NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.

The sponge is not, as you suppose,

A funny kind of weed;

He lives below the deep blue sea,

An animal, like you and me,

Though not so good a breed.

And when the sponges go to sleep

The fearless diver dives;

He prongs them with a cruel prong,

And, what I think is rather wrong,

He also prongs their wives.

For I expect they love their wives

And sing them little songs,

And though, of course, they have no heart

It hurts them when they're forced to part—

Especially with prongs.

I know you'd rather not believe

Such dreadful things are done;

Alas, alas, it is the case;

And every time you wash your face

You use a skeleton.

And that round hole in which you put

Your finger and your thumb,

And tear the nice new sponge in two,

As I have told you not to do,

Was once his osculum.

So that is why I seldom wash,

However black I am,

But use my flannel if I must,

Though even that, to be quite just,

Was once a little lamb.

A. P. H.