Reading the Weather Part 1

Reading the Weather.

by Thomas Morris.

FORECAST.

Science is certainly coming into her own nowadays,--and into everybody else's. Every activity of man and most of Nature's have felt her quickening hand. Her eye is upon the rest. Drinking is going out because the drinker is inefficient. The fly is going out because he carries germs. And for everything that goes out something else comes in that makes people healthier and more comfortable, and, perhaps, wiser.

One strange thing about this flood-tide of science is that it overwhelms the old, b.u.t.tressed superst.i.tions the easiest of all, once it really sets about it. For instance, nothing could have been better fortified for centuries than the fact that night air is injurious and should be shut out of house. Then, science turned its eye upon night air, found it a little cooler, a trifle moister, and somewhat cleaner than day air with the result that we all invite it indoors, now, and even go out to meet it.

Once interested in the air, science soon began to take up that commonplace but baffling phase of it called the weather. Now, of all matters under the sun the weather was the deepest intrenched in superst.i.tion and hearsay. From the era of Noah it had been made the subject of more remarks unrelieved by common sense than any other. It was at once the commonest topic for conversation and the rarest for thought. Considering the opportunities for study of the weather this conclusion, we must admit, is more surprising than complimentary to the human race. But it is so. The fact that science had to face was this: that the weather had been and remained a tremendous, dimly-recognized factor in our level of living. So talk about it all must. And science set about finding some easy fundamental truths to talk instead of the hereditary gossip about old-fashioned winters or the usual meaningless conversational coin.

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 c.u.mulus 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 const.i.tute 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.

If there is anything that has been overlooked more than another it is our atmosphere. But it absolutely cannot be avoided--in books on the weather. It deserves a chapter, anyway, because if it were not for the atmosphere this earth of ours would be a wizened and sterile lump. It would float uselessly about in the general cosmos like the moon.

To be sure the earth does not loom very large in the eye of the sun. It receives a positively trifling fraction of the total output of sunheat. So negligible is this amount that it would not be worth our mentioning if we did not owe our existence to it. It is thanks to the atmosphere, however, that the earth attains this (borrowed) importance. It is thanks to this thin layer of gases that we are protected from that fraction of sunheat which, however trifling when compared with the whole, would otherwise be sufficient to fry us all in a second. Without this gas wrapping we would all freeze (if still unfried) immediately after sunset. The atmosphere keeps us in a sort of thermos globe, unmindful of the burning power of the great star, and of the uncalculated cold of outer s.p.a.ce.

Yet, limitless as it seems to us and inexhaustible, our invaluable atmosphere is a small thing after all. Half of its total bulk is compressed into the first three and a half miles upward. Only one sixty-fourth of it lies above the twenty-one mile limit. Compared with the thickness of the earth this makes a very thin envelope.

Light as air, we say, forgetting that this stuff that looks so thin and inconsequential weighs fifteen pounds to the square inch. We walk around carrying our fourteen tons gaily enough. The only reason that we don't grumble is because the gases press evenly in all directions permeating our tissues and thereby supporting this crushing burden. A layer of water thirty-four feet thick weighs just about as much as this air-pack under which we feel so buoyant. But if these gases get in motion we feel their pressure. We say the wind is strong to-day.

As it blows along the surface of the earth this wind is mostly nitrogen, oxygen, moisture, and dust. The nitrogen occupies nearly eight-tenths of a given bulk of air, the oxygen two-tenths, and the moisture anything up to one-twentieth. Five other gases are present in small quant.i.ties. The dust and the water vapor occupy s.p.a.ce independently of the rest. As one goes up mountains the water vapor increases for a couple of thousand feet and then decreases to the seven mile limit after which it has almost completely vanished. The lightest gases have been detected as high up as two hundred miles and scientists think that hydrogen, the lightest of all, may escape altogether from the restraint of gravity. One strange fact about all of these gases is that they do not form a separate chemical combination, although they are thoroughly mixed.

At first glance the extreme readiness of the atmosphere to carry dust and bacteria does not seem a point in its favor. In reality it is. Most bacteria are really allies of the human race. They benefit us by producing fermentations and disintegrations of soils that prepare them for plant food. It is a pity that the few disease breeding types of bacteria should have given the family a bad name. Without bacteria the sheltering atmosphere would have nothing but desert rock to protect.

Further, rain is accounted for only by the dust. Of course this sounds very near the world's record in absurdities. But it is a half truth at least, for moisture cannot condense on nothing. Every drop of rain, every globule of mist must have a nucleus. Consequently each wind that blows, each volcano that erupts is laying up dust for a rainy day. Apparently the atmosphere is empty. Actually it is full enough of dust-nuclei to outfit a fullgrown fog if the dewpoint should be favorable. If there were no dust in the air all shadows would be intensest black, the sunlight blinding.

But the dust particles fulfill their greatest mission as heat collectors,--they and the particles of water vapor which have embraced them. It is in reality owing to these water globules and not to the atmosphere that supports them that we are enabled to live in such comfortable temperatures. For the air strata above seven miles where the tides of oxygen and nitrogen have rid themselves of water and dust absorb very little of the solar radiation. The heat is grabbed by the lowest layer of air as it goes by. The air s.n.a.t.c.hes it both going and coming. The little particles get about half of it on the way down and when it is radiated back very little escapes them.

So it comes about that the heavy moist air near the earth is the warmest of all. It would, of course, get very warm if, as it collected its heat, it didn't have a tendency to rise. As it rises, moreover, it must fight gravity, that arch enemy of all rising things. And as it fights it loses energy, which is heat. So high alt.i.tudes and low temperatures are found together for these two reasons. But after the limit of moisture content has been reached the temperature gets no lower according to reliable investigations. Instead a monotony of 459 below zero eternally prevails--459 is called the absolute zero of s.p.a.ce.

The vertical heating arrangements of the atmosphere appear somewhat irregular. But horizontally it is in a much worse way. The surface of the globe is three quarters water and one quarter land and irregularly arranged at that. The shiny water surfaces reflect a good deal of the heat which they receive, they use up the heat in evaporation and what they do absorb penetrates far. The land surfaces, on the contrary, absorb most of the heat received, but it does not penetrate to any depth. As a consequence of these differences land warms up about four times as quickly as water and cools off about four times as fast. Therefore the temperature of air over continents is liable to much more rapid and extreme changes than the air over the oceans.

The disparity of temperature is also rendered much greater because of differing areas of cloud and clear skies, because of interfering mountain ma.s.ses, because of the change from day to night, or the constant progress of the seasons. At first blush it seems remarkable that the atmosphere should not be hopelessly unsettled in its habits, that there should belong to it any hint of system. As a matter of fact, in the main its courses are as well-ordered as the sun's. Cause and not caprice are at the bottom of the wind's listings. Its one desire is rest.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CIRRUS DEEPENING TO CIRRO-STRATUS Courtesy of Richard F. Warren Cirrus clouds first appear as feathery lines converging toward one or two points on the horizon, often merging into bands of darker clouds, arranged horizontally. A sky like this appears when there is little wind. If the wind shifts to an easterly direction by way of north there will likely be snow within 24 hours; if it works around by way of the southwest and south 36 hours will probably pa.s.s before rain. If the mares' tails, as here, are absent and yet the stratified clouds are present there is little likelihood of a storm. Cirrus clouds precede every disturbance of magnitude. Sometimes they are hidden by a lower cloud layer.]

But rest it rarely succeeds in finding. Forever warming, rising, cooling, falling, it rushes about to regain its equilibrium. With so many opposing forces at work the calm day is the real marvel, our weeks of Indian Summer the ranking miracle of our climate. The very evolution of the myriad patches of air quilted over the earth with their different opportunities to become heated, to cool their heels, precludes stability in our so called Temperate Zone. But over great stretches of the earth's surface conditions are continuous enough to discipline the atmosphere into strict routine. Conjure the globe before your eyes and you will find the scheme of atmospheric circulation something like this: A broad band of heated air perpetually rises from the sweltering equatorial belt of lands and seas. The supply never ceases, the warming process goes on night and day, and to a great height the light warm incense mounts. Then, cooling, from this alt.i.tude it begins to run down hill toward the poles. This is happening all the way around the globe. So naturally the common centers, the poles, cannot accommodate all this downrush of air. Therefore as it approaches the goal it falls into a majestic file about the center, very much as water does in running out of a hole in the center of a circular basin. The nearer north, the cooler this vast maelstrom grows and the nearer has it sunk to the earth. It descends circuitously and, by the force arising from the earth's rotation, is sheered to the right in the northern hemisphere, to the left in the southern.

Watching the water circle out of the basin you will notice the outside whirl is in no hurry to get to the center. This corresponds to the easterly trades of commerce, geography, and fiction. The direction of the upper currents flowing back to the poles is from southwest to northeast; but in our middle zones this becomes almost from west to east, is constant and is known to the profession as the prevailing westerlies.

Look up some day when wisps of clouds are floating very high. You will notice that their port is in the east, mattering not what wind may be blowing where you are. They are above the petty disturbances of the shallow surface winds. They follow a Gulf Stream of immeasurable grandeur. Onward, always onward, they sail, emblems of a great serenity.

Beneath this vast drift of air, which increases in velocity as it nears the pole, is an undertow from two to three miles thick. It is the movements of this undertow that affect our lives. These movements are influenced by all the changes of temperature and by the configurations of land. They take the form of whirls. These whirls may be small eddies, local in effect, or vast cyclones with diameters of fifteen hundred miles. Small or large they roll along under the Westerlies, translated by friction, and invariably moving for most of their course in an easterly direction, like their tractor above. They circle across the United States every few days. Their courses do not vary a great deal, and yet enough to make each one a matter for conjecture. And all the conjecturing centers upon the condition of the atmosphere,--the changing atmosphere which is yet so dependable.

The weather we are used to, the daily weather that catches us unprepared, and yet that does not mistreat us all the time is the product of these little whirls, which are so remotely connected with the grander atmospheric movements of our planet. Remembering this, we can at last come back to earth and set about our real business which is to see why certain kinds of weather come at such uncertain times and how to tell when they will arrive.

CHAPTER II.

THE CLEAR DAY.

We owe our fair weather to that department of atmospheric activity called anticyclone by the weatherman. The anticyclone is an acc.u.mulation of air which has become colder than the air surrounding it. This acc.u.mulation oftener than not has an area near the center where the air is coldest. About this coldest area the air currents revolve in the direction of a clock's hands. And since this cold air is contracted and denser than its warmer environment it has a perpetual tendency to whirl outward from the center into this warmer environment.

One comes to think, therefore, of the anticyclone as a huge pyramid of cold air moving slowly across the country from west to east and all the while melting down on all sides, like a plate of ice-cream, into the surrounding territory. It is such an immense acc.u.mulation that often while its head is reared over Montana the first shivers of its approach are beginning to be felt in Texas and Pennsylvania. It does not extend equally far, however, to the north and west of its head, which is really sometimes where its tail ought to be. That is, a long slope of increasing pressure and cold will sweep in a gentle gradient from Pennsylvania to Montana and will then decrease by a very steep gradient to the Pacific Coast.

The anticyclone draws its power from the inexhaustible supplies of cold air from the upper levels. This air is very dry and accounts for the almost invariably clear skies of the anticyclone.

In winter when the intensity of all the atmospheric activities is greatly increased, the anticyclone develops into the cold wave. The rapidly rising pressure rears its head and rushes along upon the heels of a storm like a vast tidal wave at sixty miles an hour, tumbling the mercury thirty, forty, fifty degrees.

These cold waves first appear in the northwest. They cannot well originate over either ocean and a high-pressure area building up over the southern half of the country will not attain the sufficient degree of frigidity to earn the t.i.tle, for even cold waves have been standardized by the Government. But although nearly all the cold waves choose Montana or the Dakotas as a base, they have at least two definite lines of action. Those which are born amid the mountains or on the great plains of Montana have a curious habit of bombarding the Texas coast before starting on their eastward march. It is not unusual for us to read of zero weather in the Panhandle and freezing on the Gulf while the mercury may still be standing as high as fifty in New York City.

It is this rapid onslaught from Montana to Texas that produces those notorious blizzards of that section called northers, during which the cattle used to be frozen on the hoof. The record time for a drive of this extent is about twelve hours and the normal about twenty-four which gives scant time for the Weather Bureau to warn the vast interests of the impending a.s.sault. When the cold wave, after following this path, does swing toward the Atlantic Coast, as most of them do, it has lost interest and usually produces only seasonably cold weather along the Appalachians.

Those cold waves that recruit their strength in Canada and enter the United States through Minnesota or, rarely, this side of the Lakes move along the border and supply intensely cold weather for a night or two to New England and the Middle Atlantic States.

Cold waves almost always follow a storm. The storm, being an area of low pressure makes a fit receptacle for the surplus of the high pressure, and since the whole business of the weather is to seek peace and pursue it, the greater the discrepancies the more violent the pursuit. Consequently we have the spectacle of a ridge of cold dry air following and trying to level up a fleeing hollow of warm moist air--but rarely succeeding. This principle of action and reaction is almost the sole principle of the weather and is nowhere more clearly demonstrated than in the winter's succession of storm and cold wave.

In summer the anticyclones are not only actually but relatively more moderate than in winter. But their influence is still the same,--clear skies, cooler nights, dry, westerly winds. During the year the anticyclone furnishes us with about sixty per cent. of our weather. The cyclone is responsible for the remaining forty per cent. The weather depends on the cyclone for its variety and upon the anticyclone for its reputation. So it is well to be able to recognize an anticyclone when one appears.

The first and most reliable symptom of the approach of an anticyclone is the west wind. This sign is valid the country over, and is one of the very few signs that hold true for most of the North Temperate Zone. In summer over our country the west wind comes from the southwest, to be Irish, and in winter from the northwest. But for nearly all of our forty-eight states for nearly all of the year the westerly winds are those that bring us fair days and nights. And it is these crisp, clear days and cloudless, brilliant nights which we have in mind when we boast to English friends of our American weather.

The west wind is so popular because it has a slight downward flowing tendency. It also blows from land to sea over all America except the narrow Pacific coast. These downward, outward directions allow it to gather only enough moisture to keep it from becoming seriously dry. Its upper sources supply it with ozone. Its density gives it weight and by its superior weight it prevails. It dries roads faster than a brace of suns could do it. It is tonic. And curiously enough, although the anticyclone loads half a ton excess weight upon us we like it. The greater the burden the more we feel like leaping and shouting. Our good cheer seems to be ground out of us, like street pianos.

The reverse holds, too. For when the anticyclone moves off us and the cyclone hovers over us, removing half a ton of pressure, instead of feeling relieved we feel depressed, out of spirit. The animals share this reaction with us. In fact barnyards antedated barometers as forecasters, because all the domestic creatures, with pigs in particular, evidenced the disagreeable leniency of the low pressure areas upon their persons.

"Grumphie smells the weather An' Grumphie smells the wun' He kens when clouds will gather An' smoor the blinkin' sun."

The only trouble about this rather extravagant tribute to the pig, versatile though he is, is that he can tell only a very few hours ahead about the coming changes and it takes so much more skill to judge what his actions mean than to read the face of the sky that the science of meteorology finally comes to supplant barnyardology.

The coming of the anticyclone is foretold by the shifting of the wind from any quarter to the west. The course that the center of the anticyclone is keeping may be watched by the same agency. Since the circulation from the cone of cold air follows the hour hands of a clock it follows that if the center is moving north of you the wind, blowing outward from the center, will work from west to northwest and from northwest to north and slightly east of north.

If the wind has shifted into the west on a Wednesday, it will likely be cold by Wednesday night and colder on Thursday. By Friday morning the wind will be coming from the north, likely, with the lowest temperature of all. By Sat.u.r.day the cold will moderate, the wind will tire and gradually die to a calm or become weakly variable. The four day supremacy of the anticyclone will be over. But, mind you, there are a dozen variations of this routine. I am only suggesting a usual one.

If after blowing two or three days from the west the wind shifts to the southwest and south, you may know that the central cold area is pa.s.sing south of you and that its intensity will not be great. While these anticyclones that float down and to the right of their normal path linger longer, they are never so severely cold, nor, alas, so uniformly clear as the others. It is a profound law of anticyclones and even more particularly of cyclones, that if they deviate to the right they weaken, if they are pushed by an obstacle to the left they increase greatly in intensity.

Occasionally the central portion of an anticyclone pa.s.ses over your locality. Then the wind will fall. The frost will be keen and the cold will be notably dry and invigorating. In summer although the sunlight may be powerfully bright and the heat great, yet the air will have a buoyant effect, the body a resilience. And the nights will cool swiftly. Soon after the center pa.s.ses from the locality a wind will spring up from the east with rapidly rising temperature and increased humidity.

The coldest part of the anticyclone is not, as one would suppose, at the center, but in advance of it; and its authority, like a schoolmaster's, is rapidly dissipated after its back is turned upon a place.

The intensity of an anticyclone is measured by its wind velocity and by the degree of cold obtaining under its influence. But the greatest cold occurs rarely in conjunction with the greatest velocity of the wind. The calms that occur at sunrise enable radiation to take an extra spurt which pushes the mercury lower by a degree or so than happens when the wind is blowing. But, windy or calm, the period about sunrise is normally the coldest of the day, even extending in midwinter for as much as half an hour after sunrise, so slow are the feeble rays at restoring the balance of loss and gain of heat.

The greatest falls occur at the advent of the cold wave, no matter whether it arrives at ten in the morning or at midnight. If the temperature starts to decline gradually during the day, a further and decided fall may be expected at nightfall if the sky is clear. And if the temperature rises gradually during the night the normal processes are being displaced and a change from fair to foul is a surety. In summer the hottest time of day is not at noon, any more than the coldest part of the winter day was at midnight, for the reason that the sun can pour in its heat faster than the earth can radiate it, and the hour for the maximum temperature is pushed as far along toward evening as four or five or even six o'clock.

The average anticyclone continues its influence for clearness for about four days. Some, however, hurry the whole thing through in two. Others are interrupted by a more vigorous cyclone and are put to rout. Others are held up by an inherent weakness and are forced to mark time over one locality until strengthened or dissipated. And a few great ones hold sway over the country for a week. These choose the north-center of the country in which to locate. There they pile up the cold air until its very weight causes it to move majestically on. Its skirts sweep the Gulf coast where they are a bit bedraggled by invading cyclones. It gives the New Englanders a fortnight of nipping, brisk days and the mercury in Minnesota and the Dakotas does not emerge above zero. Once, in Montana, one of these refrigerating systems established the record of sixty-three degrees below zero. But in Siberia where the immense extent of the land surface collaborates with a prolonged night, an anticyclone built up an area of superior chilliness that left a world's record of ninety-one below.

In summer a succession of these highs causes the frequent droughts of weeks which hara.s.s the West and New England. The air becomes so dry that it parches and then shrivels the green leaves. Any little cyclones that, under ordinary conditions, would suck in moist air from the Gulf and relieve the situation with a rain are dried out and frustrated by the unclouded sun. It requires a cyclone of great depth to overthrow the supremacy of these summer anticyclones.

While the anticyclone furnishes fair weather the sky is not necessarily or even usually free from clouds under its influence. In summer the evaporation during the long days overloads the air for the time being. Normally about eleven in the morning little b.a.l.l.s and patches of white clouds dot the blue. These increase in number and size until about three in the afternoon when they will have grown little black bellies and fluffy white tops. By five they will have dwindled and by eight entirely vanished. These heaped clouds, known as c.u.mulus, are a guarantee of a normal atmosphere and continued fair weather. They mean that currents of warm, moist air have risen until they have struck a level so cool as to cause them to condense part of their moisture. This condensation sinks until it enters a warmer stratum and the cloud is dissipated. The total movement is a reasonable exchange that preserves the equilibrium of the air, very much as a person bends one way and then another to maintain his balance.

In winter there is not such an opportunity offered and the few clouds that form because of the daily variation in temperature are flatter and are called stratus clouds. Sometimes these stratus clouds may cover the sky at midday, but in thin platings and not leadenly. In winter as in summer they tend to disappear toward evening. They are often accompanied by an unpleasant wind, but rarely by the snow flurry which is the "April shower" of the winter months.

But when the snow flurry does come there is no better sign for the woodsman of coming cold; it never fails. The morning will have begun brilliantly, but soon great summery puffs of cloud form and increase and darken on their under sides. Their tops are vague and wear a veil. It is the snow. The reason is simple. The coming anticyclone strikes the upper air before it hits the earth's surface. The sudden cold causes rapid condensation. Hence the flurries. But the anticyclone is an agent of dryness, hence their short duration. Sometimes the veil of snow does not reach the earth. Sometimes it blots out everything in a spirited squall. But it never lasts long, except in the northwest states. And it is invariably followed by a period of colder weather.

In summer local evaporation may be so long-continued or so vigorous that the c.u.mulus clouds cannot hold all their moisture content when cooled. A shower is the result, usually a trifling one and mostly without thunder. The great thunderstorms are always in connection with the pa.s.sing of a cyclone. The small heat thunderstorms are only the indulgences of a spell of fair weather. These tiny showers are daily and sometimes hourly accompaniments of clear weather in the mountains. The air warms rapidly in the valleys and is speedily cooled on rushing up a mountain side and a threat and a sprinkle are the result. When a performance of this sort is going on n.o.body need fear unpleasant weather of long duration.

Another pledge of a clear day that does not appear too credible on the face of it is the morning fog in summer. In winter it is a different matter. In August and September particularly the rapidly lengthening nights allow so much heat to evaporate that the surplus moisture in the air is condensed to the depth of several hundred feet. By ten o'clock the sun has eaten into this lowest stratum, heated it and yet begins to decline in power before the balance swings the other way, so that a cloudless day often follows a fog in those months. About three mornings of fog, however, are enough to discourage the sun and a rain follows. Of course this is because the anticyclone with its special properties has been losing power.

When these conditions of clear nights with no wind follow the first two or three windy days of the anticyclone, particularly in autumn and spring, frost results. In winter the chances that a fog will be dissipated are rather slim. But if it shows a tendency to rise all may yet be well.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CIRRO-STRATUS WITH CIRRO-c.u.mULUS BENEATH.

Courtesy of Richard F. Warren.

The fine-spun lines of the cirrus proper drag this veil of whitish cloud over the sky. The sun sometimes is surrounded by a colored halo due to the refraction of the light by the ice crystals. But more often it vanishes behind the veil. The mottled clouds below the veil show that a rather rapid condensation of the moisture in the air is taking place. This sky is distinctly threatening, although the direction and force of the wind will more accurately foretell the severity of the coming storm. With this sky expect rain or snow within 12 hours.]

An excellent sign of clear weather is this fact of the morning mist rising from ravines in the mountains. And even if you haven't any mountain ravines at command the alt.i.tude of clouds can be observed. It is safer to have them lessen in number rather than increase, scatter rather than combine. The higher the clouds the finer the weather. And if the sky through the rifts is a clear untarnished blue the prospects of settled weather are much better than with fewer clouds and a milky blue sky beyond.

After the direction of the wind and the shapes of the clouds the colors of the sky are a great help in the reading of the morrow's promise. And the best time to read this promise is in the morning or evening when the half lights emphasize the coloring.

Soon after the close observation of cloud colors has commenced the amazing discovery is made that the same color at sunrise means exactly the reverse of its meaning at sunset.

"Sky red in the morning A sailor's sure warning, Sky red at night A sailor's delight."

Christ seized upon this phenomenon to throw confusion into the Pharisees and Sadducees when they asked that He would show them a sign from Heaven. As Matthew reports it:--"He answered and said unto them, When it is evening ye say, It will be fair weather for the sky is red. And in the morning It will be foul weather to-day for the sky is red and lowering. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but ye cannot discern the signs of the times."

The reasons for this contradictory evidence of color are not nearly so obvious as the fact itself. Taking the scientist's word for it need not stretch one's credulity overmuch if he can be followed step by step. He says that sunlight is white light, and white is the sublime combination of every color. If no atmosphere existed about us the light would all come through, leaving the sky black. The atmosphere, however, which is full of dust and water particles, breaks up these rays, these white sheaves of light, into their various colors. The longest vibrations, which are the red, and the shortest, which are the violet, get by and the rest are turned back, mixing up into the color which we call our blue sky.

If the dust and water particles grow so large and numerous as to divert more of the short rays than usual we get a redder glow than usual. This is most noticeable when the sun and clouds are near the horizon for the air through which they appear is nearer the earth and consequently dirtier. If these water globules ma.s.s together so as to reflect all the rays alike the result is a whitish appearance. That is why a fog bank, composed of tiny droplets, each reflecting with all its might, can make the sky a dull and uniform gray.

As evening approaches the temperature of the normal day lowers. As the temperature lowers it is the tendency of the moisture in the air to condense about the little dust particles in the air. And as these particles increase in size their tendency is to reflect more and more of the waning rays of light. Therefore if the sky is gray in the evening it means that the atmosphere already contains a good deal of condensed moisture. If the cooling should go on through the night, as it normally would, condensation would continue with rain as the likely result.

If, on the other hand, after the evening's cooling has progressed and yet the colors near the horizon are prevailingly red it means that there is so little moisture in the atmosphere that the further increase due to the night's condensation will not be sufficient to cause rain. Hence the natural delight of the sailor.

A gray morning sky implies an atmosphere full of water precisely as an evening gray does. The difference lies in the ensuing process. By morning the temperature has reached its lowest point and if this has not been sufficient to cause cooling to the rainpoint the chance for rain will be continually lessened by the growing heat of the rising sun. The gray, therefore, is the normal indication of a clear cool night which has permitted radiation and therefore condensation to this degree. It is for this reason that we have the heavy fogs of August and September followed by cloudless days.

A red morning sky shows, like the red evening sky, that condensation has not taken place to any extent. But this is abnormal for a clear night causes condensation. The red therefore means that a layer of heavy moist air above the surface levels has prevented the normal radiation. Hence when the day's evaporation adds more moisture to that already at the higher levels the total humidity is likely to increase beyond the dewpoint with the resultant rain.

These two color auguries are among the most reliable of all the weather signs. Unfortunately the sunrises are scarcely ever on hand to be examined except by milkmen. But a careful scrutiny of the sunset will make one proficient in shades. In summer when the sun burns round and clear-cut and red on the rim of the horizon the air contains much dust and smoke, the accompaniment of dry weather. And as dry weather has a way of perpetuating itself such a sun makes dry and continued weather a safe prophecy. In winter the same red and flaming sun setting brilliant as new minted gold is a sure indication of clear and cold weather. In all seasons the light tints of the evening sky mean the atmosphere at its best. A golden sunset, a light breeze from the west, a glowing horizon as the sun goes down, slow fading colors all const.i.tute a hundred to one bet for continued fair weather. The sunset colors that are surely followed by storm will be discussed in the next chapter.

The sky is too little regarded. Architects that do not consider the sky are behind in their calling. Maxfield Parrish has made himself famous by allying himself with its seas of color. The hunter can read it and learn whether he may sleep dry without his tent. Only we who shut ourselves within rooms and behind newspapers forget that there is a sky--until it falls and we are taken to a sanitarium.

From the night itself much may be discovered about the continuance of fair weather. A sky well sown with stars is a good sign. If only a few stars are visible the clear spell is about over. Stars twinkle because of abrupt variation in the temperature of the air strata. If the wind is from the west cold and clear will result no matter how much may twinkle twinkle little star. But if he twinkle with the wind from the south or east the cloud will soon fly. That is the way with these weather signs. One sign does not make a prophecy. It is the combination that has strength and reliability. Furthermore the eye must be trained by many comparisons.

Of all the conditions that make night forecasting easy the later evenings of the moon are the best. The moon furnishes just the proper amount of illumination to betray the air conditions. If she swims clear and triumphant well and good. If she rides bright while dark bellying clouds sweep over her in summer, inconsequential showers may follow. But if she disappears by faint degrees behind a thin but close knit curtain of cloud the clear weather is being definitely concluded.

A great many changes in the weather take place after three in the morning. Most campers are accustomed to waking anyway once or twice to replenish the fire, and a glance at the stars will show the sleepiest what changes are occurring in the eternal panorama. A man may have gone to bed in security to get up in a snowstorm, whereas a survey of the skies at three would have noted the coming change. The habit of waking in the dead of night,--which isn't really so dead after all,--is not an unpleasant one. Its compensations are set forth in a beautiful and vivid chapter of Stewart Edward White's "The Forest." Every camper knows them, and this added mastery that a knowledge of the skies gives him lends a sense of power, which lasts until the unexpected happens.

For the unexpected happens to the best regulated of all forecasters, the Government. Equipped with every instrument and with an army whose business is nothing else than to hunt down storms and warn the public, the Weather Bureau is still surprised fifteen times out of a hundred by unforeseeable changes in atmospheric pressure. It is scarcely likely then that amateurs without flawless barometers and without reports of the current weather in three hundred places could hope to foretell with complete accuracy. But there is a place for the amateur, aside from his own personal gratification and profit. The Weather Bureau within the limits of the present appropriation cannot expect to predict for every village and borough. That the amateur may do and with as great accuracy for the few hours immediately in advance.

The Weather Bureau may predict with this large percentage of accuracy--85%--for forty-eight hours in advance because its scope is country wide. It may even forecast in a general way for seven days and still maintain a considerable advantage over almanac guesswork. But the man who is relying upon local signs is limited to ten or at most twelve hours. Of course he may guess beyond that but it is only a guess. The work that the Bureau does and that he may do within his limits is not guesswork. Meteorology is an exact science, and forecasting is an art. Both may be studied now in cla.s.ses under professors with degrees in the same way that any other science and art may be studied. The old sort of weather wisdom which was a startling compound of wisdom, superst.i.tion, and inanity has pa.s.sed away, or is pa.s.sing away as rational weather talk spreads.

These limits of the layman--ten hours with no instruments--are further defined by his locality. In mountainous country changes come more quickly than in level localities, in winter than in summer, so that one's prophetic time-limit is shortened.

While the best indications of the clear day are the great fundamental ones, there are many little signs that bolster up one's confidence in one's own predictions. The lessened humidity coincident with clear weather is responsible often for many little household prognostics. Salt is dry. The windows (of your summer cottage) do not stick. The children are less restless. Smoke ascends, or if the wind is blowing is not flattened to the ground. Flies are merely insects, for the time being, and not the devil. Swallows and the other birds that eat insects fly high because that is where the insects are. Spiders do not hesitate to make their webs on the lawn. They welcome dew but distrust rain. Cow and sheep feed quietly, rarely calling to one another as they do before a storm. In short the general aspect of these is normal and therefore remains unnoticed.

But all these household prognostics may be advertising the most placid weather while only twelve hours away and coming at sixty miles an hour may be the severest storm of the season. The Weather Bureau with its maps and barometers follows its every movement. The man in the woods whose comfort in summer and whose life in winter may depend upon his preparedness for the approaching storm does well to read its warnings and know its laws.

CHAPTER III.

THE STORM CYCLE.

Doubtless those who hope for a Hereafter of unmitigated ease and song, desire, on this earth, one long, sweet anticyclone. But theirs, in most of the United States, is disappointment. With an irregularity that seems perversely regular at times our fair weather is interrupted by a storm which in turn gives way to some more fair weather or another storm,--there is no telling which very long in advance. And that is why American weather ranks high among our speculative interests.