MY OLD GRAY NAG 

  When the farm work's done, at the set of sun, And the supper's cleared away, And Ma, she sits on the porch and knits, And Dad, he puffs his clay; Then out I go ter the barn, yer know, With never a word ner sign, In the twilight dim I harness him—     That old gray nag of mine. 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 

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