When our old friend became so infirm as to be unable to work for his daily bread, we may naturally conclude that his labours as a local preacher also necessarily terminated. It was a great trouble to him to have to put off the harness; he struggled against it as long as he could, until indeed it was no longer safe for him to go to his beloved work; so he was compelled to stay at home, but never man left a calling with greater regret than he did this, for he loved it with all his heart. Nor was he alone in his regrets. Many shared in them when it was known up and down that Little Abe was "out of harness," and would come no more. Some friends sitting together in one of the country places of the Circuit were talking about the preachers they had heard in that place, some of them in heaven, and some remaining till God should call them home; reference was made to Abe Lockwood, or as he was often called in the latter days of his life, "Old Abe!" "Ah, there's dear 'Old Abe!' he'll never come again." A fine little fellow that sat listening to the conversation rose to his feet, with his eyes full of tears, and exclaimed, "Why won't they let him come? If he only came and stood in the pulpit for us to see him, it would do." Old Abe was a great favourite with children, and he was always fond of them; sometimes old age turns folks sour, crabby, and snarlish with children, but age only mellowed him, and made him more loving and loved. "WHERE'S 'T YOUNG PRAACHER?" An amusing incident came under my notice during the time I was minister at Wellhouse in the Huddersfield Circuit. I was in the front garden one windy morning, attending to a few plants, and endeavouring to protect them against the gusty wind, when I thought I heard someone calling my name, but on looking up and seeing no one I resumed my task. In a moment or two I heard someone say, "Bless th' Lord! I've managed it at last, hurrah!" and on looking up, I saw Little Abe struggling along the steep pathway in a field just in front of my house, his head bare, his hat in his hand, his white locks tossed in wild confusion by the gale, yet holding on by their roots, refusing to part from their place of nativity. "Well, I declare, here's Little Abe tipping about in the wind like a shuttlecock." Out I ran, and getting hold of his arm towed him into dock. "Whatever has brought you here in such a gale of wind, Abe?" "Hurrah! I'st see him naa," was his only response. "See who?"