THE HAILSTORM AT WORCESTER ON SUNDAY, JUNE 17TH. (To THE
EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR: '1
SIR,—My friend Larrie, whose intelligence once figured in the Spectator, had an experience last Sunday evening which falls to the lot of few little English dogs—bad a big hailstone bowled across the lawn by his mistress for him to retrieve and bring back! I had just started for evening Church, at about ten Minutes- past size when the storm began. At first I took shelter RI a motor-garage, but soon fled back into the open, preferring hailstones unmixed to a more formidable shower of them mixed with thick glass out of the roof. I picked up two, and was much surprised at their struetnre. The outside was a thickish shell of perfectly smooth, transparent ice, through which one saw the core, made up of the familiar angular hailstones not in the least transparent. They were as big as pretty large walnuts when I first picked them up, and when I threw them away at the church door, after carrying them in my hand for some twelve minutes on a very hot evening, they were still larger than marbles.—I am,
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