Fog is everywhere.It is up the river where it flows among green aits and meadows.It is down the river where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a gereat and dirty city. And fog is on the Essex marshes and Kentish heights.It creeps into the cabooses of collier brigs,lies out on the yards and hovers in the rigging of great ships drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats.Fog is in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners,wheezing by the firesides of their wards and it is in the stem and bowl of the wrathful skipper.So it cruelly pinches the toes and fingers of its shivering little prentice boy on deck.Chance people are on the bridges and peeps over the parapets into a nether sky of fog and with it all around them,as if they were up in a baloon and hang in the misty clouds.