’Neath the muslin curtains, snowy and thin,
The big homely sunflowers nodded in.
Nan was worth the watching, her gingham gown
Had, it may be, old-fashioned grown,
But it fitted the slender shape so well,
Was low at the neck where the soft lace fell;
Of sleeves, it had none, from the elbow down,
While in length—well, you see, the maid had grown.
A labor of love was her homely task
To share it, no mortal need hope or ask,
For Nan she was washing each trace of dirt
From fluted bodice, and ruffled skirt.
There are few that will, and fewer that can,
Bend over a tub like our pretty Nan,
As she took each piece from its frothy lair,
The soap bubbles flying high in the air,
And rubbed in a cruel, yet tender way,
Till her curls were wet with the steam and spray,
Then wrung with her two hands, slender and strong,
Examined with care, and shook slowly and long,