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Meteorology by J. G. M'Pherson
Meteorology by J. G. M'Pherson
Though by familiarity made commonplace, the "weather" is one of the most important topics of conversation, and has constant bearings upon the work and prospects of business-men and men of pleasure. The state of the weather is the password when people meet on the country road: we could not do without the humble talisman. "A fine day" comes spontaneously to the lips, whatever be the state of the atmosphere, unless it is peculiarly and strikingly repulsive; then "A bitter day" would take the place of the expression.
Yet I have heard "Terrible guid wither" as often as "Terrible bad day" among country people.
Scarcely a friendly letter is penned without a reference to the weather, as to what has been, is, or may be. It is a new stimulus to a lagging conversation at any dinner-table. All are so dependent on the weather, especially those getting up in years or of delicate health.
I remember, when at Strathpeffer, the great health-resort in the North of Scotland, in 1885, an anxious invalid at "The Pump" asking a weather-beaten, rheumatic old gamekeeper what sort of a day it was to be, considering that it had been wet for some time. The keeper crippled to the barometer outside the doorway, and returned with the matter-of-fact answer: "She's faurer doon ta tay nur she wass up yestreen." The barometer had evidently fallen during the night. "And what are we to expect?" sadly inquired the invalid. "It'll pe aither ferry wat, or mohr rain"-a poor consolation!
Most men who are bent on business or pleasure, and all dwellers in the country who have the instruments, make a first call at the barometer in the lobby, or the aneroid in the breakfast-parlour, to "see what she says." A good rise of the black needle (that is, to the right) above the yellow needle is a source of rejoicing, as it will likely be clear, dry, and hard weather. A slight fall (that is, to the left) causes anxiety as to coming rain, and a big depression forebodes much rain or a violent storm of wind. In either case of "fall," the shutters come over the eyes of the observer. Next, even before breakfast, a move is made to the self-registering thermometer (set the night before) on a stone, a couple of feet above the grass. A good reading, above the freezing-point in winter and much above it in summer, indicates the absence of killing rimes, that are generally followed by rain. A very low register accounts for the feeling of cold during the night, though the fires were not out; and predicts precarious weather. Ordinarily careful observers-as I, who have been in one place for more than thirty years-can, with the morning indications of these two instruments, come pretty sure of their prognostics of the day's weather. Of course, the morning newspaper is carefully scanned as to the weather-forecasts from the London Meteorological Office-direction of wind; warm, mild, or cold; rain or fair, and so on-and in general these indications are wonderfully accurate for twenty-four hours; though the "three days'" prognostics seem to stretch a point. We are hardly up to that yet.
The lower animals are very sensitive as to the state of approaching extremes of weather. "Thae sea beass," referring to sea-gulls over the inland leas during ploughing, are ordinary indicators of stormy weather. Wind is sure to follow violent wheelings of crows. "Beware of rain" when the sheep are restive, rubbing themselves on tree stumps. But all are familiar with Jenner's prognostics of rain.
Science has come to the aid of ordinary weather-lore during the last twenty years, by leaps and bounds. Time-honoured notions and revered fictions, around which the hallowed associations of our early training fondly and firmly cling, must now yield to the exact handling of modern science; and with reluctance we have to part with them. Yet there is in all a fascination to account for certain ordinary phenomena. "The man in the street," as well as the strong reading man, wishes to know the "why" and the "how" of weather-forecasting. They are anxious to have weather-phenomena explained in a plain, interesting, but accurate way.
The freshness of the marvellous results has an irresistible charm for the open mind, keen for useful information. The discoveries often seem so simple that one wonders why they were not made before.
Until about twenty years ago, Meteorology was comparatively far back as a science; and in one important branch of it, no one has done more to put weather-lore on a scientific basis than Dr. John Aitken, F.R.S., who has very kindly given me his full permission to popularise what I like of his numerous and very valuable scientific papers in the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. This I have done my best to carry out in the following pages. "The way of putting it" is my only claim.
Many scientific men are decoyed on in the search for truth with a spell unknown to others: the anticipation of the results sometimes amounts to a passion. Many wrong tracks do they take, yet they start afresh, just as the detective has to take several courses before he hits upon the correct scent. When they succeed, they experience a pleasure which is indescribable; to them fame is more than a mere "fancied life in others' breath."
Dr. Aitken's continued experiments, often of rare ingenuity and brilliancy, show that no truth is altogether barren; and even that which looks at first sight the very simplest and most trivial may turn out fruitful in precious results. Small things must not be overlooked, for great discoveries are sometimes at a man's very door. Dr. Aitken has shown us this in many of his discoveries which have revolutionised a branch of meteorology. Prudence, patience, observing power, and perseverance in scientific research will do much to bring about unexpected results, and not more so in any science than in accounting for weather-lore on a rational basis, which it is in the power of all my readers to further.
"The old order changeth, giving place to new." With kaleidoscopic variety Nature's face changes to the touch of the anxious and reverent observer. And some of these curious weather-views will be disclosed in these pages, so as, in a brief but readable way, to explain the weather, and lay a safe basis for probable forecastings, which will be of great benefit to the man of business as well as the man of pleasure.
"Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas."
-Virgil.
* * *
Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.
After seven years in a dungeon for a crime I didn't commit, my fated mate, the Alpha who let them drag me away, finally opened my cell door. He announced I would take my place as his Luna, not out of love, but because the law demanded it. But the moment a frantic mind-link came through that his precious Seraphina-my adopted sister, the one who framed me-was having trouble breathing, he abandoned me without a second glance. That night, huddled in a dusty shack, I overheard my own parents' secret conversation. They were planning to have me exiled. Permanently. My return had upset Seraphina, and her "weak heart" couldn't take the shock. I lay there in the darkness, feeling nothing. Not surprise. Not even pain. Just a profound, empty coldness. They were casting me out. Again. But as they plotted my exile, a secret message arrived for me-an offer of escape. A new life in a sanctuary far to the north, where I could leave the Blackmoon Pack behind forever. They thought they were getting rid of me. Little did they know, I was already gone.
Sunlit hours found their affection glimmering, while moonlit nights ignited reckless desire. But when Brandon learned his beloved might last only half a year, he coolly handed Millie divorce papers, murmuring, "This is all for appearances; we'll get married again once she's calmed down." Millie, spine straight and cheeks dry, felt her pulse go hollow. The sham split grew permanent; she quietly ended their unborn child and stepped into a new beginning. Brandon unraveled, his car tearing down the street, unwilling to let go of the woman he'd discarded, pleading for her to look back just once.
Brenna lived with her adoptive parents for twenty years, enduring their exploitation. When their real daughter appeared, they sent Brenna back to her true parents, thinking they were broke. In reality, her birth parents belonged to a top circle that her adoptive family could never reach. Hoping Brenna would fail, they gasped at her status: a global finance expert, a gifted engineer, the fastest racer... Was there any end to the identities she kept hidden? After her fiancé ended their engagement, Brenna met his twin brother. Unexpectedly, her ex-fiancé showed up, confessing his love...
Five years into marriage, Hannah caught Vincent slipping into a hotel with his first love-the woman he never forgot. The sight told her everything-he'd married her only for her resemblance to his true love. Hurt, she conned him into signing the divorce papers and, a month later, said, "Vincent, I'm done. May you two stay chained together." Red-eyed, he hugged her. "You came after me first." Her firm soon rocketed toward an IPO. At the launch, Vincent watched her clasp another man's hand. In the fitting room, he cornered her, tears burning in his eyes. "Is he really that perfect? Hannah, I'm sorry... marry me again."
There was only one man in Raegan's heart, and it was Mitchel. In the second year of her marriage to him, she got pregnant. Raegan's joy knew no bounds. But before she could break the news to her husband, he served her divorce papers because he wanted to marry his first love. After an accident, Raegan lay in the pool of her own blood and called out to Mitchel for help. Unfortunately, he left with his first love in his arms. Raegan escaped death by the whiskers. Afterward, she decided to get her life back on track. Her name was everywhere years later. Mitchel became very uncomfortable. For some reason, he began to miss her. His heart ached when he saw her all smiles with another man. He crashed her wedding and fell to his knees while she was at the altar. With bloodshot eyes, he queried, "I thought you said your love for me is unbreakable? How come you are getting married to someone else? Come back to me!"
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