When Michael recovered himself, he instantly replied, "_Mortalium_ is
the genitive case of nemo, by '_Nomina Partiva_.'"

Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was in the act of raising to
his lips, and looked at the lad with an air of surprise and delight,
then at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and shook his head with
much mystery. "Michael," said he to the lad; "will you go out and tell
us what the night's doin'."

The boy accordingly went out--"Why," said Corcoran, in his absence, "if
ever there was a phanix, and that boy will be the bird--an Irish phanix
he will be, a

_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno!_

There's no batin' him at anything he undher-takes. Why, there's thim
that are makin' good bread by their larnin', that couldn't resolve that;
and you all saw how he did it widout the book! Why, if he goes on at
this rate, I'm afraid he'll soon be too many for myself--hem!"

"Too many for yourself! Fill the masther's tumbler, Alley. Too many for
yourself! No, no! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright as he is, an'
cute. That's it--put a hape upon it. Give me your hand, masther. I thank
you for your attention to him, an' the boy is a credit to us. Come over,
Michael, avourneen. Here, take what's in this tumbler, an' finish it.
Be a good boy and mind your lessons, an' do everything the masther
here--the Lord bless him!--bids you; an' you'll never want a frind,
masther, nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a guinea, while the Lord spares me
aither the one or the other."