CHAPTER XVIII 



Sponges and the Sponge Industry 



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 prongs 

 And, what I think is rather wrong, 

 He also prongs their wives. 



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. 



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.^ 



Although the silly little poem at the head of this 



chapter is very short, and is intended to be merely 



a bit of humor, it tells much about the sponge and 



something of sponge fishing. For the sponge of com- 



^A.P.H. in "Punch," 1921. 



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