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.

Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a
spectral thing,
A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst
we rinse and wring.
Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back.
You have finished your grub,
So to work once more; if our champions score, we _may_ find a new end to
this Tale of a Tub!

* * * * *

[Illustration: A CURE FOR INFLUENZA.

_Major O'Gourmand_. "SURE, ME DOCTHOR SAID A GLASS OR TWO OF DRY
CHAMPAGNE'LL DO ME GOOD! BEGORRAH, THE BOTTLE'S DRY ENOUGH BY THIS TIME!"]

* * * * *

STRIKING INTELLIGENCE.--A PAGE FROM A LONDONER'S DIARY.