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[Illustration:  THE POPULAR GAME OF ARTHUR GOLFOUR.  AS UNDERSTOOD BY THE MASS OF THE PUBLIC.]

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[Illustration:  THE DEMON ALPS

(Our Artist’s Dream, after reading the numerous Accidents to Mountain-Climbers.)]

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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 SCHOeNBEIN 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!

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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.

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TO MY UMBRELLA.

  ’Twere hard indeed to try to get
    A theme without some poem on it—­
  A vilanelle, a triolet,
    An ode, an epic, or a sonnet. 
  CASTARA’S charms were sung of old,
    Both SWIFT and SIDNEY, wrote to STELLA,
  But mine it is to first unfold
  The praise of my beloved Umbrella.

[Illustration]

  You are not difficult to please,
    Although no doubt a trifle “knobby;”
  Whilst I’m reclining at mine ease,
    I leave you standing in the lobby. 
  I ever treat you thus, and yet
    I haven’t got a friend who’s firmer;
  In point of fact, you even let
    Me shut you up without a murmur.

  Now some seek solace sweet in smoke,
    And make a pipe their AMARYLLIS;
  So think not that I do but joke
    In calling you my darling PHYLLIS. 
  And though the gossips never spare
    For ill-report to seek a handle,
  The (indiarubber) ring you wear
    Prevents the very thought of scandal.