“Ha-ha-ha! Tim, but you got a big fright, any how: whist, ma bouchal, sure I was only jokin' you; and sorry I'd be to bate your father's son, Tim. Come over, and sit beside myself at the fire here. Get up, Micky Donoghue, you big, burnt-shinn'd spalpeen you, and let the dacent boy sit at the fire.” “Hulabaloo hoo-hoo-hoo--to go to give me such a welt, only for sitting at the fire, and me brought turf wid me.” “To-day, Tim?” “Yes, sir.” “At dinner time, is id?” “Yes, sir.” “Faith, the dacent strain was always in the same family.”--(Buz, buz, buz.)-- “Horns, horns, cock horns: oh, you up'd vrid them, you lifted your fingers--that's a mark, now--hould your face, till I blacken you!” “Do you call thim two sods, Jack Laniran? why, 'tis only one long one broke in the middle; but you must make it up tomorrow. Jack, how is your mother's tooth?--did she get it pulled out yet?” “No, sir.” “Well, tell her to come to me, and I'll write a charm for it, that'll cure her.--What kept you' till now, Paddy Magouran?” “Couldn't come any sooner, sir.” “You couldn't, sir--and why, sir, couldn't you come any sooner', sir?” “See, sir, what Andy Nowlan done to my copy.”--(Buz, buz, buz.)-- “Silence, I'll massacree yez if yez don't make less noise.”--(Buz, buz, buz.) “I was down with Mrs. Kavanagh, sir.” “You were, Paddy--an' Paddy, ma bouchal, what war you doing there, Paddy?” “Masther, sir, spake to Jem Kenny here; he made my nose bleed.”-- “Eh, Paddy?” “I was br ingin' her a layin' hen, sir, that my mother promised her at mass on Sunday last.” “Ah, Paddy, you're a game bird, yourself, wid your layin' hens; you're as full o' mischief as an egg's full o' mate--(omnes--ha, ha, ha, ha!)--Silence, boys--what are you laughin' at?--ha, ha, ha!--Paddy, can you spell Nebachodnazure for me?” “No, sir.” “No, nor a better scholar, Paddy, could not do that, ma bouchal; but I'll spell it for you. Silence, boys--whist, all of yez, till I spell Nebachodnazure for Paddy Magouran. Listen; and you yourself, Paddy, are one of the letthers: A turf and a clod spells Nebachod-- A knife and a razure, spells Nebachodnazure-- Three pair of boots and five pair of shoes-- Spells Nebachodnazure, the king of the Jews.' Now, Paddy, that's spelling Nebachodnazure by the science of Ventilation; but you'll never go that deep, Paddy.”-- “I want to go out, if you plase, sir.” “Is that the way you ax me, you vagabone?” “I want to go out, sir,”--(pulling down the fore lock.) “Yes, that's something dacenter; by the sowl of Newton, that invinted fluxions, if ever you forgot to make a bow again, I'll nog the enthrils out of you--wait till the Pass comes in.” Then comes the spelling lesson. “Come, boys, stand up to the spelling lesson.” “Mickey,” says one urchin, “show me your book, till I look at my word. I'm fifteenth.” “Wait till I see my own.” “Why do you crush for?” “That's my place.” “No, it's not.” “Sir, spake to---------I'll tell the masther.”