ou think of me?"

"Deacon Tubman," responded the parson, as he seated himself in his
arm-chair, "I want to talk with you about the church."

[Illustration: "_I want to talk with you about the church._"]

"The church!" ejaculated the deacon, in response, "nothing going wrong,
I hope?"

"Yes, things are going wrong, deacon," responded the parson; "the
congregation is growing smaller and smaller, and yet I preach good,
strong, biblical, soul-satisfying sermons, I think."

"Good ones! good ones!" answered the deacon, promptly; "never better;
never better in the world."

"And yet the people are deserting the sanctuary," rejoined the parson,
solemnly, "and the young people won't come to the sociables and the
little children seem actually afraid of me. What shall I do, deacon?"
and the good man put the question with pathetic emphasis.

"You have hit the nail on the head, square's a hatchet, parson,"
responded the deacon. "The congregation is thinning; the young people
don't come to the meetings, and the little children are afraid of you."

"What's the matter, deacon?" cried the parson, in return. "What is it?"
he repeated, earnestly; "speak it right out; don't try to spare my
feelings. I will listen to--I will do anything to win back my people's
love," and the strong, old-fashioned, Calvinistic preacher said it in a
voice that actually trembled.

"You can do it; you can do it in a week!" exclaimed the deacon,
encouragingly. "Don't worry about it, parson, it'll be all right; it'll
be all right. Your books are the trouble."

"Eh? eh? books?" ejaculated the parson. "What have they to do with it?"

"Everything," replied the beacon, stoutly; "you pore over them day in
and day out; they keep you in this room here, when you should be out
among the people. Not making pastoral visits, I don't mean that, but
going around among them, chatting and joking and having a good time.
They would like it, and you would like it, and as for the young
folks,--how old are you, parson?"

"Sixty, next month," answered the parson, solemnly, "sixty next month."

"Thirty! thirty! that's all you are, parson, or all you ought to be,"
cried the deacon. "Thirty, twenty, sixteen. Let the figures slide down
and up, according to circumstances, but never let them go higher than
thirty, when you are dealing with young folks. I'm sixty myself,
counting years, but I'm only sixteen; sixteen this morning, that's all,
parson," and he rubbed his little, r