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',