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“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, round, plump hands together, looked at the parson and winked.

“Bless my soul, Deacon Tubman, I don’t know but that you are right!” answered the parson. “Sixty? I don’t know as I am sixty.” And he began to rub his own hands, and came within an ace of executing a wink at the deacon himself.

“Not a day over twenty, if I am any judge of age,” responded the deacon, deliberately, as he looked the white-headed old minister over with a most comic imitation of seriousness. “Not a day over twenty, on my honor,” and the deacon leaned forward toward the parson and gave him a punch with his thumb, as one boy might deliver a punch at another, and then he lay back in his chair and laughed so heartily that the parson caught the infectious mirth and roared away as heartily as the deacon.

Yes, it was impossible to sit hobnobbing with the jolly little deacon on that bright New Year’s morning and not be affected by the happiness of his mood, for he was actually bubbling over with fun and as full of frolic as if the finger on the dial had, in truth, gone back forty years and he was only sixteen. “Only sixteen, parson, on my honor.”

“But what can I do,” queried the good man, sobering down. “I make my pastoral visits”–

“Pastoral visits!” responded Deacon Tubman, “oh, yes, and they are all well enough for the old folks, but they ar’n’t the kind of biscuit the young folks like–too heavy in the centre, and over-hard in the crust, for young teeth, eh, parson?”

“But what shall I do? what shall I do?” reiterated the parson, somewhat despondently.

“Oh, put on your hat and gloves and warmest coat and come along with me. We will see what the young folks are doing and will make a day of it. Come, come; let the old books and catechisms and sermons and tracts have a respite for once, and we’ll spend the day out of doors with the boys and girls and the people.”

“I’ll do it!” exclaimed the parson. “Deacon Tubman, you are right. I keep to my study too closely. I don’t see enough of the world and what’s going on in it. I was reading the Testament this morning and I was impressed with the Master’s manner of living and teaching. It is not certain that he ever preached more than twice in a church during all his ministry on the earth. And the children! how much he loved the children and how the little ones loved him! And why shouldn’t they love me, too? Why shouldn’t they? I’ll make them do it. The lambs of my flock shall love me.” And with these brave words, Parson Whitney bundled himself up in his warmest garment and followed the deacon down stairs.

“Tell the folks that you won’t be back till night,” called the deacon from the sleigh, “for this is New Year’s and we’re going to make a day of it.” And he laughed away as heartily as might be–so heartily, indeed, that the parson joined in the laughter himself as he came shuffling down the icy path toward him.

“Bless me, how much younger I feel already,” said the good man, as he stood up in the sleigh, and with a long, strong breath, breathed the cool, pure air into his lungs. “Bless me, how much younger I feel already,” he repeated, as he settled down into the roomy seat of the old sleigh. “Only sixteen to-day, eh, deacon,” and he nudged him with his elbow.