Life, 1928-11-30 · page 10 of 52
Life — November 30, 1928 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains a satirical poem titled "The Hotel Wash Woman Speaks," presented as social commentary on domestic labor. The poem, attributed to Sara Henderson Hay, gives voice to a laundry worker describing the physical toll and unglamorous reality of her job—wringing, squeezing, and ironing clothes that guests never appreciate. The accompanying illustration (credited to Baird Leonard) shows what appears to be a theatrical or dramatic scene, though the connection between image and poem is unclear. The poem's satire lies in its ironic celebration of invisible labor: the wash woman insists there's "no beauty in a wash" while poetically detailing the skilled, exhausting work involved. It's social commentary highlighting how working-class domestic workers go unrecognized and unvalued by those who benefit from their labor.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
‘ ZF ba ‘an’ folks, that last play was a thriller-—Baxter Hemingway caught Inkleheimer off guard an’ made a beautiful march half way up the board—an’ believe me, folks, the champion looks worried.” The Hotel Wash Woman Speaks! Or rinsed and squeezed things ull the a | bubbly heat Forks thinks that there’s no beauty in a Has swole their fingers red—and sort wash— of tight—— They've never known the thick hot | Folks thinks that there's no beauty in a smell of steam wash— Risin’ like lazy smoke; or seen the tubs | They're doggone right, by gosh! Piled up with foam on top like whip- Sara Henderson Hay. pin’ cream They've never took an iron, and smoothed Ano then there's the sensitive- away skinned through-the-ice swimmer who The crinkles outa heaps o° shiny white | never went in on cloudy days. DIARY MRS. PEP’S NovemBeR 6—Up and dressed before daybreak, mindful of the suffragists prophecy whilst agitating for the franchise that it would be a pleasure to go to the polls with one’s husband, but not dreamin, then that he would yank me thither at six o'clock of a nipping and eager morn. ing. The second in our precinct to cast a ballot, and that only because Sam would not let me mutter to the lone man Leonard | ahead of me, “Women and children first!” To Childs’ for breakfast, of ham and eggs and coffee, the latter exceeding good, and then driving about town in the dawning, stopping at the Queensboro market to select a fine steak and some greens, and to Bloomingdale's ere it was open to buy a bathrobe for gymnasium, choosing one of red and white striped flannel, very ! brave and costly. Sam to the races to see Mistress Whitney's Jolly Roger run | against Fairmount, and Marge Boothby and I to Loew's Lexington Theater, to which I do never go without remember- ing the days when it was an opera house with great holes in the floor as part of the heating system, down one of which I did once drop a spool of knitting silk which I could retrieve only by rewinding its five hundred yards on my fingers whilst Rosa Raisa was Isabeau-ing about the stage in a costume which closely resembled a Jaeger union suit. Samuel tells me that George Adee once lost a pump down one of those cavities, so I should say that his extremity was greater than mine, even though Alice Maynard had no more of my knitting silk. Dinner home, and then to Irvin Cobb's with Hewitt and Manie Howland to hear the election returns over the radio, which, in spite of the static, were music to my cars. Novemser 7—Early up, and off to my dressmaker to consult about the kind of gown worn by the mother of the bride or groom, a costume which I do despise to order for that it does make me feel like a clubwoman out in all her war paint, but one cannot go to a silver wedding anni- versary reception in sports, tailored or too simple raiment, so I must have some- thing that either glistens or clanks, albeit I shall probably decide on the black velvet comicbooks.com