright and pretty. I am fifteen and Alice is twelve. I think that Lena E. R. is a very patriotic girl. I, too, like to read about the Civil War. I think General Grant one of the bravest generals the world has ever known. I thought "His One Fault" was just splendid! I like all of Trowbridge's stories, if I am a girl, and they are boys' stories. One evening, when she was sick and had not smiled all day, I got the ST. NICHOLAS, which had come that day, and we looked it over together; when we came to "The Brownies at the Sea-shore," she commenced to laugh heartily, and seemed ever so much better. like the new cover of the ST. NICHOLAS very much. Hoping that you may be able to print this letter, I remain, Your constant reader, MARY L. B DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been intending to write to you for some time, and I have made up my mind to write to-day. I have just finished reading the Christinas number, which I enjoyed very much. Though I am a girl, I like to play ball, and often watch the boys play. I was very much interested in the story, "How Science Won the Game!" I am very fond of riding, and I have taken some very long rides. One evening I started out riding on a pony that had been ridden by a lady only a few times, and had not been ridden by any one for some time. He did not seem inclined to go any faster than a walk, so I touched him lightly with my riding-whip. He immediately stopped, and commenced bucking. I was so surprised that I was thrown on the pony's neck, but did not fall. Luckily my foot was in the stirrup, so I regained my seat, and tried gentleness and persuasion. It was of no avail, so I gave him a severe cut with the whip. He stopped again, and began to kick and tried to throw me. I was determined not to give up my ride, so I set to work to conquer him, and finally succeeded in making him go. I must now close my letter. With many good wishes, I remain, your devoted reader, IMOGENE A—. P. S. I forgot to tell you that I was fifteen yesterday, and my father gave me a $20 trunk. CATTARAUGUS, N. Y. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I would write you a short letter, as I have not seen any letter from this place since I have taken you. I go to school every day, and slide down hill after school. I have three pets, a bird, a cat, and a pony. My pony's name is Jessie. My mamma and papa gave the ST. NICHOLAS to me three years ago for a New Year's present, and I have taken it ever since. Hoping you will print this letter, I remain, Your faithful reader, NELLIE E. R—. ESSLINGEN, Würtemburg. MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Here I am, far, far away from home! Just think, 4000 miles away from home! and whenever my dear parents send my dear old ST. NICHOLAS, I feel as if it were something from my old home that greets me and makes me feel happy; so I forget my homesickness a little. It is now about five years since Father brought rne for the first time a number of ST. NICHOLAS (we then used to live in South Bend, Indiana), and I begged him to get it for me every month; and ever since I am always waiting anxiously for the 25th of the month, to get my dear ST. NICHOLAS. several volumes bound, and when I feel very homesick I I have go and sit BUTTE. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been taking you ever since 1879. I like your stories more and more every year. I have 1884 bound, and I am going to have 1885 bound too, so as to keep "His One Fault" and "Davy and the Goblin." You are the best book I have ever read. What do you always stop at an interesting part of a story for? I am only a little boy ten years old, but I love to read. WILLIE M. GILBERT. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I must tell you of something funny that happened on the sidewalk opposite our house not long ago. There is a public school-house on the other side of the street, and some of the boys made a slide on the sidewalk just after the first snow-storm this year. There is a queer, hot-tempered man who lives in a little house next door to the school-house. The boys all say that he is very cross, and I am sure from the way he acts that he does not like the boys. One day, soon after the boys made their slide, I was at our front window, at about ten o'clock in the morning. The boys were all in the school-house then; and I saw the old man come out of his house with a pail of ashes and begin to shovel them upon the slide,when, what do you think happened? Why, all of a sudden, while he was busy with his shovel, his feet slid from under him, his arms shot out, the shovel went one way and his fur cap another, and the |