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C. ERNEST HEALEY, LEWISTON, MAINE.

UNDERNEATH the shady maple, by the old back door, The housewife did the washing, in those happy days of yore; She used to bang the washtub, in an endless rub-a-dub, And stand for weary hours by the old-blue-tub.

Those days are gone forever; she now plays "bridge" instead; The back yard is deserted and the maple trees are dead; We send our washing up to Healey's; and now "father" has to scrub To "fid up" for the laundry; for the old-blue-tub.

But what's the use of kicking or of acting low and mean When there's a shine upon your linen, and your clothes are sweet and clean? For the finest art is Healey's and the man must be a cub To growl at this displacement, of the old-blue-tub.

He's an "Eagle" and a "Pythian," and a "Mason," tried and true; His business is his hobby; one thing he's bound to do:— To have the ideal city-laundry; to replace the housewife's rub And to serve the people better than the old-blue-tub.