We know it, BET, in the sodden wet and the choking fume; with the aching back,
The long, long hours, and the typhoid taint, the inverted pail and the hurried snack.
There may—who knows?—be hope for us yet, for you and me, BET! Just think o' that!
Oh, I know it is hard to believe it, my girl. The Sweater's strong, and appeal falls flat
On official ears; and fine-lady fears, and household hurry against us go;
But "evil is wrought by want of thought." says some poet, I think;—so we'll let them know!
Ah! snowy sheets and sweet lavender scent of the dear old days in my village home!
The breadths of linen a-bleach on the grass! How little I thought that to this I'd come
Grand ladies of old to their laundry looked, and the tubs were white, and the presses fair;
Now we cleansers clean in the midst of dirt, in a dank, dark den, with a noisome air.