Nunquam imprudentibus imber obfuit.
VIRGIL, GEORGICS, I, v. 373.
LOOKING out through the windows of my house upon the sunset sky, I am
often enabled to frame a weather report for the morrow; for, in his
rising and his setting, the sun has a message to convey, sometimes
written in type that is legible to all, sometimes in hieroglyphics that
the ordinary observer may not decipher. Yonder blazing fire in the west
and warm orange afterglow tell me I may expect fair weather, just as the
leaden cloud which screens the sinking sun apprises me of coming storm.
But to offset one aspect of the plainly lettered sky, there are a score
more difficult to read, while, at best, we are liable to err in our
interpretations where the weather is concerned.
Yet, trying as it often is, in this latitude especially, how could we
dispense with its vagaries? Sunshine, by all means! but we would
scarcely appreciate the sun if it always shone, even could vegetation
and humanity exist under unclouded skies.
Were all the year one constant sunshine, wee
Should have no flowres;
All would be drought and leanness; not a tree
Would make us bowres.[3]
Footnote 3:
Henry Vaughn, Silex Scintillans.
It has been observed before now that we are always talking about the
weather, always interested in it, always trying to foretell it, always
grumbling at it, or delighted with it. Without the changes of the
weather the world would go all awry. There would be no more guessing or
prognosticating. Conversation must come to a standstill; if not to a
full stop, at least to an awkward pause. When there is nothing else to
talk about there is always the weather. It is the oil of conversation’s
wheel. How many a pleasant acquaintance dates from a weather remark!
Simply as a conversational factor I have no doubt it has helped on
innumerable marriages. But it is ever too hot or too cold, too damp or
too dry, too cloudy or too sunshiny. If one can not openly anathematize
his neighbor, he may damn the weather; faint, indeed, is its praise.
With a bright sun shining, a purple haze on the hills, the thermometer
at 50°, and the atmosphere exhilarating as champagne, still the lament
will arise that we are not enveloped with a blanket of snow. Just the
day for a walk, when one may start out dry-shod to inhale the
stimulating air and bask in voluptuous sunlight! But the fickle
weather-vane suddenly veers, and north wind and snow are exchanged for
south wind and balm; the croakers have their turn.
There is reason to believe that the weather repeats itself in a general
way at regular intervals of seven or ten years, more or less. Statistics
are said to confirm this statement, and it gives us reason to hope that
when our records shall cover longer periods and shall be more carefully
and fully compiled, we may obtain considerable insight into the weather
programme for the coming year. That one extreme follows another is
perhaps the surest and most valuable weather indicator we have. An
inordinate degree of warmth is generally followed by a corresponding
degree of cold; a period of extraordinary coolness by a contrasting
period of heat. The amount of water and heat in the world is always the
same, though to human observation the extremes of temperature are
capriciously distributed. If it is passing cold here, it is passing warm
somewhere else. If we get an overplus of wet this month we receive an
overplus of dry next month, or some month after. Nature will surely
balance her ledger sooner or later; the difficulty is to tell when she
will do it.
Restless and impatient, man is continually seeking change. What could
supply this inherent craving in the breast of mankind so happily as the
weather? The old adage, “’Tis an ill wind blows no man good,” is daily
verified. This change to piercing cold means one hundred thousand tons
more of coal for the furnaces of each of the great cities; this hot
wave, one hundred thousand tons more of ice to their refrigerators. The
mild winter that brings a scowl upon the dry-goods merchant’s face is a
benison to the laborer; the east wind that puts out the inland furnace
fires may blow the disabled vessel into port. Blowing where it listeth,
to some point of the compass the wind is kind.
If one could find no other occupation, one might busy himself in making
observations of the weather. In the shifting vane and the restless
clouds there is the attraction of perpetual change, elements we may not
control nor yet fully understand—an omnipresent and omnipotent force.
Their wayward moods bring plenty or pestilence, as the vane chooses to
veer, or the tangles gather in the _cirri’s_ hair. All animal and
vegetable life is dependent upon their inexorable decrees. The laws of
the weather may not be altered. We may not increase the rainfall one
inch or lower the temperature half a degree. The most we can do is to
study its warnings, and, by reading the signs of the earth and sky, be
prepared for what changes may be in store.
There is a relief from the tyranny of hard fact in endeavoring to trace
the meaning of these _nimbus_ clouds or the prophecy of this
moisture-laden breeze. What will the next change be; of what complexion
will be the weather to come? I foretell it frequently through my walls
of glass that enable me from within to read the horoscope of the sky.
The signs exist, if we may but comprehend them. They publish every event
and indicate every change. Unvarying laws that may be understood by the
intelligent observer control all atmospheric conditions, and
particularly storms. By noting existing conditions the corollary is to
be deduced. Blasius’s laws, as stated in his volume, Storms, are
comprehensive, and whoever will take the pains to study them (for many
portions of the volume call for hard study) may learn to foretell much
about the weather, at least so far as relates to larger storms. Many
immediate changes are easy to foretell—from the moon’s warning halo and
the prophesying cry of the hair-bird, to the toad’s prescient croak from
the tree. From observation the farmer and mariner generally become
weather-wise. Out in the open air continually, they learn to interpret
the signs, their vocations being more or less controlled by and
dependent upon the weather. A habit of studying the weather brings one
into closer relationship with nature. However superficial the knowledge,
one must know something of nature in order to be a weather-prophet, that
is, so far as prophesying from numerous well-known natural signs is
concerned.
There are certain indices: the clouds no bigger than a man’s hand, that
indicate what is coming in a weather way for a short time ahead. Many of
the old signs are reliable. From time out of mind a red sunset has been
viewed as a precursor of fair weather, and a red sunrise the forerunner
of storm. A bright-yellow sky at sunset uniformly denotes wind, a
coppery or pale-yellow sunset, wet; and attentive observers do not need
the testimony of Admiral Fitzroy to know that a dark, gloomy, blue sky
is windy, and a light, bright, blue sky is fair. A high dawn indicates
wind, a low dawn fine weather. A gray sky in the morning presages fine
weather. If _cumulus_ gathers in the north and rises, rain may be looked
for before night. Frequently the _cumuli_ clouds—argosies serenely
riding at anchor above the southern horizon—flash forth warnings that
are never fulfilled; the lightning of heat, and not of storm. If stripes
are seen to rise northward from the southern sky, a change may be
anticipated from their quarter. Without clouds there can be no storm.
One of the most beautiful cloud-formations, the mackerel-sky, is well
known to be usually indicative of a change. Oftentimes on the otherwise
unclouded blue of the heavens delicate volutes or scrolls may be
observed, like cobwebs spun upon the sky; these frequently portend a
decided change within two days. If this form of cloud, more familiarly
known as mares’-tails, curls down toward sunset, fair weather may be
looked for; if up, it will most probably rain before dawn. Frequently
narrow bands or stripes extend from east to west or north to south over
the entire aërial arch, the storm invariably coming from the direction
pointed out by the clouds.
Local signs go to show that in winter a dark-blue cloud over the lake
foretells a thaw; when the lower portion, however, is dark and the upper
portion gray, snow may be expected. A halo round the moon is a sure
indication of rain, snow, or wind, and the larger the circle the nearer
the storm. When the stars are more than usually bright and numerous, or
when the hills and distant objects seem unusually sharp and near, I am
certain of an approaching storm. “You all know the peculiar clearness
which precedes rain,” observes Ruskin, “when the distant hills are
looking nigh. I take it on trust from the scientific people that there
is then a quantity, almost to saturation, of aqueous vapor in the air,
but it is aqueous vapor in a state which makes the air more transparent
than it would be without it. What state of aqueous molecule is that,
absolutely unreflective of light—perfectly transmissive of light, and
showing at once the color of blue water and blue air on the distant
hills?” Distant sounds heard with unusual distinctness apprise me of
rain. The aurora borealis, when very bright, is usually followed by a
storm, and often intense cold. The rainbow after drought is a rain-sign.
Natural signs, other than the handwriting on the sky, are innumerable,
and, again, the old sign-posts point out the way. Heavy dews indicate
fair weather, while three consecutive white frosts, and often two,
invariably bring rain or snow. Before a snow-storm the weather usually
moderates, while there is always an interval between the first drops and
the downpour. If it rains before seven it will clear before eleven, is a
wise saw. Certain stones, which, when rain is in the near future, become
damp and dark-looking, are excellent barometers. We have all of us
noticed that fire frequently burns brighter and throws out more heat
just before a storm, and is hotter during its continuance—an easterly
storm, however, often being the exception.
The closing of the blossoms of numerous flowers during the day tells me
it will rain; my flowers also give out a stronger odor previous to rain.
The trefoils contract their leaves at the approach of a storm. The
convolvulus and the pimpernel also fold their petals previous to rain,
the latter flower being appropriately named the poor man’s
weather-glass. When the chickweed’s blossom expands fully, no rain will
occur for several hours; if it continue open, no rain will fall during
the day. When it half conceals its flower the day is usually showery.
When it entirely closes its white petals, steady rain will occur. “It is
manifest,” observes Bacon in Sylva Sylvarum, “that there are some
_Flowers_ that have _Respect_ to the _Sunne_ in two kindes; The one by
_Opening_ and _Shutting_; And the other by _Bowing_ and _Inclining_ the
_Head_; it is found in the great Flower of the _Sunne_; in _Marigolds_,
_Wart-Wort_, _Mallow-Flowers_; and others.”
Smoke rising straight in the air means fair weather. The odor of the
_Mephitis_ is very pronounced before rain, owing to the heaviness of the
atmosphere, which prevents odors from rising. Spiders do not spin their
webs out of doors before rain. Previous to rain flies sting sharper,
bees remain in their hives, or fly but short distances, and most animals
and birds appear uneasy. “Sheep,” the Selborne rector states, “are
observed to be very intent on grazing against stormy wet evenings.” One
of the most reliable weather-signs in Texas is said to be supplied by
the ant. The ants bring their eggs up out of their nests, exposing them
to the sun to be hatched. When they are observed carrying them in again
hastily, though there be not a cloud in the sky, a storm is near at
hand. Swallows flying low near the ground or water is a rain-sign noted
in the Georgics, the birds following the flies and gnats which delight
in a warm strata of air. Aratus, the Greek poet, in the Prognostica,
also cites the swallow’s flight low over the water as a rain-sign:
Fast skim the swallows o’er the lucid lake
And with their breasts the rippling waters break.
Previous to rain and just when it begins to rain, swallows fly swifter,
doubtless to make the most of the insects while opportunity affords.
Wheeling and diving high in the sky, the swallow flies to tell me the
day will be fair. Chickens, it may be noticed, when steady rain sets in
will continue searching for food after the rain has begun; if only a
shower they will seek shelter before the rain begins. Foxes bark, and
wolves howl more frequently when wet weather is approaching. Crows
clamor louder before a change. Frogs, geese, and crows were looked upon
as weather-prophets by the ancients, the crow especially figuring
frequently as a foreboder of storm. According to Virgil, if they croak
often, and with a hoarse voice it is a rain-sign:
Tum cornix rauca pluviam vocat improba voce.
If they croak only three or four times, and with a shrill clear voice it
is a fair weather-sign:
Tum liquidas corvi presso ter guttere voces
Aut quater ingeminant.
Lucretius likewise introduces the crow as a weather-prophet:
... om’nous crows with various noise,
Affright the farmers; and fill all the plain,
Now calling for rough winds and now for rain.[4]
Footnote 4:
Creeche’s translation.
The crow’s raucous voice also figures in Aratus’s Prognostics of a
Storm:
The aged crow on sable pinions borne,
Upon the beetling promontory stands,
And tells the advancing storm to trembling lands;
Or dips and dives within the river’s tide,
Or, croaking hoarse, wheels round in circles dark and wide.[5]
Footnote 5:
Milman’s translation.
And Chaucer, while following the majority of the poets in aspersing the
crow, still makes him serve as a barometer:
Ne nevir aftir swete noise shall ye make,
But evir crye ayenst tempest and rain....
All nature reads the coming signs. The migratory woodcock will desert
the fall covers in advance of the storm, even though the weather promise
fair. Just before a storm, like its echo in advance, I have heard the
Canadian forest resounding on every side with the cry of the great
horned owl—_oh-hoo, oh-hoo! oh-hoo, oh-hoor-r-r-r_! Wild fowl are
conscious of the change from afar. Even the domestic goose and duck are
unusually garrulous previous to a storm, voicing their pleasure at the
prospect of approaching rain. I recall a case in point while
trout-fishing, where geese proved excellent weather-prophets. The day in
question, September 14, 1875, the last day of the open season in
Ontario, like the three or four preceding days, was warm, hazy, and
delightful, with no perceptible omens to denote an approaching storm,
save the graceful mares’-tails waving from the sky. But a large flock of
geese, which appeared to dispute with the trout the possession of the
pond, and which had frequently proved a source of annoyance while
angling, were more than usually excited, screaming continually, and
flying to and from the pond with loud gaggling. The sun descended behind
the tamaracks with an angry frown, the moon became obscured by ominous
clouds, the temperature fell suddenly, and a severe equinoctial storm
set in.
Birds, however, can not be implicitly relied upon as weather-prophets,
especially as harbingers of spring. Year after year, tempted by instinct
and the tempered air, do the migratory birds take early flights to the
northward. Suddenly on some genial morning, the vanguards appear. A
blue-bird’s, or song-sparrow’s dulcet warble falls upon the ear, and we
welcome the return of spring. But season after season we have to record
the disappearance of the birds again, and the recurrence of stormy
weather. Lured by the soft spring sunshine, and eager to revisit their
northern homes, the birds, like human migrants to the south, frequently
return too soon. Not until I hear the first sweet song of the
white-throated sparrow am I convinced that spring has come to stay.
How far the weather is influenced by the changes of the moon is a
disputed question. M. de Parville, a French meteorologist of note, has
recently claimed that a long series of observations show that the moon
which passes every month from one hemisphere to the other, influences
the direction of the atmospheric currents; that the distance of the moon
from the equator, or inclination of the moon’s path to the plane of the
equator varies every year, passing from a maximum to a minimum limit,
and that the meteorological character of a series of years appears to be
mainly dependent upon the change of inclination when those extreme
limits have been touched: the rainy years, the cold winters, and hot
summers return periodically and coincide with certain declinations of
the moon. In proof of his assertion, he presents a table tracing
backward this connection between the rainy years and the moon’s
declination.
In the European Magazine, vol. 60, p. 24, a table is given which has
been ascribed to the astronomer Herschel. It is constructed upon a
philosophical consideration of the attraction of the sun and moon in
their several positions respecting the earth, suggesting to the observer
what kind of weather will most probably follow the moon’s entrance into
any of her quarters. Briefly summarized, the nearer the time of the
moon’s entrance, at full and change or quarters, is to midnight (that is
within two hours before and after midnight), the more fair the weather
is in summer, but the nearer to noon, the less fair. Also, the moon’s
entrance, at full, change, and quarters, during six of the afternoon
hours, viz.: from four to ten, may be followed by fair weather; but this
is mostly dependent on the wind. The same entrance during all the hours
after midnight, except the two first, is unfavorable to fair weather.
It may be of interest to cite Bacon’s rules for prognosticating the
weather, from the appearances of the moon:
1. If the new moon does not appear till the fourth day, it
prognosticates a troubled air for the whole month.
2. If the moon either at her first appearance or within a few days
after, has her lower horn obscured and dusky, it denotes foul weather
before the full; but, if she be discovered about the middle, storms are
to be expected about the full; and, if her _upper_ horn be affected,
about the wane.
3. When on her fourth day the moon appears pure and spotless, her horns
unblunted and neither flat nor quite erect, but between both, it
promises fair weather for the greatest part of the month.
4. An erect moon is generally threatening and unfavorable, but
particularly denotes wind; though if she appears with short and blunted
horns, rain is rather to be expected.
The influence of the moon on the weather was one of the cardinal
beliefs, not only of the ancients, but of our forefathers, and the old
gardeners and orchardists believed implicitly in its effect on most
operations connected with husbandry, regulating these operations with
the greatest exactitude, according to the various phases of the planet.
Harvard, in his treatise on the art of propagating plants, referring to
the proper time for grafting, declares, “the grafts must alwaies be
gathered in the old of the Moone.” Lawson, in his New Orchard and
Garden, advises as the best time to remove sets, “immediately after the
fall of the Leaf, in or about the change of the Moon;” and the best time
for “graffing” as “in the last part of _February_ or _March_, or
beginning with _April_, when the Sun with his heat begins to make the
sap stir more rankly about the change of the Moon, before you see any
great apparancie of leaf or flowers; but only knots and buds, and before
they be proud, though it be sooner.”
Very frequent references to the moon’s influence with respect to
forestry and its operations occur in Evelyn’s Sylva. In felling timber,
he charges the forester to “observe the _Moons_ increase” (chap. iii,
13). And again, “the fittest time of the _Moon_ for the _Pruning_ is (as
of _Graffing_) when the _sap_ is ready to stir (not proudly stirring)
and so to cover the _wound_” (chap. xxix, 6.) The old lunar rules for
felling trees are thus given by Evelyn (chap. xxx, 26): “Fell in the
_decrease_, or four days after _conjunction_ of the two great
_Luminaries_; some of the last quarter of it; or (as Pliny) in the very
article of the _change_, if possible; which hapning (saith he) in the
last day of the Winter _Solstice_, that _Timber_ will prove _immortal_:
At least should it be from the _twentieth_ to the _thirtieth_ day,
according to _Columella_: _Cato_ four dayes after the _Full_, as far
better for the growth: But all _viminious_ Trees _silente Lunâ_; such as
_Sallies_, _Birch_, _Poplar_, etc. _Vegetius_ for _ship timber_, from
the _fifteenth_ to the _twenty-fifth_, the _Moon_ as before; but never
during the _Increase_, Trees being then most abounding with moisture,
which is the only source of putrefaction: And yet ’tis affirm’d upon
unquestionable _Experience_, that _Timber_ cut at any _season_ of the
_year_, in the _Old Moon_, or last _Quarter_, when the _Wind_ blows
_Westerly_; proves as _sound_, and good as at any other period
whatsoever; nay, all the whole _Summer_ long, as in any _Month_ of the
_Year_.”
Few of our large storms are of local origin; they are hatched for the
most part on the plains east of the Rocky Mountains, and thence move
eastward, deflecting slightly to the north during winter. In Europe, the
meteorologists assert, storms are more nearly round than in America,
where they are of a more irregular oval form, varying in size from the
diameter of a few miles to those that surge from the gulf to beyond the
lakes.
But Blasius for storms! the supreme authority, the Aristotle of the
clouds and air-currents. When all our ordinary signs fail, we have only
to turn to the Hanover professor to read and learn.
Unquestionably, nevertheless, the most infallible of weather rules is
that there is no rule. So far as ordinary signs go, there is nothing
more true than that all signs may fail during a protracted drought, or
continuous rainy weather. Vainly then the peacock screams, or the sun
emerges from a dripping sky. At best the weather is a hoiden, and,
perhaps, loves a frown better than a dimple. The rain may come and the
rain may go, persistently following the course of a lake or river,
favoring this locality and slighting that; deluging one county to leave
the adjoining one parched with thirst. For it is true of the weather and
other things besides; it never smiles but it laughs, it never rains but
it pours.
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