Eyre Court is not far from famed Ballinasloe, in the County Galway, and Eyre Square, visitors to the capital of the west of Ireland know, is the principal one in the town of Galway. The Eyre family is "as old as the hills of Connaught," and were as intimate with Spain as we are with Cuba to-day, before Columbus was born. Up to and after the death of Elizabeth of England all the Catholic gentry of the "ould stock" were educated in Spain and Portugal. Yours, etc., NEW YORK, March 19. R. F. FARRELL FOOTNOTE: [3] The flagship, if I may use such an expression, of the little fleet, was the Santa Maria. Of course, it was on board of this that the illustrious navigator took his departure in person. The Pinta, on board of which was William Eyre, "the man from Galway," accompanied her, vide _Catholic Telegraph_, August 14, 1879. R. F. F. NEW YORK, March 22, 1884. Miss Mulholland's Poems: "Vagrant Verses." Rosa Mulholland is a name well known to the readers of Catholic fiction. She is one of the most graceful, pure and tender writers we have. Hundreds of thousands of Catholic young people owe her some of the most pleasant hours that brighten happy youth. Her sweet fancy has revelled in the sunshine of melodious poesy, as well as in the green fields of fresh and charming prose. Her new book, "Vagrant Verses," is a real bosom companion, a jewel of dear books. Its prevailing tone is soothing tenderness, touched, as is usual with Irish singers, with sadness--but this is not the despairing sadness so prevalent to-day among those beyond the fold of Peter. What has been said of her splendid sister of song, Kate Tynan, may be as truly said of Miss Mulholland,--she cannot be all _sad_. In her darkest hour you have always a streak of dawn in the east. Her poetry is more domestic and tranquil than that of the "Thrush of Glenna Smoil," whose magnificent strains in "Louise," "Joan," "Vivia Perpetua," and so many others, recall to our minds those words of the immortal lay: "Binn sin, a toin Dhaire an Chairn! Ni chualas, an árd 's an m-bith, Ceol budh binne na dho guth, Acas thu fa bun do nid." "Sweet thy song, blackbird of th' oak grove of Charn! Heard I never in all the vast wide world Song than thine more sweet--voice of song supreme! Sitting thy nest beneath, singing thy song divine."