numquam sera yeast at bonis moras voia_."

"Bless my heart!--and, Briney, where's that taken from?"

"From Syntax, Phaddhy."

"And who was Syntax--do you know, Briney?"

"He was a Roman, Phaddhy, bekase there's a Latin prayer in the beginning
of the book."

"Ay, was he--a priest, I'll warrant him. Well, Briney, do you mind yer
Latin, and get on wid yer larnin', and when you grow up you'll have
a pair of boots, and a horse of your own (and a good broadcloth black
coat, too) to ride on, every bit as good as Father Philemy's, and may be
betther nor Father Con's."

From this point, which usually wound up these colloquies between the
father and son, the conversation generally diverged into the more
spacious fields of science; so that by the time they reached home,
Briney had probably given the father a learned dissertation upon the
elevation of the clouds above the earth, and told him within how
many thousand miles they approached it, at their nearest point of
approximation.

"Katty," said Phaddhy, when he got home, "we're to have a station
here on Thursday next: 'twas given out from the altar to-day by Father
Philemy."

"Oh, wurrah, wurrah!" exclaimed Katty, overwhelmed at the consciousness