year of our Lord 179-.

Tom Moore

A small boy, barefooted and shock-headed, came across the meadow in the direction of the schoolhouse visible in the distance on the crest of a long, slowly rising hill. He carried a bundle of books and an old slate tightly clutched under one arm, while from the hand left disengaged swung a long switch with which he smartly decapitated the various weeds which had achieved altitude sufficient to make them worthy of his attention.

Noticing Moore for the first time, the boy's face brightened and lost its crafty look of prematurely developed cunning and anxiety, as he approached with a perceptible quickening of his gait.

"Is it you, Mr. Moore?" he said, a rich brogue flavoring his utterance.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Micky, you have guessed my identity," admitted the young man, making a playful slap with his rod at the new-comer's bare shins, which the lad evaded with an agility that bespoke practice, at the same time skilfully parrying with his switch.

"Goin' fishin'?"

"Shooting, my boy. Don't you perceive my fowling-piece?" replied Moore, waving his fish-pole in the air.

"Sure," said Micky, grinning broadly, "you will have your joke."

"None of the editors will, so, if I did n't, who would?" responded Moore, with a smile not altogether untinged by bitterness. "Where are you going, Micky?"

"To school, sir, bad cess to it."

"Such enthusiasm in the pursuit of education is worthy of the highest commendation, my lad."

"Is it?" said Micky doubtfully. "What's that, Mr. Moore?"

"Commendation?"

"Yis."

"Well, if I said you were a good boy, what would that be?"

"Father would say it was a d--n lie."

Moore chuckled.

"Well, we will let it go at that. You seem to be in a great hurry, Micky."

"So do you, sir."

"Humph!" said Moore. "I perceive you are blessed with an observing mind. Have you observed the whereabouts of a trout brook that is located somewhere in this neighborhood?"

"Yis," replied Micky, himself an enthusiastic fisherman. "I have that. Don't ye know the place, Mr. Moore?"

"Not I, my lad, but, since Providence has sent you along to show me the way, I 'll speedily be possessed of that knowledge."

Micky looked doubtfully in the direction of the schoolhouse. It was almost time for the afternoon session, but the day was too beautiful to be spent in the dull depths of the school without regret.

"I 'd show you the way, sir, gladly, but it 'll make me late."

"Are you afraid of Mistress Dyke?" queried Moore, noticing the boy's hesitation.

"Yis, sir."

"So am I, my lad."

Micky looked surprised. That this dashing young blade in whose person were apparently embodied all the manly virtues, at least from the lad's point of view, should stand in dread of such a soft-eyed, red-cheeked little bundle of femininity as his schoolmistress was a matter beyond his juvenile comprehension.

"And why, sir?" asked the boy curiously.

"She 's very pretty," replied Moore. "When you are older you will understand what it is to be in awe of a trim little miss with the blue sky in her eyes and a ripple of red merriment for a mouth. In the meantime you shall show me the way to the brook."

"But she 'll lick me," objected Micky, numerous ferulings keenly in mind.

"Not she, my laddybuck. To-day I 'm coming to visit the school. Tell her that and she 'll not whack you at all."

"Won't she?"

"No, she will be so pleased, she will more than likely kiss you."

"Then why don't you go and tell her yourself? You would like the kiss, would n't you?"

"Micky," said Moore solemnly, "you have discovered my secret. I would. Ah me! my lad, how little we appreciate such dispensations of Providence when we are favored with them. Now you, you raparee--you would much rather she did n't practise osculation upon you."

Micky nodded. He did not understand what his companion meant, but he was quite convinced that the assertion made by him was absolutely correct.

What a beautiful thing is faith!

"A pretty teacher beats the devil, Micky, and you have the prettiest in Ireland. I wish I could be taught by such a preceptress. I 'd need instruction both day and night, and that last is no lie, even at this day, if the lesson were to be in love," he added, a twinkle in his eyes, though his face was perfectly sober.

"Sure," said Micky, "she don't think you nade lessons. I heard her tell Squire Farrell's daughter blarney ran off your tongue like water off a duck's back."

"What is that?" said Moore. "I 'll have to investigate this matter thoroughly."

At this moment the metallic clang of an old fashioned hand-bell sounded faintly down the hillside mellowed into comparative melodiousness by the intervening distance.

"Ah," said Moore, "your absence has been reported to Mistress Dyke, and she has tolled the bell."

It seemed as though the young Irishman's execrable pun decided the ragged urchin that the way of the transgressor might be hard, for, without further hesitation, he took to his heels and fled in the direction of the schoolhouse.

After a moment's thought Moore followed him, beating time with the willow fishing-rod to the song which half unconsciously issued from his lips as he turned his steps in the direction of the headquarters of Mistress Bessie Dyke.

Tom Moore was going angling, but not for trout.

Chapter Two

CERTAIN HAPPENINGS IN MISTRESS DYKE'S SCHOOL

Over her desk, waiting for developments, leaned Mistress Dyke. A moment passed, then the tousled head of the tardy Micky appeared above the level of the bench behind which he had secured shelter after carefully crawling on hands and knees from the door, having by extreme good fortune, made the hazardous journey undetected. Only the fatally unwelcome interest displayed in this performance by the red-headed boy on the front row prevented the success of Micky's strategy. As it was, the blue eyes of Bessie met his with a glance of reproof as he slid noiselessly into his