Well, not really – but unless you live in an area with very dark skies, free of light pollution, you’re going to have a hard time seeing the faint stars above Polaris, the North Star, at this time of year. Here’s what our March north sky star chart looks like.
Notice the emptiness? The area labeled “Dark Hole?” Mind you, this is not a black hole – just an area of our sky that looks quite empty – unless your viewing location is free of light pollution and your eyes are thoroughly dark adapted. If you can see all seven stars of the Little Dipper, then you should see several stars in this area. But even then I doubt if you will be able to trace out the constellation which goes there. It’s known as Camelopardalis. My copy of Urania’s Mirror, published in 1832, says Camelopardalis consists:
. . . of 58 stars, but none larger than the fourth magnitude. . . .The Camelopard is an Abysinnian animal, taller than the elephant, but not so thick. He is so named because he has a head and neck like a camel, and is spotted like a leopard; but his spots are white upon a reddish brown ground. The Italians call him giraffa. To Hevelius, who formed the constellation, he owes his celestial honors.
Ah, giraffe! Thank you, Italians. Here’s how he is pictured in full color on one the constellation cards that came with Urania’s Mirror (The scan is © Ian Ridpath.)
If you put him in the sky at this time of year his head would be down near Polaris. . . . Hmmm… the illustrator seems to have forgotten the spots mentioned in the text, and the animal’s neck got a bit longer than a camel’s. Ah well – while the 1830s had some advantages in terms of simplicity, I don’t think I would like to be trying to learn the night sky with Urania’s Mirror as my only guide.
Oh – but speaking of long necks, one of the things that has always fascinated me is some of the early attempts at astronomical telescopes and particularly the one in the following woodcut. This was an instrument built by Johann Hevelius in the mid-17th Century at his observatory in Poland. The tube was about 150 feet long – befitting, in a strange way, for the man who put a giraffe in the northern sky!