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Show He Wasn't a Woman. There are a good many strange features in London journalism. For some years pasta writer, whose signature was "Miranda," furnished fur-nished sundry columns of feminine gossip every week to Tbe Lady's Pictorial, and now it comes as rather a shock to tbe readers of that paper to discover that "Miranda" was a male individual and boro the name of Archibald Archi-bald McNeill Youugigirls, middle aged girls, elderly girls girlsof allsorts,in fact poured their confidences into "Miranda's" ear. They wrote asking him to expound dark points regarding re-garding stockings and frilling; they consulted him on comestics and hair washes and things that would remove pimples; they took his opinion on the subject of trimmings for delicate deli-cate garments which ore worn in the Bilent watches of the night, and "Miranda" answered an-swered them all and breathed soft confidences confi-dences into the pink ear of the public. They all gave themselves away under the impression impres-sion that be was a woman, and he wasn't a woman after all. And now Miranda" has come to a sudden end. It would have been all right, doubt- less, If be had confined himself strictly to 1 writing woman items, as that Is an occupation occupa-tion at which comparatively few men get murdered if thoy are ordinarily careful, but he went away to report tho Smitb-Kilrnin prize fight, and a day later his dead body was found in the Seine. The man who had so long dispensed sago advice on stockings and corsetB and other articles of underclothing had been robbed and strangled by some French ruffian, and the poor fellow has carried car-ried with him Into eternity an extensive knowledge of how the British woman is mado up. Philadelphia Press. |