Mr. Dickson, a colored barber in a large New England town, was shaving one of his customers, a respectable citizen, one morning, when a conversation occurred between them respecting Mr. Dickson’s former connection with a colored church in that place:
“I believe you are connected with the church in Elm Street, are you not, Mr. Dickson?” said the customer.
“No, sah, not at all.”
“What! are you not a member of the African church?”
“Not dis year, sah.”
“Why did you leave their communion, Mr. Dickson, if I may be permitted to ask?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, sah,” said Mr. Dickson, stropping a concave razor on the palm of his hand, “it was just like dis. I jined de church in good fait’; I gave ten dollars toward the stated gospil de first year, and de church people call me ‘Brudder Dickson’; de second year my business not so good, and I gib only five dollars. That year the people call me ‘Mr. Dickson.’ Dis razor hurt you, sah?”
“No, the razor goes tolerably well.”
“Well, sah, de third year I feel berry poor; had sickness in my family; I didn’t gib noffin’ for preachin’. Well, sah, arter dat dey call me ‘dat old nigger Dickson’—and I left ’em.”
