"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.