Sleeves, it had none from the elbows down; In length—well, you see, the maid had grown.
A labor of love her homely task— To share it none need hope nor ask,
For Nan was washing each trace of dirt From fluted bodice and ruffled skirt.
Now, few that will, and fewer that can, Bend over a tub like pretty Nan.
The frail soap bubbles sailed high in air As she drew each piece from frothy lair,
And rubbed with cruel yet tender hand As only a woman could, understand.
Then wrung with twist of the wrist so strong, Examined with care, shook well and long,
Flung in clear water to lie in state— Each dainty piece met the same hard fate.
"'Tis done!" with a look of conscious pride At the rinsing bucket deep and wide.
Wiping the suds from each rounded arm, She turned to John with a smile so warm: