DAVID DITSON was and is the great Almanac man, calculating the signs and
wonders in the heavens, and furnishing the astronomical matter with
which those very useful annuals abound. In former years it was his
custom, in all his almanacs, to utter sage predictions as to the
weather, at given periods in the course of the revolving year. Thus he
would say, 'About--this--time--look--out--for--a--change--of--weather;
and by stretching such a prophecy half-way down the page, he would make
very sure that in some one of the days included, the event foretold
would come to pass. He got cured of this spirit of prophecy, in a very
remarkable manner. One summer day, clear and calm as a day could be, he
was riding on horseback; it was before railroads were in vogue, and
being on a journey some distance from home, and wishing to know how far
it was to the town he was going to visit, he stopped at the roadside and
inquired of a farmer at work in the field. The farmer told him it was
six miles; "but," he added, "you must ride sharp, or you will get a wet
jacket before you reach it."
"A wet jacket!" said the astronomer; "you don't think it is going to
rain, do you?"
"No, I don't _think_ so, I know so," replied the farmer; "and the longer
you sit there, the more likely you are to get wet."
David thought the farmer a fool, and rode on, admiring the blue sky
uncheckered by a single cloud. He had not proceeded more than half the
distance to the town before the heavens were overcast, and one of those
sudden showers not unusual in this latitude came down upon him. There
was no place for shelter, and he was drenched to the skin. But the rain
was soon over, and David thought within himself, that old man must have
some way of guessing the weather that beats all my figures and facts. I
will ride back and get it out of him. It will be worth more than a day's
work to learn a new sign. By the time he had reached the farmer's field
again, the old man had resumed his labor, and David accosted him very
respectfully:
"I say, my good friend, I have come all the way back to ask you how you
were able to say that it would certainly rain to-day?"
"Ah," said the sly old fellow, "and wouldn't you like to know!"
"I would certainly; and as I am much interested in the subject, I will
willingly give you five dollars for your rule."
The farmer acceded to the terms, took the money, and proceeded to say:
"Well, you see now, we all use David Ditson's almanacs around here, and
he is the greatest liar that ever lived; for whenever he says 'it's
going to rain,' we know it ain't; and when he says 'fair weather,' we
look out for squalls. Now this morning I saw it put down for to-day
_Very pleasant_, and I knew for sartin it would rain before night.
That's the rule. Use David's Almanac, and always read it just t'other
way."
The crest-fallen astronomer plodded on his weary way, another example of
a fool and his money soon parted. But that was the end of his
prophesying. Since that he has made his almanacs without weatherwise
sayings, leaving every man to guess for himself.