Fog covers everywhere.Fog is over the river,where it rolls among aits and green meadows.The river flows defiled among the tiers of shipping and water problems of a huge city.And fog is down this river.Fog is on the Essex swamp.Fog is on the Kentish hills.Fog slides into the cabooses of collier-brigs.It lays out on the yards and it hovers in the rigging of huge ships.Fog droops on the gunwales of barges and small boats.Fog is in the eyes,in the throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners.It wheezes by the firesides of their ward.Fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper.Fog is down in his close cabin.It cruelly pinches the toes and fingers of his shivering little prentice boy on deck.Chance people are on the bridges.It peeps over the parapets into a nether sky of fog.The fog covers them as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.