It rises or falls for rain and fine, with much or less wind, and one end is "Nly" and the other "Ely" (what's Ely got to do with it ?), and if you tap it, it doesn't tell you anything.
And you've got to correct it to sea-level, and reduce it to Fahrenheit, and even then I don't know the answer.
But who wants to be foretold the weather?
It is bad enough when it comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand.

The prophet we like is the old man who, on the particularly gloomy-looking morning of some day when we particularly want it to be fine, looks round the horizon with a particularly knowing eye, and says: "Oh no, sir, I think it will clear up all right.

It will break all right enough, sir." "Ah, he knows", we say, as we wish him good-morning, and start off; "wonderful how these old fellows can tell!" And we feel an affection for that man which is not at all lessened by the circumstances of its _not_ clearing up, but continuing to rain steadily all day.
"Ah, well," we feel, "he did his best." For the man that prophesies us bad weather, on the contrary, we entertain only bitter and revengeful thoughts.
"Going to clear up, d'ye think ?" we shout, cheerily, as we pass.
"Well, no, sir; I'm afraid it's settled down for the day," he replies, shaking his head.
"Stupid old fool!" we mutter, "what's _he_ know about it ?" And, if his portent proves correct, we come back feeling still more angry against him, and with a vague notion that, somehow or other, he has had something to do with it.
It was too bright and sunny on this especial morning for George's blood-curdling readings about "Bar.

falling," "atmospheric disturbance, passing in an oblique line over Southern Europe," and "pressure increasing," to very much upset us: and so, finding that he could not make us wretched, and was only wasting his time, he sneaked the cigarette that I had carefully rolled up for myself, and went.
Then Harris and I, having finished up the few things left on the table, carted out our luggage on to the doorstep, and waited for a cab.
[Picture: The luggage] There seemed a good deal of luggage, when we put it all together.

There was the Gladstone and the small hand-bag, and the two hampers, and a large roll of rugs, and some four or five overcoats and macintoshes, and a few umbrellas, and then there was a melon by itself in a bag, because it was too bulky to go in anywhere, and a couple of pounds of grapes in another bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a frying pan, which, being too long to pack, we had wrapped round with brown paper.
It did look a lot, and Harris and I began to feel rather ashamed of it, though why we should be, I can't see.