“Mix another sup o'that for him,” said the fanner: “he's low spirited, an' it's too strong to give him any more of it as it is. Childhre, where's the masther from us--eh? Why, thin, God help them, the crathurs--wasn't it thoughtful o' them to lave the place while he was at his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed--manin' them young crathurs, Alley, But can you tell us where the 'masther' is? Isn't this his night wid us? I know he tuck his dinner here.” “Ay did he; but it's up to Larry Murphy's he's gone, to thry his son in his book-keepin'. Mavrone, but he had time enough to put him well through it afore this, any way.” As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks entered. This personage was no other than the schoolmaster of that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer's house to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their ignorance. The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal durst presume to sit. “Misther Corcoran,” said the farmer, presenting Jemmy's satchel, through which the shapes of the books were quite plain, “_thig in thu shinn?_” (* Do you understand this) and as he spoke he looked significantly at its owner. “Ah,” replied the man of letters, “thigum, thigum. (* I understand) God be wid the day when I carried the likes of it. 'Tis a badge of polite genius, that no boy need be ashamed of. So my young suckling of litherature, you're bound for Munster?--for that counthry where the swallows fly in conic sections--where the magpies and the turkey's confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric Greek--bo-a-o--clamo. What's your pathronymic? _quo nomine gowdes, Domine doctissime?_” The lad was silent; but the farmer's wife turned up the whites of her eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of the “masther.” “I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia of the languages; well--the honor is still before you. What's your name?” “James M'Evoy, sir.”