Nib and the Weather That Wasn't

In the village of Little Puddlewick, a knee-high copper robot named Nib stood in a field every morning, measuring the rain. Nib was precise. Nib was formal. And Nib could not stop announcing tomorrow.

'Attention, citizens!' Nib declared, its brass dial whirring like a happy spinning top. 'Tomorrow will be a day of magnificent sunshine for the village picnic!'

Nobody had asked. Nobody ever did. But Nib said it with such grand confidence that the whole village smiled and packed their baskets anyway.

'How many days have you been right, Nib?' giggled little Hattie, tugging at her braids.

'Seven!' said Nib proudly, standing very tall on its two thin legs. 'A distinguished number!'

The picnic morning arrived wrapped in a thick grey blanket of cloud. By lunchtime, the first fat raindrops went plip, plop, plip on the checkered tablecloths.

'Sunshine, Nib?' laughed Mr Ogden the baker, holding a tray of jam tarts over his floury hat.

Nib opened the folded umbrella on its back with a snap. 'The barometer may have been mistaken,' it said, completely unbothered. 'It happens to the best instruments.'

So the whole village squeezed under one enormous tablecloth and ate soggy sandwiches together. The rain drummed softly overhead, and the jam tarts still tasted wonderfully sweet.

A week later, the village planned its kite festival. Hattie had stitched a kite shaped like a fat orange fish, with a long swishing tail.

'Attention, citizens!' announced Nib, stepping onto an upturned bucket. 'Tomorrow will bring heavy rain. Do NOT fly kites!'

The villagers nodded politely and went home. But Hattie tapped her chin. 'Nib has been wrong about the sun,' she whispered to Mr Ogden. 'Maybe Nib is wrong about the rain, too.'

Mr Ogden's moustache twitched thoughtfully. 'Well,' he said, 'it is only a guess, after all.'

The next morning, the sky was as blue as a robin's egg, with not a single cloud in sight. A warm breeze tickled the grass and smelled of clover.

'Kite weather!' cheered Hattie, racing up the hill with her orange fish kite flapping behind her.

Nib trundled after them, brass dial spinning in confusion. 'Remarkable,' it murmured. 'The rain must be running late.'

All afternoon the sky filled with kites, red ones and yellow ones and one very happy orange fish. Nib stood at the bottom of the hill with its umbrella open, waiting faithfully for rain that never came.

After that, something funny began to happen in Little Puddlewick. Whenever Nib announced the weather, the villagers did the exact opposite.

'Sunshine tomorrow!' Nib would say, and out came the raincoats and wellington boots.

'Rain tomorrow!' Nib would declare, and out came the sunhats and the lemonade.

It worked wonderfully, every single time. Mr Ogden called it the Nib Rule. Nib was delighted to be so important, though it never quite understood why everyone grinned when it spoke.

'Eight days correct!' Nib announced one evening, adding a tally mark to its chest. Nobody had the heart to say otherwise.

Then came the evening before Hattie's birthday party. Nib stood in the field, its brass dial whirring more slowly than usual, and its folded umbrella gave a tiny shiver.

'Attention, citizens,' Nib said quietly. 'A very large storm is coming tonight. Please bring your lanterns inside and tie down your hats.'

The villagers exchanged knowing smiles. 'Nib says storm,' chuckled Mr Ogden. 'So it will be a beautiful night!'

'But I am sure this time,' said Nib. Its tiny gears clicked in a worried little rhythm. Nobody listened, and the village went to bed with its lanterns still hanging outside.

In the middle of the night, the wind began to hum, and then to howl. Rain rattled the windows of every cottage like handfuls of tossed peas.

Hattie woke with a gasp and peeked outside. Her paper lanterns were flapping wildly, and the birthday bunting was tumbling across the grass.

'Nib was right!' she cried. 'Nib was RIGHT!'

She pulled on her yellow raincoat and her red boots and splashed out into the dark. All around, doors flew open and villagers hurried out to rescue their lanterns, their hats, and Mr Ogden's wobbling tower of birthday cakes.

By morning, the storm had drifted away, and the village was clean and sparkling. Every puddle held a little piece of sky.

Hattie found Nib standing in the field, rain dripping from its umbrella like tiny silver bells. 'You were right,' she said, her braids still damp. 'We are so sorry we did not listen.'

Nib's dial spun in a slow, happy circle. 'Nine days correct!' it announced, adding a tally mark to its chest. 'A truly splendid number!'

Then the whole village gathered round, and Mr Ogden presented a birthday-shaped cake with a small copper umbrella made of sugar. They ate it together in the warm sunshine, and Nib forecasted clear skies, which, this time, nobody doubted.