He’s used ter me, 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 good and ready,
  I reckon it’s certain ter lift.”

* * * * *

THE BALLADE OF THE DREAM-SHIP