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: