In matters of laundry the fault of them Dutch, Is charging too little, and grabbing too much! They'd collar our collars, cut off with our shirts! The heart of a true washerwoman it hurts To think of Frows taking _our_ time-honoured tub. What, travel to Holland to get rub and scrub, While soap and strong arms may in Britain be found? It's worse than them Stores! Furrineers may be found To do dirty work on the cheap, I've no doubt; But can old JOHN BULL know just what he's about In sending our work from his shores in _this_ way? I'm sure it won't wash, and I 'ope it won't pay! Shall we to Mynheer and his frowsy Frow truckle, While one English woman has arm, wrist, and knuckle? Forbid it, my sisters! My patriot 'eart Is up in my mouth at this ojus new start. There is an old proverb, and what do it say? It is the true laundress's motter, I say. But what in the world to JOHN BULL can 'ave come If he can't _wash his own dirty linen at 'ome_? * * * * * A MISMANAGED ACCIDENT. Have just discovered that the pretty girl I met at the dance the other night is a lady nurse at Charing Cross Hospital. Such a nice girl! What a charming nurse she must be! Almost wish I was laid up at the hospital. In fact, quite wish it. But I can't be. Another outrage on the miserable, downtrodden, middle class. If I were one of the fortunate, pampered masses, a Working Man, I should be nursed by her, if I were ill, and by others, perhaps, like her. Stay! There is a chance. If I could be damaged in an accident--not too much damaged--and carried to the hospital, they must look after me, and nurse me. They couldn't help themselves. Northumberland Avenue--the very place! Never cross it without being nearly run over.