WHICH IS A

POSTSCRIPT

You might know it was suggested by a woman. No man ever yet resorted to the postscript.

My wife says it ought to go in after everything else, like the tag of a play. I was in favor of leaving the thing in suspense, and annoying the reader—leaving something to tease the imagination. But she said it would be cruel.

The fact is, there was a Parade of Silhouettes across the street last night. There was a Preacher Silhouette, and there were Best Man and Maid of Honor Silhouettes, and their were Jealous Sister Silhouettes—two of them. There were Village Cut-Up Silhouettes and Silhouettes of Little Girls in Pink Ribbons—we knew they were pink because we saw them going in, stepping high to keep their white slippers clean.

All the Silhouettes gathered under a floral Court of Honor hung to the gas jet, and such a screaming and laughing and talking when it was over, you never heard!

"At last," said my wife, "I shall see that Man Silhouette and that Girl Silhouette in the flesh. I shall sit here until they start for the train, and then rush across the street and look right into——"

An odor of something burning came from the kitchen.

"My roast!" screamed my wife, and dashed madly indoors, followed obediently by her husband.

After we had rescued the roast we returned to the porch.

A lot of idiots were throwing rice and shoes and flowers up the street. We followed the line of attack and there was the carriage, being hauled off by galloping horses to catch a train for Niagara Falls, with a slipper rattling out behind, and a streamer bearing the legend:

WE ARE JUST MARRIED!

"And to think," said my wife, "that after all my sisterly solicitude I have never seen the bride!"

"Nor the groom," I ventured.

"Oh, well," she said, "he doesn't count—now!"

And I reckon there may be something in that.

FINIS.