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.

Consommé de Neveu aux Balles de Golf.
Au Jo poché.

ENTRÉES.