Mr. Josiah Crabtree, gentleman of color, Grand Master of the Lodge of Colored Masons and holder of various other offices of emolument and trust, had, metaphorically speaking, run against a snag. Being a plain and simple man of direct methods, the ornate made small appeal to his mentality. However, Mr. Crabtree had consented to argue the matter; and, in differences matrimonial, the husband who argues is lost. “But, Penelope,” he began—he always called his wife Penelope when they disagreed, possibly because she disliked the name—“Penelope, what’s de use ob it? Here we is been libin’ togedder, happy an’ contented wid de few words Uncle Jake said ober us dat ebenin’ in de cabin on de ol’ plantation. Dey tuk us all fro’ war times, an’ we ain’t nebber fit yit; an’ what in de name o’ peace you want t’ hop up an’ git mahried all ober agin at dis late day fur, beats my time! You ought t’ know by now dat I ain’t gwine quit you; an’ effen you ain’t pleased wid me, all you got t’ do is t’ say de word.” Mrs. Crabtree tossed her comely black head, and said petulantly: “’Pears lak I can’t git no notion o’ style or keepin’ up wid de pussession in yo’ nigger haid! You don’t seem t’ hab no mo’ ambitions dan a mole! You t’ink jes’ ’case we-alls had suttin’ ways in slave times, dem ways gwine fit de presen’ suckumstances. In cose it were ’missible for us t’ g’long satisfied wid de few words from Uncle Jake den; but dat don’t prove it’s de propper t’ing _now_! We’se innerpennant ’Merican citterzens dese days; we’se got as good a right t’ go t’ de Cote house as de next un.” “Fo’ de Lawd, Penelope! you ain’t gwine trot me t’ de Cote House effen I gib in t’ you ’bout dis mattah, is you?” “You got t’ go t’ de Cote House fo’ de license, you po’ fool nigger you! All de ladies an’ gemmens in our S’ciety is bein’ mahried ober agin, wid a license an’ a ring, an’ a preacher, an’ flowers an’ sech! It make me feel reel slavish, it sho’ do, t’ go on libin’ lak we is been. I’m de Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans, an’ Sist’ Hapgood ain’t nothin’ but a privit member; yit her an’ Brer Hapgood done been mahried agin las’ mont’ wid a gol’ ring an’ dat beutiful piece writ about ’em in de paper. It make me feel pintedly lef’ out in de col’—it suttinly do;” and a few self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree was ironing. [Illustration: “I’m de Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans.” ] “But what you gwine do ’bout Orleeny an’ Cato?” asked Mr. Crabtree, referring to the ebon-hued pledges of their conjugal love. “Do? Nothin’ ’tall; ain’t nothin’ t’ be did! Des let ’em come ’long t’ dere Ma’s an’ Pa’s weddin’, an’ unnerstan’ dat effen we wuz bawn in slavery, an’ got mahried by jumpin’ de broomstick, we’se keepin’ up wid de pussession now. Mis’ Hapgood had her Aleck as one o’ de ushers when her an’ he’s pa got mahried las’ mon’; so we’ll des let our Orleeny be de maid o’ honnah. Dat’s de berry lates’ style.”