ODE TO OZONE.
(By a Poor Paterfamilias.)
"London is a terrible consumer of ozone."—Standard.
A'R—"The Dutchman's Little Dog."
O where and O where, is our treasured Ozone?
O where, and O where can it be?
From London to leeward 'tis utterly gone,
To windward but little floats free.
Since SCHÖNBEIN of Basle discovered the stuff,
We've lived half a cen-tu-ree.
If of it we only could swallow enough,
How healthy, how happy were we!
Condensed form of oxygen, essence of air
That's fresh, or electricitee,
Ozone is the stuff shaken health to repair.
'Tis for it we all fly to the sea!
Solidified Ozone they talk about now,
To be bought in small bricks like pressed tea.
The air that is cheering when breathed on one's brow
In cubic foot-blocks would bring glee.
How pleasant to buy one's Ozone, like one's coal,
And store it up an-nu-al-lee!
And not fly for it to some dull cockney hol
Just because it is dug by the Sea!
Ah yes, let us have it, this needful Ozone,
In portable parcels! Ah me!
No longer need Paterfamilias groan
At the cost of that month by the Sea!
SHAKSPEARIAN MOTTO FOR THE NEW UNIONISM.—(Dedicated to the Artisan left out in the cold.)—"In the ambush of my name, strike home!"—Measure for Measure.