Now, old George Jones is weather wise
   In open fields he spends his day;
He cocks a shrewd eye to the skies
   And says rain can't be far away.
"No dew there weren't last night," says he.
   "Bone dry.  'Twill rain before tonight."
And, 'spite all other prophecy,
   Rain comes; and once again he's right.

Grave scientists sit in the town
   And glean reports from near and far,
Conning their charts and marking down,
   With "high" and "low" and "isobar,"
The winnowed wisdom they have gained
   From far-flung skies and distant seas.
And I, for one, have e'er maintained
   Truth must inform such prophesies.

We sit beside the wireless set,
   Old George and I, to hear the news.
"Tonight," says he, "will sure be wet."
   But I await the expert's views. . . .
Now comes the forecast: "Fine and clear."
   "There, George!" I cry in mild reproof;
Yet scarce have spoken e'er I hear
   The rain come pelting on the roof!

I smile at old George Jones, poor clown;
   For I'm "advanced."  I hope.  Oh, quite!
I heed the learned men in town,
   And find their forecasts sometimes right.
But - here's what makes me feel a fool
   And has me thinking deep and long:
Tho' he has spent brief days at school,
   Queer old George Jones is seldom wrong! 

"Den"
Herald, 16 May 1934, p6