Huddling in overcoat and muffler against the winter chill, leaning heavily upon a cane, the old man moved along the sidewalk. With dimly seeing eyes he peered uncertainly through the yellow half-light of the street-lamps. He was very old; once he might have been fairly tall, but now he was bent and shrunken; the hair which showed at his temples was snow-white. As he came to the steps of the Federal Building, he paused and then tapped with his cane to be sure that he had seen aright.

He rang the night-bell. The watchman recognized him, and let him in without question. Going up in the elevator, he was silent. Yes, he could remember the situation well. The low had moved in across Tennessee; the pressure at the center was 29.5 or close to that; and the year was ’98, April. But there was something else he couldn’t remember, something about Maine. Pressure had been high over Maine, he was sure of that all right; but there was something else and it bothered him—Maine, rain, Spain. And a senseless rhyme kept bobbing up in his head: “He drove the span-yards, back to their tan-yards.”

The elevator-man spoke to him.

“Think we’re goin’ to have some rain soon?”

“Yes, it will rain soon.”

“Feel it in your joints, eh!”

“I do not feel it in my joints,” said the old man formally. “But—but—but I know.”

“Well, I guess if the boys upstairs can’t figure us a rain with all them maps, we’d better not try.”

“I—I know,” said the old man, and drew himself up stiffly.

Feeling ahead with his cane, he came into the chart-room.

“Good morning, sir,” he heard a voice say.

“I should like to see the observations taken. I trust I am not too late.”

“He’s just gone up, sir. . . . Here, I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, sir; I see better sometimes than others.”

With his right hand gripping the steel rail of the circular staircase the old man moved more confidently. He ascended carefully step by step, went through a door, and came out upon the roof. A row of electric lights showed him the way through a maze of skylights and ventilators. He came to the little louvered instrument-shelter, at which a man was reading a thermometer.

“Good morning, sir,” said the old man.

“Good morning,” said the other, and as he noted something upon his pad, the light falling on his face showed him to be very young.