Having set out on our ramble, about a mile from the house, near a small village, (if a few cottar houses deserved the name,) we passed a well, over which hung a bush covered with white linen rags. Having expressed my surprise at such an unusual thing, ‘This is one of our holy wells,’ said Mary, ‘to which the country people resort, who are troubled with sore eyes, each bringing a linen rag to wash them, and leaving it as an oblation, hanging on the bush.’ On reaching the houses, Eugene stopped us in front of one, the roof of which had fallen in. CHAPTER XII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. ‘This is all that remains of our village school. Here, in his noisy mansion, sat Phil. Sullivan, wielding his birch as if it had been a sceptre, while his little subjects were ranged around on benches formed of sods, that you may still see along the wall. The fire, when any was required, was made in the centre of the apartment, the fuel being furnished by each scholar daily bringing a turf with him. The door was formed of stakes interlaced with _wattles_, a loop of which thrown over a crooked nail served the purpose of a lock, and a rude table that the master sat at was all the desk in his school. As they came in at the door, the urchins were obliged to make their best bow, by drawing back the left leg, catching the tuft of hair that hung over the forehead, and bringing their stiff necks to the precise mathematical curve that constituted politeness; while Phil. sat in the middle, sometimes talking English, sometimes Irish, to suit himself to the comprehension of his pupils. As a specimen of the manner in which he accomplished this, I will give you a journal of my first day at school.