CHARLES DİCKENS

Fos is eveywhere and it is going up the river where it flows among green aits and grass. Fog is going down the river,where it rolls abused among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great city. Fog is on the Essex swamps. Fog is on the Kentish hills.Fog begins to appear in the cabooses of collier-brigs. Fog is lying out on the yard and swinging on the nout of huge ships . Fog is falling on the gunwales of barges and small boats . Ancient Greenwich pensioners’s eyes anf throats are full of fog which wheezing by firesides of their wards.Fog is in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the angry skipper. Fog is cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his who is shivering little prentrice boy on deck.Chance people on the bridges are peeping over hte praphets into a nether sky of fog as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.