as then pleasant enough and to my eye all
was right aloft. I am not, however, weather-wise. I must feel the
first patter of the storm before I hazard a judgment. To learn even
the quarter of a breeze--unless there is a trail of smoke to guide
me--I must hold up a wet finger. In my ignorance clouds sail across
the heavens on a whim. Like white sheep they wander here and there for
forage, and my suspicion of bad weather comes only when the tempest
has whipped them to a gallop. Even a band around the moon--which I am
told is primary instruction on the coming of a storm--stirs me chiefly
by its deeper mystery, as if astrology, come in from the distant
stars, lifts here a warning finger. But M---- was brought up beside
the sea, and she has a sailor's instinct for the weather. At the first
preliminary shifting of the heavens, too slight for my coarser senses,
she will tilt her nose and look around, then pronounce the coming of a
storm. To her, therefore, I leave all questions of umbrellas and
raincoats, and on her decision we go abroad.

Last night when I awoke I knew that her prophecy was right again, for
the rain was blowing in my face and slashing on the upper window. The
wind, too, was whistling along the roofs, with a try at chimney-pots
and spouts. It was the wolf in the fairy story who said he'd huff and
he'd puff, and he'd blow in the house where the little pig lived; yet
tonight his humor was less savage. Down below I heard ash-cans
toppling over all along the street and rolling to the gutters. It
lacks a few nights of Hallowe'en, but doubtless the wind's calendar is
awry and he is out already with his mischief. When a window rattles at
this season, it is the tick-tack of his roguish finger. If a chimney
is overthrown, it is his jest. Tomorrow we shall find a broken shutter
as his rowdy celebration of the night.

This morning is by general agreement a nasty day. I am not sure that I
assent. If I were the old woman at the corner who sells newspapers
from a stand, I would not like the weather, for the pent roof drops
water on her stock. Scarcely is the peppermint safe beyond the
splatter. Nor is it, I fancy, a profitable day for a street-organ man,
who requires a sunny morning with open windows for a rush of business.
Nor is there any good reason why a house-painter should be delighted
with this blustering sky, unless he is an idle fellow who seeks an
excuse to lie in bed. But except in sympathy, why is our elevator b