Which very plausible solution did credit to Mr. Crabtree’s powers of discernment.
Weary, footsore, with blighted hopes and flabby pocket-book, a disgruntled colored gentleman and lady boarded the midnight train for Ducktown. On the lady’s finger a golden circlet gleamed in mocking irony; from the gentleman’s coat pocket a superfluous marriage license protruded.
“What you gwine do about it?” the gentleman finally took heart of grace and demanded of his sulky spouse.
“Don’t ax me what I’m gwine do! Effen I tole you, you’d be sho’ t’ put in an’ do sumpin t’ spile de whole puffommance. You might a knowed sumpin gwine happen t’ dat trosso when you tuhn it loose.”
With true feminine logic Mrs. Crabtree entirely overlooked the fact that the relinguishment of the packages was her own suggestion.
“I can tell you one t’ing,” she resumed with asperity, “dere ain’t gwine be no weddin’ wid dat trosso gone a glimmerin’! You can des put dat in yo’ pipe an’ smoke it!”
Later, as Mr. Crabtree extinguished the candle before retiring, he observed that his wife took a vial labelled “Ipecac” and stealthily deposited it beneath her pillow. But for this timely observation, the violent illness with which Mrs. Crabtree aroused the household the next morning would doubtless have caused graver concern in Mr. Crabtree’s kindly soul.
For some days Orleeny, whose epistolary attainments were the pride of the Crabtree household, was closeted with her suffering parent; and later, each individual who had been bidden to the intercepted nuptials received the following announcement:
“Owing to the suddent illness of the Bride, the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Crabtree have been indeffanately bosboned.”