e, and he knows, yer see,
Down jest which lane ter turn;
Fact is--well, yes--he's been, I guess,
Quite times enough ter learn;
And he knows the hedge by the brook's damp edge,
Where the twinklin' fireflies shine,
And he knows who waits by the pastur' gates--
That old gray nag of mine.

So he stops, yer see, fer he thinks, like me,
That a buggy's made fer two;
Then along the lane, with a lazy rein,
He jogs in the shinin' dew;
And he do'n't fergit he can loaf a bit
In the shade of the birch and pine;
Oh, he knows his road, and he knows his load--
That old gray nag of mine.

No, he ain't the sort that the big-bugs sport,
Docked up in the latest style,
But he suits us two, clean through and through,
And, after a little while,
When the cash I've saved brings the home we've craved,
So snug, and our own design,
He'll take us straight ter the parson's gate--
That old gray nag of mine.

* * * * *

THROUGH THE FOG

The fog was so thick yer could cut it
'Thout reachin' a foot over-side,
The dory she'd nose up ter butt it,
And then git discouraged an' slide;
No noise but the thole-pins a-squeakin',
Or, maybe, the swash of a wave,
No feller ter cheer yer by speakin'--
'Twas lonesomer, lots, than the grave.

I set there an' thought of my trouble,
I thought how I'd worked fer the cash
That bust and went up like a bubble
The day that the bank went ter smash.
I thought how the fishin' was failin',
How little this season I'd made,
I thought of the child that was ailin',
I thought of the bills ter be paid.

"And," says I, "All my life I've been fightin'
Through oceans of nothin' but fog;
And never no harbor a-sightin'--
Jest driftin' around like a log;
No matter how sharp I'm a-spyin',
I never see nothin' ahead:
I'm sick and disgusted with tryin'--
I jest wish ter God I was dead."

It wa'n't more'n a minute, I'm certain,
The words was jest out er my mouth,
When up went the fog, like a curtain,
And "puff" came the breeze from the south;
And 'bout a mile off, by rough guessin',
I see my own shanty on shore,
And Mary, my wife and my blessin',
God keep her, she stood in the door.

And I says ter myself, "I'm a darlin';
A chap with a woman like that,
To set here a-grumblin' and snarlin',
As sour as a sulky young brat--
I'd better jest keep my helm steady,
And not mind the fog that's adrift,
For when the Lord gits goo