It had been a hard spring for the Weather Man.  Day after day he had been forced to run a signed statement in the daily papers to the effect that some time during that day there would probably be showers.  And day after day, with a ghastly consistency, his prophecy had come true.  People had come to dislike him personally; old jokes about him were brought out and oiled and given a trial spin down the road a piece before appearing in funny columns and vaudeville skits, and the sporting writers, frenzied by the task of filling their space with nothing but tables of batting averages, had become positively libellous.

And now summer was at hand, and with it the promise of the sun.  The Weather Man nibbled at his thumb nail.  The clock on the wall said 11:15.

“It just couldn’t go back on us now,” he said, plaintively, “when it means so much to us.  It always has come on the 21st.”

There was not much that I could say.  I didn’t want to hold out any false hope, for I am a child in arms in matters of astronomy, or whatever it is that makes weather.

“I often remember hearing my father tell,” I ventured, “how every year on the 21st of June summer always used to come, rain or shine, until they came to look for it on that date, and to count from then as the beginning of the season.  It seems as if”—­

“I know,” he interrupted, “but there have been so many upsetting things during the past twelve months.  We can’t check up this year by any other years.  All we can do is wait and see.”

A gust of wind from Jersey ran along the side of the building, shaking at the windows.  The Weather Man shuddered, and looked out of the corner of his eye at the anemometer-register which stood on a table in the middle of the room.  It indicated whatever anemometers do indicate when they want to register bad news.  I considerately looked out at the window.

“You’ve no idea,” he said at last, in a low voice, “of how this last rainy spell has affected my home life.  For the first two or three days, although I got dark looks from slight acquaintances, there was always a cheery welcome waiting for me when I got home, and the Little Woman would say, ’Never mind, Ray, it will soon be pleasant, and we all know that it’s not your fault, anyway.’

“But then, after a week had passed and there had been nothing but rain and showers and rain, I began to notice a change.  When I would swing in at the gate she would meet me and say, in a far-away voice, ’Well, what is it for to-morrow?’ And I would have to say ’Probably cloudy, with occasional showers and light easterly gales.’  At which she would turn away and bite her lip, and once I thought I saw her eye-lashes wet.

“Then, one night, the break came.  It had started out to be a perfect day, just such as one reads about, but along about noon it began to cloud over and soon the rain poured down in rain-gauges-full.

[Illustration:  She would turn away and bite her lip.]