The Mistaken Anemometer

A little anemometer
On the weather-bureau high
Was set to measure off the wind
That whistled through the sky.
As the wind blew hard or the wind blew soft,
So swift he turned or slow,
And just the numher of miles an hour
His dial-plate would show.
But the little anemometer
On the weather-bureau tall
Decided, very innocent,
‘Twas he that did it all.
So when the wind blew a hurricane—
“I’m a terrible fellow!” he cried;
And when the wind was a zephyr mild—
“I’m too tired to blow,” he sighed.
Until one melancholy day
A little breeze, in fun,
Twisted the anemometer
So that it couldn’t run;
And thus it learned that the heavens work
On an independent plan,
And it grew to be a modest machine
And ceased to be like a man.