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Show Once a Week, or the Boy Chewing the Rags. By a Local Ioct. The melancholy day has come, the saddest or the week; The grinding sound as the machine goes lound awakes mo from my sleep. Tho suds is foaming In the pot, the fumes aro in the air, . Mother's standing by the tub, crosser than a beat ; Dirty duds laying round, water on the lloor, Father kicking things about squealing like a boar. The boy complains, as his nerve he stialns, losing fast his grip. Mother cries, "what's the mattei now?" "Why I've let the handle slip." His face Is long, he has no song, his eye is on the clock. While In this melancholy mood,NMothcr soaks him with a sock. Tho boy he says, 'I'm hungry now, when do we have dinner?' Tho answer comes from tho same old voice, 'como out and turn this rlngci.' The boy exclaims as the washing's done, I'm glad there Is no more It is not so, jou can not go, jou'vo got to sciub tho lloor. "The melancholy days wont come, when 1 a man have giown, I'll wear my duds, without using suds, for I will not stay at home. |