“For he whose comfort is secure
  Another’s woes can well endure.”

  “The latch-string’s out,” the voice replied,
  “And so’s the door—­jes’ step inside.”

  Then through the darkness I discerned
  A hovel, into which I turned.

  Groping about beneath its thatch,
  I struck my head and then a match.

  A candle by that gleam betrayed
  Soon lent paraffinaceous aid.

  A pallid, bald and thin old man
  I saw, who this complaint began: 

  “Through summer suns and winter snows
  I sets observin’ of my toes.

  “I rambles with increasin’ pain
  The path of duty, but in vain.

  “Rewards and honors pass me by—­
  No Congress hears this raven cry!”

  Filled with astonishment, I spoke: 
  “Thou ancient raven, why this croak?

  “With observation of your toes
  What Congress has to do, Heaven knows!

  “And swallow me if e’er I knew
  That one could sit and ramble too!”

  To answer me that ancient swain
  Took up his parable again: 

  “Through winter snows and summer suns
  A Weather Bureau here I runs.

  “I calls the turn, and can declare
  Jes’ when she’ll storm and when she’ll fair.

  “Three times a day I sings out clear
  The probs to all which wants to hear.

  “Some weather stations run with light
  Frivolity is seldom right.

  “A scientist from times remote,
  In Scienceville my birth is wrote.

  “And when I h’ist the ‘rainy’ sign
  Jes’ take your clo’es in off the line.”

  “Not mine, O marvelous old man,
  The methods of your art to scan,

  “Yet here no instruments there be—­
  Nor ’ometer nor ’scope I see.

  “Did you (if questions you permit)
  At the asylum leave your kit?”

  That strange old man with motion rude
  Grew to surprising altitude.

  “Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns—­
  I tells the weather by my corns.

  “No doors and windows here you see—­
  The wind and m’isture enters free.

  “No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur
  Here falsifies the tempercher.

  “My corns unleathered I expose
  To feel the rain’s foretellin’ throes.

  “No stockin’ from their ears keeps out
  The comin’ tempest’s warnin’ shout.

  “Sich delicacy some has got
  They know next summer’s to be hot.

  “This here one says (for that he’s best): 
  ‘Storm center passin’ to the west.’

  “This feller’s vitals is transfixed
  With frost for Janawary sixt’.

  “One chap jes’ now is occy’pied
  In fig’rin on next Fridy’s tide.

  “I’ve shaved this cuss so thin and true
  He’ll spot a fog in South Peru.

  “Sech are my tools, which ne’er a swell
  Observatory can excel.