The famous London fogs are different altogether.
These mists, like the mist pools, need the swamp as their
mother, I suppose, and the ice-cool summer night for
their nurse...
The time was up. I quickly did what had to be done, and
five minutes later we were on the road again. I watched
the horses for a while, and suddenly I thought once more
of that fleeting impression of an eddy in the lee of the
poplar bluff at the "White Range Line House." It was on
the north side of the trees, if it was there at all! The
significance of the fact had escaped me at the time. It
again confirmed my observation of the flow of the fog in
both directions. It came from a common centre. And still
there was no breath of air. I had no doubt any longer;
it was not the air that pushed the fog; the floating
bubbles, the infinitesimally small ones as well as those
that were quite perceptible, simply displaced the lighter
atmosphere. I wondered what kept these bubbles apart.
Some repellent force with which they were charged?
Something, at any rate, must be preventing them from
coalescing into rain. Maybe it was merely the perfect
evenness of their flow, for they gathered thickly enough
on the twigs and the few dried leaves, on any obstacles
in their way.
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