Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 April 1875 — HOW SNOW IS MADE. [ARTICLE]

HOW SNOW IS MADE.

BY ADAM STWIN.

Johnny spent the holidays in the country—the jolliest place in the world at such a time, at least for a small city boy. But it is not about sleighing or sledding, evening frolics or anything of that sort that lam to tell you now. This time Johnny learned how to make a snowstorm; not a very big one, to be sure, still a snow-storm; and that gave him a pretty correct idea of the way big snowstorms are made out of doors. This is how it happened: You will remember that about Christmas time we had a few jnild days followed by bitter cold at New Year’s. It was one of the warm days, and Johnny had ventured out to slide on the hill back of the barn. In a little while he came running in, puffing with excitement, and shouting: “ The barn’s a-fire! the barn’s a-fire!” “ Where?” I asked, starting up. “ On top, I guess,” Johnny replied. “I didn’t see the fire—only the smoke. Just see how it rolls over the roof !” “Are you sure that is smoke?” I asked, when I caught sight of the white wreaths .curling over the ridge of the barn. “ Of course,” said Johnny; “ what else can it be? Hurry and call the men or the horses will artl be burned.” “Don’t be alarmed,” " I’said; “the horses are in no danger. Still we will go and see.” Before I could get my hat Johnny was scampering toward the barn, which he expected every moment to see burst out in a blaze. When I got there he stood a little way from the barn door, afraid to go nearer lest the flame should suddenly overwhelm him. “ Do you see any fire?” “No,” replied Johnny; “but just see how the smoke comes over the roof!” “ Let us look inside,” I said, opening the door. Johnny came forward timidly, greatly surprised not to see the barn full of smoke, at least. “ Maybe the roof’s a-fire on top,” he said.

“ Let us take a look at it from the Other side," I said, leading the way through the barn. Everything was qiiiet in the sunny barn-yard. The cows were calmlv chewing their cuds, and the chickens, clustered in a corner, chuckled a little at our approach, as much as to say: “ Come aud warm yourselves; it’s like summer here.” Johnny took no notice of cows or hens, but hurried to the further side of the yard to get a good sight of the roof. “ Well,” I said, as he stopped short find looked a little disappointed, “ do you see any fire?" “ No-o-o,” he replied, doubtfully. “ Nor smoke either. It’s a perfect swindle! I was sure the roof was afire.” “Let us be thankful it isn’t! But how came you to make the mistake?” “ Come and see,” was his only reply. I stepped across the yard and saw—just what I expected. There was more water than fire. The warm sun had heated the shingles, melting the snow from off them; and as the moist air next the roof mixed with the colder air above or drifted into the chilly shade little white curls of cloud were formed like puffs of smoke.

“What makes the roof steam so?” Johnny asked. I told him howjjthe sun warmed the roof, and the roof warmed ■’the air next to it; how warm air drinks up the moisture—much more than it can hold when cooled; and that the clouds were formed by the chilling of damp air which made the vapor in the air visible. “See,” I said, “on this sunny side of the barn, where the air is warm, you can’t see your breath; on the shady side it comes out like a cloud. That is because the cold air drills the moisture in the breath and makes it visible.”

Here Johnny went on with his sliding and I returned to the house. Some time after, perhaps the next day, Johnny surprised me with the question, “ How do you know that it is moisture that makes the breath white in‘ the cold ?” “Go breathe on the window,” I said. “ What for?” asked Johnny. “ You’ll see when you try it,” was my reply. Johnny went to the window and breathed against the glass. “ What do you see?” I asked. “ Nothing but a blur; but it doesn’t stay long.” “ Keep on breathing, and breathe faster,” said I. I heard no more from Johnny for two or three minutes; then he said: “It is moisture! See, it is in little drops all over the glass, and one big drop has run down to the bottom.” “ Did you ever see anything like that before?” “Of course,” said Johnny. “The glass gets wet so every cold day. Does it all come from our breaths?” “Oh, no! The most of it comes from the water on the stove. See,” I continued, holding a small hand-glass over the urn, “ there is no steam that you can see coming from the water, yet moisture gathers rapidly on the glass. The cold glass chills the air next it, making it unable to hold so much vapor, so the moisture lodges on the glass just as it does on the window.” “ Is that the way the frost forms on the windows when it is very cold?” j “Exactly; only in that case the moisture freezes as it forms. If you will step into the store-room, where there .is no fire, and breathe slowly against the window, perhaps you will be able to see how the frost appears.” Jqhnny ran to do as I Had told him, and I went out to the woodshed for a big broad-ax that was there. "4*

’ ‘ When I came back he had a long story to tell about the beautiful forest pictures that grew up under his breath, but I had no time to listen to it then. I brought the ax quickly to the stove and held it high over the water-urn, bidding Johnny to tell me what happened. “ It smokes,” he said. “ Just as the barn roof smoked,” said I. “ The cold iron chills the vapor in the air and makes a cloud of it. If the iron does not get*warm too soon you will see something stranger than cloud.” “I can now,” cried Johnny. “It’s frost.” “So it is,” said I. “ The iron is cold enough to freeze the vapor as it turns to water. I think something of this sort is going on up in the sky just now.” “ Do you?” cried Johnny, eagerly, running to the window. “ Where r’ “All over,” I said. “The sky was clear but a little while ago; now see how hazy it is. The wind that comes up from the sea is warm and moist, and where it strikes the cold air over the land it turns to cloud. I shouldn’t be surprised if we had snow before morning.” “I hope so,” said Johnny; and his wish was granted. When he came down to breakfast the trees were loaded with feathery snow; every fence-post had a snowy nightcap on, and all the ground was covered with a clean white carpet. He could hardly eat his breakfast, he was in such a hurry to be out to wade in the snow and help shovel paths. But he was soon just as eager to get back by the warm fire again; for it was stinging cold out-doors, notwithstanding the bright sunshine.

After sitting by the stove till he was thoroughly warmed he suddenly remarked : “ Snow is sky-frost, ain’t it?” “ What do you mean by that?” I said. “Why,” said Johnny, “I mean that snow is made up in the clouds just as the frost is on the windows.” “ Just the same way,” I said. “What makes it fall, then? Why doesn’t it stick to the sky, just as the frost does to the window or anything else?” “ The sky offers nothing for it to cling to,” said I. “The snowfall last night was caused by the mixing of the warm, damp wind that came up from the sea with colder air, which made it give up all its moisture; and the moisture was frozen by the cold air, turning it to snow. The air could not hold the snew after it was forqied, so it fell to the-ground.” “ Did anyone ever see snow while it was being made?” Johnny asked. “ Often; and sometimes, when the conditions are just right, H js possible to make a little snow-storm in the house.” “Reall-y?” “ Really. I remember seeing one in a lecture-hall one cold evening when a window was opened for ventilation; and at other times in our kitchen at home in very cold weather.” “ Could we do it here?” “ Possibly,” I replied; “ but I’m afraid it is not cold enough to-day. It will do no harm to try.” So we went down to the kitchen, which happened to be very warm and full of steam from a big boiler of clothes, for it was washing-day. “ We’ve come to make a little snow down here, aunty, with your permission,” said I.

“ Go ’long now!” replied good-natured aunty. “ Didn’t de good Lord make enough for ye las’night?” “ Quite enough, aunty; but we want a little storm in the house.” “S’poseyou sweep it up, den; dere’s muss enough on the flo’ now.’” “ All right,” said Johnny, who was ready to shovel out the snow if need be. “You see how still and clear it is outdoors,” said Ito Johnny. “Now watch the door as I open it a little.” So saying, I opened the door quickly, and the cold air rushed in like a great white cloud. Johnny watched the cloud till it disappeared, then cried: “Where’s the snow?” “We didn’t get any; and I’m. afraid the air is not cold enough outside or damp enough within to make any. Still,” I continued, “we will try again, further from the stove.” We went to a window in the corner of the big kitchen farthest from the fire, and, having rolled up the curtains to the very top, I made ready to drop the upper sash suddenly. “ Look sharp!” I said, and a wave of cloud burst into the room and rolled along the ceiling, spitting flakes of snow. “ Spec’ dat blowed in from de ruff,” said aunty. • “No, it didn’t,” said Johnny. “The snow is perfectly still outside.” “ Dat’s so,” assented aunty. “Jeslem me see dat once mo’.” Again I dropped the upper sash for a moment and the inrushing cold air made a cloud along the ceiling, fem which a few snowflakes dropped into the warmer air and quickly disappeared. “ Whar’d dat snow come from? S’Jose you ’splain dat mystery to me,” said aunty, half inclined to think there was magic in it. “Johnny can tell you,” said I, and I left him explaining to black aunty how the white snow got into her kitchen. Do you think you could have made it clear to her?— Christian Union.