_--Detroit Free Press._

WHERE THE OLD MAIDS COME IN.

"Do you know, sir," inquired an American tourist of his companion, while
doing England, "can you inform me the reason for the fresh, healthful
appearance of the English people? Their complexion is far superior to
ours, or our countrymen over the herring pond."

"Well, I know what Prof. Huxley says."

"And what reason does he advance?"

"Well, Huxley says it is owing to the old maids."

"Owing to old maids! You surprise me."

"Fact. Huxley figures it out this way. Now, you know the English are
very fond of roast beef."

"But what has that to do with old maids?"

"Go slow. This genuine English beef is the best and most nutritious beef
in the world, and it imparts a beautiful complexion."

"Well, about the old maids?"

"Yes, you see the excellence of this English beef is due exclusively to
red clover. Do you see the point?"

"All but the old maids. They are still hovering in the shadows."

"Why, don't you see? This red clover is enriched, sweetened, and
fructified by bumble bees."

"But where do the old maids come in?" said the inquisitive American,
wiping his brow wearily.

"Why, it is as plain as the nose on your face. The only enemy of the
bumble bee is the field-mouse."

"But what have roast beef, red clover, bumble-bees, and field-mice got
to do with old maids?"

"Why, you must be very obtuse. Don't you perceive that the bumble-bees
would soon become exterminated by the field-mice if it were not for--"

"Old maids?"

"No, if it were not for cats, the old maids of Old England keep the
country thoroughly stocked up with cats, and so we can directly trace
the effects of the rosy English complexions to the benign cause of
English old maids, at least that's what Huxley says about it, and that's
just where the old maids come in. Science makes clear many mysterious
things."

* * * * *

"Those picture cards I brought back from Boston," remarked Mrs.
Partington, in a pensive mood. "They are momentums of the Art Loan
Imposition."

Don't give up in despair, girls. Naomi didn't marry until she was five
hundred and eighty years old--and then she was sorry she hadn't waited a
century longer.

"Is you gwine to get an overcoat this winter?" asked a darkey of a
companion. "Well I dunno how dat's gwine to be," was the reply. "I'se
done got my eye on a coat, but de fellah dat owns it keeps his eye on it
too