Are no longer entirely conwincing. 
  Just look at the Linen—­in ’eaps! 
    And no one can say it ain’t dirty! 
  Our clients, a-grumbling they keeps,
    And some of ’em seem getting shirty. 
  Wotever, my dear, shall we do? 
    Two parties ’as axed me that question;
  And now I just puts it to you,
    And I ’ope you can make some suggestion.

HEAD LAUNDRESS.

  My dear Missis COLEY, I own
    I ain’t heard from the parties you ’int at. 
  But them Linen-’eaps certny has grown,
    Wich their bulk I ’ave just took a squint at. 
  We sud, and we rub, and we scrub. 
    And the pile ’ardly seems to diminish. 
  It tires us poor Slaves of the Tub,
    And the doose only knows when we’ll finish,

A LEADING LAUNDRESS.

  Percisely, my dear, but it’s that,
    As the Public insists upon knowin’,
  Missis MATHEW ’as told me so, pat,
    Wich likeways ’as good Missis BOWEN. 
  You can’t floor their argyments, quite,
    ’Owsomever you twirl ’em or ’twist ’em;
  They say, and I fear they are right,
    There is somethink all wrong with our System!

HEAD LAUNDRESS.

  Our System!  Well, well, my good soul,
    You know ’twasn’t us as inwented it. 
  We wouldn’t have got into this ’ole,
    If you and me could ’ave perwented it. 
  I know there’s no end of a block,
    That expenses is running up awfully;
  The sight of it gives me a shock,
    But ’ow can we alter it—­lawfully?

A LEADING LAUNDRESS.

  I fear, Mum, I very much fear,
    That word doesn’t strike so much terror
  As once on the dull public ear;
    Times change.  Mum, they do, make no error! 
  Our clients complain of the cost,
    And lots of Commercials is leaving us. 
  I think, Mum, afore more is lost,
    We had best own the block is—­well grieving us!

HEAD LAUNDRESS.

  There can’t be no ’arm, dear, in that. 
    Let’s write to the papers and ’int it. 
  I know with your pen you are pat,
    And the Times will be ’appy to print it. 
  If we are to git through that lot,
    We must ’ave some more ’elp—­that’s my notion! 
  Let’s strike whilst the iron is ’ot,
    The Public may trust our dewotion. 
  We’ll call the chief Laundresses round;
    Some way we no doubt shall discover. 
  At least, dear, ’twill ’ave a good sound,
    If we meet, and—­well talk the thing over!

    [Left doing so.

* * * * *

A MENU FROM HATFIELD.

POTAGES.

Consomme de Neveu aux Balles de Golf. 
Au Jo poche.

ENTREES.

Supreme de Livres Bleus. 
Irlandais Sauvages en Culottes. 
Filou Mignon Randolph, Sauce Tartarin. 
Degout de Goschen a la Financiere.