Two groups of men had always known a good deal about the weather from experience: the sailor had to know it to save his life, and the farmer had to cultivate a weather eye along with his early peas. But the ordinary business man (and wife), the town-dweller, and even the suburbanite knew so few of the proven facts that the weather from day to day, from hour to hour, was a continual puzzle to them. The rain not only fell upon the just and unjust but it fell unquestioned, or misunderstood.
At last Science established some sort of a Weather Bureau in 1870, in our country, and after this had triumphed over great handicaps, the Government set it upon its present footing in 1891. An intelligent interest in the weather was in likelihood of being aroused by maps, pamphlets, frost and flood warnings that saved dollars and lives. Then suddenly, or almost suddenly, a new force was felt in every community. It was the call of outdoors. The new land of woods and lakes was explored. Men learned that living by bread alone (without air) made a very stuffy existence. Hence the man in town opened all his windows at night, the suburban majority planned to build sleeping porches, the youngsters begged to go to camp, their fathers went hunting and fishing in increasing numbers, and, most important of all, the fathers’ wives began to accompany them into the woods.
Thus, living has been turned inside out,—the very state of things that old scientist Plato recommended some thirty thousand moons ago. And among the manifestations of nature the weather is holding its place, important and even fascinating. For the person who most depends on umbrellas and the subway in the city needs to watch the sky most carefully in the woods. That old academic question as to whether it be wise or foolish to come in out of the wet was never settled by the wilderness veteran. The veteran’s wife settles it very quickly. She considers the cloud. When the commuter goes camping he rightly likes his comforts. A wet skin is not one of these. Therefore he studies the feel of the wind.
And so it comes about that the person who talks about storm centers and areas of high pressure and cumulus clouds is no longer regarded as slightly unhinged. Men are eager to learn the laws of the snowstorm and the cold wave; for, with the knowledge that snow is not poison and cold not necessarily discomfort, January has been opened up for enjoyments that July could never give.
Bookwriting and camping are both explained by the same fact,—a certain fondness for the thing. I wanted to see the commoner weather pinned down to facts. The following chapters resulted. They constitute a sort of Overhead Baedeker, it being their pleasure to show up the sureties of the sun and rain and to star the weather signs that can be relied upon. For, after all, even the elements, although unruled, are law-abiding.
READING THE WEATHER
CHAPTER I
OUR WELL-ORDERED ATMOSPHERE