JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

A MERRY CHRISTMAS to you, my darlings! It's cold weather—too cold for any but a Scribner Jack-in-the-Pulpit to be out-of-doors—but our hearts are green, and there's a fine bracing air.

Christmas will not be here when you first get the December magazine, I know, but ST. NICHOLAS likes to get a good start. He has Dutch blood in his veins, and he knows well that in Holland St. Nicholas' Day comes on the 6th of December.

So, just think of the dear Dutch youngsters, and what a happy holiday they keep on the 6th,—for that is their season of gift-giving,—and when the 25th comes to you, with its holy, beautiful light, and its home joys, you'll be all the more ready to give it welcome.

Now for

A WINDFALL.

Here is a copy of a printed scrap thrown to me by a high wind the other day. It isn't of very much use to a Jack-in-the-Pulpit; so I hand it over to you, my chicks. It strikes me that it has the gist of some of Deacon Green's remarks, and that somehow it doesn't come under the head of what is called "pernicious reading":

"GOOD ADVICE FOR THE YOUNG.—Avoid all boastings and exaggerations, backbiting, abuse, and evil speaking; slang phrases and oaths in conversation; depreciate no man's qualities, and accept hospitalities of the humblest kind in a hearty and appreciative manner; avoid giving offense, and if you do offend, have the manliness to apologize; infuse as much elegance as possible into your thoughts as well as your actions; and, as you avoid vulgarities, you will increase the enjoyment of life, and grow in the respect of others."

KING ALFRED AND THE CAKES.

Here is a story which I heard a girl tell her little sister the other day, but I don't believe the girl told it altogether right. Can any of my youngsters straighten it out? This is the story:

King Alfred, after his fatal defeat at Marston Moor, having taken refuge in an oak-tree, was so absorbed in watching a spider which had tried to weave its web eleven times and succeeded on the twelfth, that he allowed the cakes to burn; whereupon, the herdsman's wife, rushing in, exclaimed:

"Oh, Diamond! Diamond! what mischief hast thou done?"

To which he meekly replied: "I cannot tell a lie; I did it with my little hatchet."

"Take away," cried she, "that bauble!"

"I have done my duty, thank heaven!" said he, but he never smiled again.

A LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I should like to tell the Little Schoolma'am about our little schoolma'am. She is a young lady of about twenty-one years, and looks too delicate to govern such a school. But she does it; and though as fond of fun as any of us at the right time, yet in school she insists on attention to business, and will not tolerate idleness or disobedience. She is very kind and gentle, but firm and decided, and we all know that she means what she says, and must be obeyed implicitly. She says she wants us to love and trust her as a friend, and we do. Out of school she seems as young as we do, for she is full of fun and likes us to have a good time. She tries to make school pleasant to us, and a while ago she put a box on her desk, and said, when we had any questions to ask, or complaints to make, we might write them on a slip of paper and put it in that box, which was locked and had a hole in the top. Sometimes she answers the questions publicly, and sometimes she writes them and puts them in the "letter-box." The scholar who has the best record for a month keeps the key the next month, and once a week opens the box and distributes the contents. It is quite an honor to be "postmistress," but no one can have it two months at a time. She lets us make suggestions if we think of any improvements in the school, and sometimes adopts them. Another of her plans is to allow five minutes at the end of each hour when we may whisper, but not talk out loud. If we wish to speak to any one we can leave our seat and walk to them, if they are not near to us. But any one who whispers, or communicates in any way at any other time, forfeits this chance. I forgot to say that we put notes to each other in the letter-box. We do like our little schoolma'am so much!—Yours truly, ALLIE BERTRAM.

AS IDLE AS A BIRD.

It is not so very long since I heard a little girl say that she "wished she could only be as idle as a bird."

Now, this was not a very lazy sort of wish, if she had but known it. There are very few little girls, or boys,—or grown-ups either, for the matter of that,—who are as industrious as the birds. How many people would be willing to begin their daily labors as early as the birds begin theirs—at half-past three o'clock in the morning—and keep on toiling away until after eight in the evening?

Think of it, my youngsters,—almost eighteen hours of constant work!

And the birds do it willingly, too; for it is a labor of love to bring dainty bits to their hungry little ones and keep the home-nest snug and warm.

One pair of birds that had been patiently watched from the first to the last of their long, long day, made no less than four hundred and seventy-five trips, of about one hundred and fifty yards each, in search of food for their darling chicks!

As idle as a bird, indeed!—with all that hunting, and fetching, and carrying, and feeding to do!

"OWN FIRST COUSINS."

Talking of birds, would you ever have thought it? The lovely and brilliant Bird of Paradise, I'm told, is "own first cousin" to the—Crows. And the Crows are not one bit ashamed to own the relationship! Very condescending of them, isn't it?

ORANGE GROVES ON ST. JOHN'S RIVER.

Ocala, Marion County, Fla., 1877.

DEAR JACK: I was on the St. John's River at work with my father about three years ago. There were real wild-orange groves there, and the trees bore sour and bitter-sweet fruit. I will now tell you what I was doing on that river. I was pressing out the juice of the sour oranges and boiling it, for making citric acid. We used a cider press for pressing out the juice, and a copper cauldron for boiling it. We shipped the acid to Philadelphia, and I do not know what was done with it next.

These groves were inhabited by wild beasts, such as opossums, wild cats, raccoons, deer, and, occasionally, bears and panthers.

The groves were situated on high mounds, made ages and ages ago, by people of an ancient race known as "mound-builders." There were always shells on the mounds, which in some instances appeared to be made entirely of shells. Some mounds were fifty feet, or more, above the surrounding country, and from two hundred to four hundred yards in length.

Now, I dare say, you would like me to say of what kind these shells were; but, as I never could find out for myself, I cannot tell you what kind they were. They are unlike any that I have seen elsewhere, and I think they do not belong to any living species of to-day. Farewell, dear Jack!—Yours truly, TROPIC.

THE BLIND CLERK.

DEAR JACK: Ever so many millions of letters are dropped into the London Post-Office every year, but some are so badly addressed that they never get out again. When a direction is so ill-written that the sorters can't make it out, the letter is taken to a man they call the "Blind Clerk," and he generally deciphers it. Why they call him "blind" I don't know, for few addresses are beyond the power of his sharp eyes to make out. Here is one that did not give him much trouble; but can any of your young folks tell what it means?

Sarvingle Num for te Quins prade Lunon.

I'll send you the "blind" man's solution next month. Meantime, here is a puzzle for your merry crowd. You shall have an answer in that same postscript; but I should like to have the Little Schoolma'am and the rest work it out for themselves:

This puzzle is so old that it probably will be new to thousands of your young folks.—Yours truly, M.B.T.

BIRDS CAUGHT BY SALT.

Yes. It's so; though I must say I felt inclined to laugh the first time I heard one boy tell another to put salt on a bird's tail by way of catching it. Now, however, word comes, all the way from California, that there is a lake there, called "Deep Spring Lake," whose waters are very salt; and that during certain conditions of the weather the water-fowl of the lake become so encrusted with salt that they cannot fly, and the Indians wade into the water and simply catch the birds with their hands. The coating taken from one duck weighed six pounds,—enough to have drowned it, even if its eyes and bill had not been so covered as to blind and choke it. When the weather is favorable for the formation of this crust upon the birds, the Indians do their best with fires and noise to keep them away from the few fresh-water streams where the poor things would be safe from the salt. Besides this, the savages imitate the cries and calls of the birds, so as to entice them to the dangerous part of the lake.

It seems to me that men must be very mean as well as very hungry to take advantage of the birds in that way. However, "circumstances alter cases," as the school-boy said when he had been "punished for his good" by mistake.

A SPELL UPON KEROSENE.

Bridgeport, Conn.

Dear Little Schoolma'am: One would think that the word "kerosene" could not be a very difficult one for the average inhabitant to write correctly; but it is. From the New York Independent I learn that the following versions of the word have actually been received by the Portland Kerosene Oil Company in its correspondence:

Caracine, carecane, caroziene, carocine, cursene, carozyne, coriseen, carosyne, caricien, carsine, caresene, carozine, carocene, carosean, carycene, caresien, caraseen, caroscene, crosen, carecene, carizoein, keriscene, karosin, kerocine, keressean, keriseene, kerasene, kerosen, kereseen, kerison, kerriseen, kerricene, keroseen, kerosine, karosina, keresene, kerrsein, keroscene, kerose, kerasseen, kereson kerocene, kerozene, kerrisene, kerryseen, kerissien, kersien, kerossein, keriscene.

Now isn't that astonishing?—Yours sincerely, MARY N.G.

THE EYEBROW WORD.

What do you think this is? It is neither more nor less than the word "supercilious," which is derived from supercilium, the Latin for "eyebrow," as I heard the Little Schoolma'am tell the children not long ago.

When she had said this, one of the little girls, in a rather scornful, superior way, said, "I don't see any sense in that." Whereat the Little Schoolma'am and two or three of the bigger girls laughed, for the little girl had raised her eyebrow in a most "supercilious" expression, giving the best possible proof of the appropriateness of the word. For, certainly, it is hard for one's face to express a supercilious feeling without raising the eyebrow, or at least changing that part of the countenance which is over the eyelid.

SINCERE.

Here's one more derivation, while we are about it. I heard the other day that the bees, with the aid of Latin, have given us a beautiful word: "Sincere"—which is made of the words sine-cera, meaning "honey without wax."

Remember this, my chicks, and let your kind words and good actions be truly sincere,—pure honey, sine cera.

THE AUTHOR OF "HOME, SWEET HOME."

Dear Jack: My grandfather knew a gentleman who was a very intimate friend of the author of "Home, Sweet Home"—John Howard Payne. Mr. Payne told this gentleman, Mr. C., how he came to write the song. He said that a play or operetta called "The Maid of Milan," that he had adapted from the French, was about to be played in London. In this play was a very pretty scene for which he had an air in his mind. He had to conjure up some words to suit the tune, and so he wrote the verses of "Home, Sweet Home." He also said that the very next day after the song had been brought out at the theater it was all over London. Everybody was singing it. Grandfather says that Mr. Payne got really very tired of hearing about this song, and at length said he supposed he would hereafter be known only as the author of "Home, Sweet Home." Mr. Robert S. Chilton wrote this beautiful verse about Mr. Payne's death:

I believe this verse was inscribed on Mr. Payne's tomb-stone in Tunis, Africa; but I am not sure. Can any one tell me?—Yours truly, KATIE T.M.