“I will instruct you!” she growell like a lady menagerie. “Become busy as soonly as possible. You will find a clothes-ringer annexed to yonder tub. Attach yourself to the handle and ring the cloths earnestly until I tell you quit.”
She point to one slight machinery resembling a hand organ with pianola rolls. I wind this instrument continuously. Nothing evolve.
“O Mrs. Madam, I cannot hear the bell!” I suggest.
“Which bell please?” she otter.
“You tell me to ring the clothes, not so?” I ask it.
“I despise you for your yellow mind!” she dib. “Clothes does not ring when you ring them!”
I could not assimilate the way she said it. She lift several drowned clothes from the tub and show me with considerable muscle how to squash them through those rollers. Clothes, however wet, can be sent through that machinery and emerge forth with great dignity like flat snakes. I turn crank handle continuously while Hon. Maggie make poke-in with wettish clothing. I enjoy great pain in my wrist and elbows, and when I commence to quit, this laundered female say “Faster” with bull dog expression.
Pretty soonly I lay down my hands and stop. Her mad eyebrows snub me.
“Hon. Mrs. Wash,” I renig, “why should you be more cross and peeved than other persons?”
“Togo,” she say so, “my duties require it. Cleaning things is a job full of tragedy and other grouch. It would be unnatural to laugh while washing. Clothes is pleasanter to wear, but unpleasant to scrub. It is similar with everything. Dishes is joyful to eat from, but nobody admire them when hour of dishpan arrive. Nobody love Monday, because it is sacred to splash and suds, yet if Monday was abolished by Congress, there would be no beautiful society on Saturday night.”