Nausicca

THE SUMMER EVENING HAD BEGUN TO FOLD THE WORLD IN ITS mysterious
embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day
lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as
ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but
not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the
voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed heart of
man, Mary, star of the sea.

The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening scene and the air
which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a time and oft were they wont to come there to
that favourite nook to have a cosy chat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters
feminine, Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and
Jacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to match and the
name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy and Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce
four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but for all that darling little fellows
with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them. They were dabbling in the sand
with their spades and buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big
coloured ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the chubby baby
to and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly chuckled with delight. He was
but eleven months and nine days old and, though still a tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp
his first babyish words. Cissy Caffrey bent over him to tease his fat little plucks and the
dainty dimple in his chin.

-- Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of water.

And baby prattled after her:

-- A jink a jink a jawbo. Cissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she was awfully fond of
children, so patient with little sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could never be got to take his
castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that held his nose and promised him the scatty heel of
the loaf of brown bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But to
be sure baby was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancy bib. None of your
spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey. A truerhearted lass never drew
the breath of life, always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her
cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman laughed too at the
quaint language of little brother.

But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and Master Jacky. Boys
will be boys and our two twins were no exception to this golden rule. The apple of discord
was a certain castle of sand which Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it
right go wrong that it was to be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the Martello
tower had. But if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, true
to the maxim that every little Irishman's house is his castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to
such purpose that the would be assailant came to grief and (alas to relate!) the coveted
castle too. Needless to say the cries of discomfited Master Tommy drew the attention of the
girl friends.

-- Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively, at once! And you, Jacky, for shame to
throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I catch you for that.

His eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for their big sister's word
was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he was after his misadventure. His little
man-o'-war top and unmentionables were full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the
art of smoothing over life's tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to be
seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears that would well
up so she kissed away the hurtness and shook her hand at Master Jacky the culprit and said
if she was near him she wouldn't be far from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.

-- Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.

She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:

-- What's your name? Butter and cream?

-- Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your sweetheart?

-- Nao, tearful Tommy said.

-- Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.

-- Nao, Tommy said.

-- I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from her shortsighted
eyes. I know who is Tommy's sweetheart, Gerty is Tommy's sweetheart.

-- Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.

Cissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy Boardman to
take him there behind the pushcar where the gentlemen couldn't see and to mind he didn't
wet his new tan shoes.

But who was Gerty?

Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in thought, gazing far away
into the distance, was in very truth as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could
wish to see. She was pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said,
she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful, inclining even
to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking of late had done her a world of good
much better than the Widow Welch's female pills and she was much better of those
discharges she used to get and that tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almost
spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly
perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and as white as
lemon juice and queen of ointments could make them though it was not true that she used to
wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath either. Bertha Supple told that once to Edy
Boardman, a deliberate lie, when she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl
chums had of course their little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and she told
her not let on whatever she did that it was her that told her or she'd never speak to her
again. No. Honour where honour is due. There was an innate refinement, a languid queenly
hauteur about Gerty which was unmistakably evidenced in her delicate hands and
higharched instep. Had kind fate but willed her to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in
her own right and had she only received the benefit of a good education Gerty MacDowell
might easily have held her own beside any lady in the land and have seen herself exquisitely
gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors at her feet vying with one another to
pay their devoirs to her. Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent to her
softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that imparted a strange
yearning tendency to the beautiful eyes a charm few could resist. Why have women such
eyes of witchery? Gerty's were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark
expressive brows. Time gas when those brows were not so silkilyseductive. It was Madame
Vera Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful page of the Princess novelette, who had
first advised her to try eyebrowleine which gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so
becoming in leaders of fashion, and she had never regretted it. Then there was blushing
scientifically cured and how to be tall increase your height and you have a beautiful face but
your nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. But Gerty's
crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a natural wave in
it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new moon and it nestled about her
pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant clusters and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth.
And just now at Edy's words as a telltale flush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into
her cheeks she looked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety God's fair land
of Ireland did not hold her equal.

For an instant she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. She was about to retort but
something checked the words on her tongue. Inclination prompted her to speak out: dignity
told her to be silent. The pretty lips pouted a while but then she glanced up and broke out into
a joyous little laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young May morning. She knew right
well, no-one better, what made squinty Edy say that because of him cooling in his attentions
when it was simply a lovers' quarrel. As per usual somebody's nose was out of joint about
the boy that had the bicycle always riding up and down in front of her window. Only now his
father kept him in the evenings studying hard to get an exhibition in the intermediate that was
on and he was going to Trinity college to study for a doctor when he left the high school like
his brother W. E. Wylie who was racing in the bicycle races in Trinity college university.
Little recked he perhaps for what she felt, that dull aching void in her heart sometimes,
piercing to the core. Yet he was young and perchance he might learn to love her in time.
They were protestants in his family and of course Gerty knew Who came first and after
Him the blessed Virgin and then Saint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with an
exquisite nose and he was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the shape of his head too
at the back without his cap on that she would know anywhere something off the common
and the way he turned the bicycle at the lamp with his hands off the bars and also the nice
perfume of those good cigarettes and besides they were both of a size and that was why
Edy Boardman thought she was so frightfully clever because he didn't go and ride up and
down in front of her bit of a garden.

Gerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of Dame Fashion for she
felt that there was just a might that he might be out. A neat blouse of electric blue, selftinted
by dolly dyes (because it was expected in the Lady's Pictorial that electric blue would be
worn), with a smart vee opening down to the division and kerchief pocket (in which she
always kept a piece of cottonwool scented with her favourite perfume because the
handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy threequarter skirt cut to the stride showed off her
slim graceful figure to perfection. She wore a coquettish little love of a hat of wideleaved
nigger straw contrast trimmed with an underbrim of eggblue chenille and at the side a
butterfly bow to tone. All Tuesday week afternoon she was hunting to match that chenille
but at last she found what she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the very it, slightly shopsoiled
but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a penny. She did it up all by herself and
what joy was hers when she tried it on then, smiling at the lovely reflection which the mirror
gave back to her! And when she put it on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that
would take the shine out of some people she knew. Her shoes were the newest thing in
footwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she was very petite but she never had a foot
like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would ash, oak or elm) with patent toecaps and just
one smart buckle at her higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle displayed its perfect
proportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount and no more of her shapely limbs
encased in finespun hose with high spliced heels and wide garter tops. As for undies they
were Gerty's chief care and who that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet
seventeen (though Gerty would never see seventeen again) can find it in his heart to blame
her? She had four dinky sets, with awfully pretty stitchery, three garments and nighties extra,
and each set slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue, mauve and peagreen
and she aired them herself and blued them when they came home from the wash and ironed
them and she had a brickbat to keep the iron on because she wouldn't trust those
washerwomen as far as she'd see them scorching the things. She was wearing the blue for
luck, hoping against hope, her own colour and the lucky colour too for a bride to have a bit of
blue somewhere on her because the green she wore that day week brought grief because
his father brought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and because she thought
perhaps he might be out because when she was dressing that morning she nearly slipped up
the old pair on her inside out and that was for luck and lovers' meetings if you put those
things on inside out so long as it wasn't of a Friday.

And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is there all the time. Her
very soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar
chamber where, giving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup
feelings. Though not too much because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror. You
are lovely, Gerty, it said. The paly light of evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful.
Gerty MacDowell yearns in vain. Yes, she had known from the first that her daydream of a
marriage has been arranged and the weddingbells ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie T. C. D.
(because the one who married the elder brother would be Mrs Wylie) and in the fashionable
intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing a sumptuous confection of grey trimmed with
expensive blue fox was not to be. He was too young to understand. He would not believe in
love, a woman's birthright. The night of the party long ago in Stoers' (he was still in short
trousers) when they were alone and he stole an arm round her waist she went white to the
very lips. He called her little one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half kiss (the
first!) but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened from the room with a remark
about refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength of character had never been Reggy Wylie's
strong point and he who would woo and win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men.
But waiting, always waiting to be asked and it was leap year too and would soon be over.
No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her feet but rather a
manly man with a strong quiet face who had not found his ideal, perhaps his hair slightly
flecked with grey, and who would understand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain her to
him in all the strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her with a long long kiss. It
would be like heaven. For such a one she yearns this balmy summer eve. With all the heart
of her she longs to be his only, his affianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in health, till
death us two part, from this to this day forward.

And while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was just thinking
would the day ever come when she could call herself his little wife to be. Then they could
talk about her till they went blue in the face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, the spitfire,
because she would be twenty-two in November. She would care for him with creature
comforts too for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that feeling of
hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a golden-brown hue and queen Ann's pudding of
delightful creaminess had won golden opinions from all because she had a lucky hand also
for lighting a fire, dredge in the fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same direction
then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs though she didn't like the
eating part when there were any people that made her shy and often she wondered why you
couldn't eat something poetical like violets or roses and they would have a beautifully
appointed drawingroom with pictures and engravings and the photograph of grandpapa
Giltrap's lovely dog Garryowen that almost talked, it was so human, and chintz covers for the
chairs and that silver toastrack in Clery's summer jumble sales like they have in rich houses.
He would be tall with broad shoulders (she had always admired tall men for a husband) with
glistening white teeth under his carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and they would go on
the continent for their honeymoon (three wonderful weeks!) and then, when they settled
down in a nice snug and cosy little homely house, every morning they would both have
brekky, simple but perfectly served, for their own two selves and before he went out to
business he would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze for a moment deep
down into her eyes.

Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he said yes, so then she buttoned up
his little knickerbockers for him and told him to run off and play with Jacky and to be good
now and not to fight. But Tommy said he wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was
playing with the ball and if he took it there'd be wigs on the green but Tommy said it was his
ball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, if you please. The temper of him!
O, he was a man already was little Tommy Caffrey since he was out of pinnies. Edy told
him no, no and to he off now with him and she told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him.

-- You're not my sister, naughty Tommy said. It's my ball. But Cissy Caffrey told baby
Boardman to look up, look up high at her finger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw
it along the sand and Tommy after it in full career, having won the day.

-- Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.

And she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make him forget and played here's the lord mayor,
here's his two horses, here's his gingerbread carriage and here he walks in, chinchopper,
chinchopper, chinchopper chin. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own
way like that from everyone always petting him.

-- I'd like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't say.

-- On the beetoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.

Gerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of Cissy saying an
unladylike thing like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her life to say, flushing a deep rosy
red, and Edy Boardman said she was sure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But
not a pin cared Ciss.

-- Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of her nose. Give it to him
too on the same place as quick as I'd look at him.

Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her sometimes. For instance when
she asked you would you have some more Chinese tea and jaspberry ram and when she
drew the jugs too and the men's faces on her nails with red ink make you split your sides or
when she wanted to go where you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the
Miss White. That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget the evening she
dressed up in her father's suit and hat and the burned cork moustache and walked down
Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette? There was none to come up to her for fun. But she
was sincerity itself, one of the bravest and truest hearts heaven ever made, not one of your
twofaced things, too sweet to be wholesome.

And then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the pealing anthem of the
organ. It was the men's temperance retreat conducted by the missioner, the reverend John
Hughes S. J., rosary, sermon and benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were
there gathered together without distinction of social class (and a most edifying spectacle it
was to see) in that simple fane beside the waves, after the storms of this weary world,
kneeling before the feet of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of Loreto,
beseeching her to intercede for them, the old familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin of
virgins. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! Had her father only avoided the clutches of the
demon drink, by taking the pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's
Weekly, she might now be rolling in her carriage, second to none. Over and over had she
told herself that as she mused by the dying embers in a brown study without the lamp
because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing out of the window dreamily by the hour at
the rain falling on the rusty bucket, thinking. But that vile decoction which has ruined so
many hearths and homes had cast its shadow over her childhood days. Nay, she had even
witnessed in the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and had seen her
own father, a prey to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself completely for if there was
one thing of all things that Gerty knew it was the man who lifts his hand to a woman save in
the way of kindness deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low.

And still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful.
And Gerty, wrapt in thought, scarce saw or heard her companions or the twins at their
boyish gambols or the gentleman off Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man
that was so like himself passing along the strand taking a short walk. You never saw him
anyway screwed but still and for all that she would not like him for a father because he was
too old or something or on account of his face (it was a palpable case of doctor Fell) or his
carbuncly nose with the pimples on it and his sandy moustache a bit white under his nose.
Poor father! With all his faults she loved him still when he sang Tell me, Mary, how to woo
thee or My love and cottage near Rochelle and they had stewed cockles and lettuce with
Lazenby's salad dressing for supper and when he sang The moon hath raised with Mr
Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her
mother's birthday that was and Charley was home on his holidays and Tom and Mr Dignam
and Mrs and Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to have had a group taken. No-one
would have thought the end was so near. Now he was laid to rest. And her mother said to
him to let that be a warning to him for the rest of his days and he couldn't even go to the
funeral on account of the gout and she had to go into town to bring him the letters and
samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino, artistic standard designs, fit for a palace,
gives tiptop wear and always bright and cheery in the home.

A sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in the house, a ministering
angel too with a little heart worth its weight in gold. And when her mother had those raging
splitting headaches who was it rubbed on the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though
she didn't like her mother taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single thing they ever
had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought the world of her for her gentle ways. It
was Gerty who turned off the gas at the main every night and it was Gerty who tacked up
on the wall of that place where she never forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr
Tunney the grocer's christmas almanac the picture of halcyon days where a young
gentleman in the costume they used to wear then with a threecornered hat was offering a
bunch of flowers to his ladylove with oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. You could
see there was a story behind it. The colours were done something lovely. She was in a soft
clinging white in a studied attitude and the gentleman was in chocolate and he looked a
thorough aristocrat. She often looked at them dreamily when there for a certain purpose and
felt her own arms that were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves back and thought
about those times because she had found out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that
belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the halcyon days what they meant.

The twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion, till at last Master Jacky
who was really as bold as brass there was no getting behind that deliberately kicked the ball
as hard as ever he could down towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy
was not slow to voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who was sitting there by
himself came gallantly to the rescue and intercepted the ball. Our two champions claimed
their plaything with lusty cries and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called to the gentleman to
throw it to her please. The gentleman aimed the ball once or twice and then threw it up the
strand towards Cissy Caffrey but it rolled down the slope and stopped right under Gerty's
skirt near the little pool by the rock. The twins clamoured again for it and Cissy told her to
kick it away and let them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she wished their stupid
ball hadn't come rolling down to her and she gave a kick but she missed and Edy and Cissy
laughed.

-- If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.

Gerty smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her pretty cheek but she was
determined to let them see so she just lifted her skirt a little but just enough and took good
aim and gave the ball a jolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it
down towards the shingle. Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else to draw attention on
account of the gentleman opposite looking. She felt the warm flush, a danger signal always
with Gerty MacDowell, surging and flaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only
exchanged glances of the most casual but now under the brim of her new hat she ventured a
look at him and the face that met her gaze there in the twilight, wan and strangely drawn,
seemed to her the saddest she had ever seen.

Through the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted and with it the
fragrant names of her who was conceived without stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray
for us, honourable vessel, pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose.
And careworn hearts were there and toilers for their daily bread and many who had erred
and wandered, their eyes wet with contrition but for all that bright with hope for the reverend
father Hughes had told them what the great saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of
Mary, the most pious Virgin's intercessory power that it was not recorded in any age that
those who implored her powerful protection were ever abandoned by her.

The twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles of childhood are but as
fleeting summer showers. Cissy played with baby Boardman till he crowed with glee,
clapping baby hands in air. Peep she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked
where was Cissy gone and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word,
didn't the little chap enjoy that! And then she told him to say papa.

-- Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.

And baby did his level best to say it for he was very intelligent for eleven months everyone
said and big for his age and the picture of health, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would
certainly turn out to be something great, they said.

-- Hajajajahaja.

Cissy wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to sit up properly, and say
pa pa pa but when she undid the strap she cried out, holy saint Denis, that he was possing
wet and to double the half blanket the other way under him. Of course his infant majesty
was most obstreperous at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:

-- Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.

And two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all no use soothering
him with no, nono, baby, no and telling him about the geegee and where was the puffpuff but
Ciss, always readywitted, gave him in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the young
heathen was quickly appeased.

Gerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby home out of that and not get
on her nerves no hour to be out and the little brats of twins. She gazed out towards the
distant sea. It was like the paintings that man used to do on the pavement with all the
coloured chalks and such a pity too leaving them there to be all blotted out, the evening and
the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and to hear the music like that and the
perfume of those incense they burned in the church like a kind of waft. And while she gazed
her heart went pitapat. Yes, it was her he was looking at and there was meaning in his look.
His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, read her
very soul. Wonderful eyes they were, superbly expressive, but could you trust them? People
were so queer. She could see at once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual face that he
was a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of Martin Harvey, the matinée idol, only for
the moustache which she preferred because she wasn't stagestruck like Winny Rippingham
that wanted they two to always dress the same on account of a play but she could not see
whether he had an aquiline nose or a slightly retmussé from where he was sitting. He was in
deep mourning, she could see that, and the story of a haunting sorrow was written on his
face. She would have given worlds to know what it was. He was looking up so intently, so
still and he saw her kick the ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of her
shoes if she swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes down. She was glad that
something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking Reggy Wylie might be out but
that was far away. Here was that of which she had so often dreamed. It was he who
mattered and there was joy on her face because she wanted him because she felt
instinctively that he was like no-one else. The very heart of the girlwoman went out to him,
her dreamhusband, because she knew on the instant it was him. If he had suffered, more
sinned against than sinning, or even, even, if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked man, she
cared not. Even if he was a protestant or methodist she could convert him easily if he truly
loved her. There were wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm. She was a womanly
woman not like other flighty girls, unfeminine, he had known, those cyclists showing off what
they hadn't got and she just yearned to know all, to forgive all if she could make him fall in
love with her, make him forget the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would embrace her
gently, like a real man, crushing her soft body to him, and love her, his ownest girlie, for
herself alone.

Refuge of sinners. Comfortress of the afflicted. Ora pro nobis. Well has it been said that
whosoever prays to her with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: and fitly is
she too a haven of refuge for the afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced
her own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, the stained glass windows
lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the blue banners of the blessed Virgin's sodality and
Father Conroy was helping Canon O'Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his
eyes cast down. He looked almost a saint and his confession-box was so quiet and clean and
dark and his hands were just like white wax and if ever she became a Dominican nun in
their white habit perhaps he might come to the convent for the novena of Saint Dominic. He
told her that time when she told him about that in confession crimsoning up to the roots of
her hair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature
and we were all subject to nature s laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin because
that came from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady
herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. He was so
kind and holy and often and often she thought and thought could she work a ruched teacosy
with embroidered floral design for him as a present or a clock but they had a clock she
noticed on the mantelpiece white and gold with a canary bird that came out of a little house
to tell the time the day she went there about the flowers for the forty hours' adoration
because it was hard to know what sort of a present to give or perhaps an album of
illuminated views of Dublin or some place.

The exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky threw the ball out
towards the sea and they both ran after it. Little monkeys common as ditchwater. Someone
ought to take them and give them a good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places,
the both of them. And Cissy and Edy shouted after them to come back because they were
afraid the tide might come in on them and be drowned.

-- Jacky! Tommy!

Not they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the very last time she'd ever
bring them out. She jumped up and called them and she ran down the slope past him, tossing
her hair behind her which had a good enough colour if there had been more of it but with all
the thingamerry she was always rubbing into it she couldn't get it to grow long because it
wasn't natural so she could just go and throw her hat at it. She ran with long gandery strides
it was a wonder she didn't rip up her skirt at the side that was too tight on her because there
was a lot of the tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was a forward piece whenever she
thought she had a good opportunity to show off and just because she was a good runner she
ran like that so that he could see all the end of her petticoat running and her skinny shanks
up as far as possible. It would have served her just right if she had tripped up over something
accidentally on purpose with her high crooked French heels on her to make her look tall and
got a fine tumble. Tableau! That would have been a very charming exposé for a gentleman
like that to witness.

Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints, they prayed, queen of
the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy handed the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he
put in the incense and censed the Blessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two
twins and she was itching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didn't because
she thought he might be watching but she never made a bigger mistake in all her life because
Gerty could see without looking that he never took his eyes off of her and then Canon
O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Father Conroy and knelt down looking up at the
Blessed Sacrament and the choir began to sing Tantum ego and she just swung her foot in
and out in time as the music rose and fell to the Tantumer gosa cramen tum. Three and
eleven she paid for those stockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the Tuesday, no the
Monday before Easter and there wasn't a brack on them and that was what he was looking
at, transparent, and not at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form (the cheek
of her!) because he had eyes in his head to see the difference for himself.

Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with her hat anyhow on her
to one side after her run and she did look a streel tugging the two kids along with the flimsy
blouse she bought only a fortnight before like a rag on her back and bit of her petticoat
hanging like a caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a moment to settle her hair and a
prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses was never seen on a girl's shoulders, a radiant
little vision, in sooth, almost maddening in its sweetness. You would have to travel many a
long mile before you found a head of hair the like of that. She could almost see the swift
answering flush of admiration in his eyes that set her tingling in every nerve. She put on her
hat so that she could see from underneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe faster for
her breath caught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was eyeing her as a snake
eyes its prey. Her woman's instinct told her that she had raised the devil in him and at the
thought a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became
a glorious rose.

Edy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gerty, half smiling, with her
specs, like an old maid, pretending to nurse the baby. Irritable little gnat she was and always
would be and that was why no-one could get on with her, poking her nose into what was no
concern of hers. And she said to Gerty:

-- A penny for your thoughts.

-- What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I was only wondering
was it late.

Because she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and their baby home to
the mischief out of that so that was why she just gave a gentle hint about its being late. And
when Cissy came up Edy asked her the time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was
half past kissing time, time to kiss again. But Edy wanted to know because they were told to
be in early.

-- Wait, said Cissy, I'll ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time by his conundrum.

So over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take his hand out of his
pocket, getting nervous, and beginning to play with his watchchain, looking at the church.
Passionate nature though he was Gerty could see that he had enormous control over himself.
One moment he had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and the next
moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol expressed in every line of his
distinguishedlooking figure.

Cissy said to excuse her would he mind telling her what was the right time and Gerty could
see him taking out his watch, listening to it and looking up and clearing his throat and he said
he was very sorry his watch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the
sun was set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in measured accents
there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones. Cissy said thanks and came back with
her tongue out and said uncle said his waterworks were out of order.

Then they sang the second verse of the Tantum ergo and Canon O'Hanlon got up again and
censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt down and he told Father Conroy that one of the
candles was just going to set fire to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all
right and she could see the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works and she
swung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker but he could see and he was
looking all the time that he was winding the watch or whatever he was doing to it and then
he put it back and put his hands back into his pockets. She felt a Kind of a sensation rushing
all over her and she knew by the feel of her scalp and that irritation against her stays that
that thing must be coming on because the last time too was when she clipped her hair on
account of the moon. His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again drinking in her every
contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration in a
man's passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that man's face. It is for you,
Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it.

Edy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty noticed that that little
hint she gave had the desired effect because it was a long way along the strand to where
there was the place to push up the pushcar and Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied their
hair to make herself attractive of course and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his cope poking
up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him the card to read off and he read out Panem
de clo prstitisti eis and Edy and Cissy were talking about the time all the time and asking
her but Gerty could pay them back in their own coin and she just answered with scathing
politeness when Edy asked her was she heartbroken about her best boy throwing her over.
Gerty winced sharply. A brief cold blaze shone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn
immeasurable. It hurt. O yes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet way of saying
things like that she knew would wound like the confounded little cat she was. Gerty's lips
parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought back the sob that rose to her throat, so slim,
so flawless, so beautifully moulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of. She had
loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex he would
never understand what he had meant to her and for an instant there was in the blue eyes a
quick stinging of tears. Their eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she
sparkled back in sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see.

-- O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head flashed up, I can
throw my cap at who I like because it's leap year.

Her words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the ringdove, but they cut
the silence icily. There was that in her young voice that told that she was not a one to be
lightly trifled with. As for Mr Reggy with his swank and his bit of money she could just
chuck him aside as if he was so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a
second thought on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen pieces. And it ever after he
dared to presume she could give him one look of measured scorn that would make him
shrivel up on the spot. Miss puny little Edy's countenance fell to no slight extent and Gerty
could see by her looking as black as thunder that she was simply in a towering rage though
she hid it, the little kinnatt, because that shaft had struck home for her petty jealousy and
they both knew that she was something aloof, apart in another sphere, that she was not of
them and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw it so they could put that in their
pipe and smoke it.

Edy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy tucked in the ball and the
spades and buckets and it was high time too because the sandman was on his way for
Master Boardman junior and Cissy told him too that Billy Winks was coming and that baby
was to go deedaw and baby looked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes, and
Cissy poked him like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby, without as much as by
your leave, sent up his compliments on to his brandnew dribbling bib.

O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed.

The slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she set that little matter to
rights.

Gerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough and Edy asked what and
she was just going to tell her to catch it while it was flying but she was ever ladylike in her
deportment so she simply passed it off with consummate tact by saying that that was the
benediction because just then the bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet seashore
because Canon O'Hanlon was up on the altar with the veil that Father Conroy put round him
round his shoulders giving the benediction with the blessed Sacrament in his hands.

How moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last glimpse of Erin, the touching
chime of those evening bells and at the same time a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry
through the dusk, hither, thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far away the lights of
the lighthouses so picturesque she would have loved to do with a box of paints because it
was easier than to make a man and soon the lamplighter would be going his rounds past the
presbyterian church grounds and along by shady Tritonville avenue where the couples
walked and lighting the lamp near her window where Reggy Wylie used to turn his
freewheel like she read in that book The Lamplighter by Miss Cummins, author of Mabel
Vaughan and other tales. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one knew of. She loved to read
poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely confession album
with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it in the drawer of her toilettable
which, though it did not err on the side of luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was
there she kept her girlish treasures trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge,
the whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to change
when her things came home from the wash and there were some beautiful thoughts written
in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely's of Dame Street for she felt that she too could write
poetry if she could only express herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that
she had copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs. Art thou
real, my ideal? it was called by Louis J. Walsh, Magherafelt, and after there was something
about twilight, wilt thou ever? and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in its transient
loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears that the years were slipping by for her, one
by one, and but for that one shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that
was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it. But it must end
she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would be no holding back for her. Love
laughs at locksmiths. She would make the great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to
share his thoughts. Dearer than the whole world would she be to him and gild his days with
happiness. There was the allimportant question and she was dying to know was he a married
man or a widower who had lost his wife or some tragedy like the nobleman with the foreign
name from the land of song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind. But
even if - what then? Would it make a very great difference? From everything in the least
indelicate her finebred nature instinctively recoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the fallen
women off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and
coarse men, with no respect for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being taken up to the
police station. No, no: not that. They would be just good friends like a big brother and sister
without all that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was an
old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall. She thought she understood.
She would try to understand him because men were so different. The old love was waiting,
waiting with little white hands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She
would follow her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all,
the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Nothing else mattered.
Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

Canon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle and the choir sang
Laudate Dominum omnes gentes and then he locked the tabernacle door because the
benediction was over and Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy
asked wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out:

-- O, look, Cissy!

And they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over the trees beside the
church, blue and then green and purple.

-- It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.

And they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church, helterskelter, Edy
with the pushcar with baby Boardman in it and Cissy holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand
so they wouldn't fall running.

-- Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks.

But Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck and call. If they could
run like rossies she could sit so she said she could see from where she was. The eyes that
were fastened upon her set her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his
glance, and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the
grave, and it had made her his. At last they were left alone without the others to pry and
pass remarks and she knew he could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man
of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working and a tremor went
over her. She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were and she caught her knee
in her hands so as not to fall back looking up and there was no one to see only him and her
when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft and delicately
rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she
knew about the passion of men like that, hot-blooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in
dead secret and made her swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was staying
with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut out of papers of those
skirtdancers and highkickers and she said he used to do something not very nice that you
could imagine sometimes in the bed. But this was altogether different from a thing like that
because there was all the difference because she could almost feel him draw her face to his
and the first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so long as
you didn't do the other thing before being married and there ought to be women priests that
would understand without your telling out and Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy
kind of dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham so mad
about actors' photographs and besides it was on account of that other thing coming on the
way it did.

And Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back and the garters
were blue to match on account of the transparent and they all saw it and shouted to look,
look there it was and she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer
was flying about through the air, a soft thing to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman
candle going up over the trees up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all breathless with
excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up
after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an entrancing
blush from straining back and he could see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric
that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on
account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high it
went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from being bent so far back
he had a full view high up above her knee no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and
she wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he
couldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those skirt-dancers
behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking. She would
fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his
lips laid on her white brow the cry of a young girl's love, a little strangled cry, wrung from
her, that cry that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind
and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O!O! in
raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they
were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!

Then all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She glanced at him as she
bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of piteous protest, of shy reproach under which
he coloured like a girl. He was leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is
he) stands silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes. What a brute he had
been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called to him and, wretch that he was, how had
he answered? An utter cad he had been. He of all men! But there was an infinite store of
mercy in those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and sinned and
wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was their secret, only theirs,
alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save the little bat that flew so
softly through the evening to and fro and little bats don't tell.

Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to show what a great person
she was: and then she cried:

-- Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up.

Gerty had an idea, one of love's little ruses. She slipped a hand into her kerchief pocket and
took out the wadding and waved in reply of course without letting him and then slipped it
back. Wonder if he's too far to. She rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they
would meet again, there, and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her dream of
yester eve. She drew herself up to her full height. Their souls bet in a last lingering glance
and the eyes that reached her heart, full of a strange shining, hung enraptured on her sweet
flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving smile, a smile that verged on
tears, and then they parted.

Slowly without looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy, to Edy, to Jacky and
Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was darker now and there were stones and bits
of wood on the strand and slippy seaweed. She balked with a certain quiet dignity
characteristic of her but with care and very slowly because Gerty MacDowell was...

Tight boots? No. She's lame! O!

Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why she's left on the shelf and
the others did a sprint. Thought something was wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A
defect is ten times worse in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn't know it when
she was on show. Hot little devil all The same. Wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a nun or a
negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect,
makes them feel ticklish. I have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes,
all right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla convent that nun told
me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in the end I suppose. Sister? How many women in
Dublin have it today? Martha, she. Something in the air. That's the moon. But then why don't
all women menstruate at the same time with same moon, I mean? Depends on the time they
were born, I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out of step. Sometimes Molly and Milly
together. Anyhow I got the best of that. Damned glad I didn't do it in the bath this morning
over her silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this morning. That gouger
M'Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife engagement in the country valise, voice like
a pickaxe. Thankful for small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want
it themselves. Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices.
Reserve better. Don't want it they throw it at you. Catch em alive, O. Pity they can't see
themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where was that? Ah, yes. Muioscope pictures in
Capel street: for men only. Peeping Tom. Willy's hat and what the girls did with it. Do they
snapshot those girls or is it all a fake? Lingerie does it. Felt for the curves inside her
deshabillé. Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean come and dirty me. And they like
dressing one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly's new blouse. At first. Put
them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why I bought her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he
wore, his lovely socks and turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first
we met. His lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm
with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O Mairy lost the pin of her. Dressed up to the
nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just changes when you're on the track of
the secret. Except the east: Mary, Martha: now as then. No reasonable offer refused. She
wasn't in a hurry either. Always off to a fellow when they are. They never forget an
appointment. Out on spec probably. They believe in chance because like themselves. And
the others inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms round each other's
neck or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about nothing in the convent
garden. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coif and their rosaries going up and down,
vindictive too for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and write to me. And I'll
write to you. Now won't you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr Right comes along then meet
once in a blue moon. Tableau! O, look who it is for the love of God! How are you at all?
What have you been doing with yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see you. Picking
holes in each other's appearance. You're looking splendid. Sister souls showing their teeth at
one another. How many have you left? Wouldn't lend each other a pinch of salt.

Ah!

Devils they are when that's coming on them. Dark devilish appearance. Molly often told me
feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of my foot. O that way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it
myself too. Good to rest once in a way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe in one
way. Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering plants I read in a
garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears she's a flirt. All are. Daresay she
felt I. When you feel like that you often meet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they
look at. Always know a fellow courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the same
and stags. Same time might prefer a tie undone or something. Trousers? Suppose I when I
was? No. Gently does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark and never tell. Saw
something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap with
bearsgrease, plastery hair lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid gentleman in literary. Ought
to attend to my appearance my age. Didn't let her see me in profile. Still, you never know.
Pretty girls and ugly men marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can't be so if Molly.
Took off her hat to show her hair. Wide brim bought to hide her face, meeting someone
might know her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob
I got for Molly's combings when we were on the rocks in Holles street. Why not? Suppose
he gave her money. Why not? All a prejudice. She's worth ten, fifteen, more a pound. All
that for nothing. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. Did I forget to write address on that letter like the
postcard I sent to Flynn? And the day I went to Drimmie's without a necktie. Wrangle with
Molly it was put me off. No, I remember. Richie Goulding. He's another. Weighs on his
mind. Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use to clean could
do it myself. Save. Was that just when he, she?

O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.

Ah!

Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that little limping devil.
Begins to feel cold and clammy Aftereffect not pleasant. Still you have to get rid of it
someway. They don't care. Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and
say night prayers with the kiddies. Well, aren't they. See her as she is spoil all. Must have
the stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The name too. Amours of actresses.
Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe. Curtain up. Moonlight silver effulgence.
Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. Little sweetheart come and kiss me Still I feel. The
strength it gives a man. That's the secret of it. Good job I let off there behind coming out of
Dignam's. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldn't have. Makes you want to sing after. Lacaus
esant taratara. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad plan however if you don't know
how to end the conversation. Ask them a question they ask you another. Good idea if you're
in a cart. Wonderful of course if you say: good evening, and you see she's on for it: good
evening. O but the dark evening in the Appian way I nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking
she was. Whew! Girl in Meath street that night. All the dirty things I made her say all wrong
of course. My arks she called it. It's so hard to find one who. Aho! If you don't answer
when they solicit must be horrible for them till they harden. And kissed my hand when I
gave her the extra two shillings. Parrots. Press the button and the bird will squeak. Wish she
hadn't called me sir. Oh, her mouth in the dark! And you a married man with a single girl!
That's what they enjoy. Taking a man from another woman. Or even hear of it. Different
with me. Glad to get away from other chap's wife. Eating off his cold plate. Chap in the
Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle. French letter still in my pocketbook. Cause of
half the trouble. But might happen sometime, I don't think. Come in. All is prepared. I
dreamt. What? Worst is beginning. How they change the venue when it's not what they like.
Ask you do you like mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Or ask you what
someone was going to say when he changed his mind and stopped. Yet if I went the whole
hog, say: I want to, something like that. Because I did. She too. Offend her. Then make it
up. Pretend to want something awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must
have been thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must since she came to the
use of reason, he, he and he. First Kiss does the trick. The propitious moment. Something
inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best.
Remember that till their dying day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the
Moorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breasts were developed. Fell
asleep then. After Gencree dinner that was when we drove home the featherbed mountain.
Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor had his eye off her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic.

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up like a rocket, down
like a stick. And the children, twins they must be, waiting for something to happen. Want to
be grownups. Dressing in mother's clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the
world. And the dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she could whistle.
Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that high class whore In Jammet's wore her veil only
to her nose. Would you mind, please, telling me the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a
dark lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips. Caressing the
little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course they understand birds, animals,
babies. In their line.

Didn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that satisfaction.
Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Fine eyes she had, clear. It's the white of
the eye brings that out not so much the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat
sitting beyond a dog's jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the high school
drawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Call that innocence? Poor idiot!
His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see them sit on a bench marked Wet Paint.
Eyes all over them. Look under the bed for what's not there. Longing to get the fright of
their lives. Sharp as needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner of Cuffe
street was goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he had a false arm. Had too.
Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger Greene's stairs two at a time to show her
understandings. Handed down from father to mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone.
Milly for example drying her handkerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. Best place for
an ad to catch a woman's eye on a mirror. And when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl to
Presscott's, by the way that ad I must, carrying home the change in her stocking. Clever
little minx! I never told her. Neat way she carried parcels too. Attract men, small thing like
that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow back when it was red. Who did
you learn that from? Nobody. Something the nurse taught me. O, don't they know? Three
years old she was in front of Molly's dressingtable just before we left Lombard street west.
Me have a nice face. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student. Straight
on her pins anyway not like the other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are.
Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump
today. A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the
heel.

A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads and zrads, zrads, zrads.
And Cissy and Tommy ran out to see and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond
the curve of the rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion.
Darling, I saw your. I saw all.

Lord!

Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For this relief much thanks.
In Hamlet, that is. Lord! It was all things combined. Excitement. When she leaned back felt
an ache at the butt of my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a
worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I will tell you all. Still it
was a kind of language between us. It couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false
name however like my and the address Dolphin's barn a blind.

Her maiden name was Jemina Brown
And she lived with her mother in Irishtown.

Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush. Wiping pens in their
stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if it understood. Every bullet has its billet.
Course I never could throw anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad
however because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's
pants will soon fit Willy and fullers' earth for the baby when they hold him out to do ah. No
soft job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing
corpse. Dignam. Children's hands always round them. Cocoa-nut skulls, monkeys, not even
closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given that child
an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital.
Wonder is nurse Callan there still. She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the
Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat. And, Mrs Breen
and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me
in the City Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in
your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk last night?
Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come home to roost. They stick by one
another like glue. Maybe the women's fault also. That's where Molly can knock spots off
them. It is the blood of the south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the
opulent. Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton in the
cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some kind of a nondescript,
wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's
destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to
the dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling
in coppers, with little

hobbies. As God made them He matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough.
Twice nought makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and
repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back.
Better detach.

Ow!

Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and the short of it. Big he
and little she. Very strange about my watch. Wristwatches are always going wrong.
Wonder is there any magnetic influence between the person because that was about the
time he. Yes, I suppose at once. Cat's away the mice will play. I remember looking in Pill
lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism. Earth for instance pulling
this and being pulled. That causes movement. And time? Well that's the time the movement
takes. Then if one thing stopped the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's
arranged. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars. Little piece of steel
iron. When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman and man that is. Fork and
steel. Molly, he. Dress up and look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if
you're a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts
in you. Tip. Have to let fly.

Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third person. More put out
about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw stuck out head back, about the farmer in
the ridingboots and spurs at the horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street
west. Fine voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did, like flowers. It was
too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the paint. Make their own use of
everything. Same time doing it scraped her slipper on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But
lots of them can't kick the beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general all
round over me and half down my back.

Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave you this to think
of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it? Heliotrope? No, Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I
think. She'd like scent of that kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax.
Suits her with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the dance night
she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She was wearing her black and it had
the perfume of the time before. Good conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's
some connection. For instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too.
Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself, slow but sure. Suppose it's
ever so many millions of tiny grains blown across. Yes, it is. Because those spice islands,
Cinghalese this morning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine veil or
web they have all over the skin, fine like what do you call it gossamer and they're aways
spinning it out of them, fine as anything, rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to
everything she takes off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick,
taking them off. Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her shift on the bed. Know
her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too. Reminds me of strawberries and cream. Wonder
where it is really. There or the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of all holes
and corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil or ether or something. Muskrat. Bag under their
tails one grain pour off odour for years. Dogs at each other behind. Good evening. Evening.
How do you sniff? Hm. Hm. Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it
that way. We're the same. Some women for instance warn you off when they have their
period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like what? Potted herrings
gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass.

Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves Long John had on his
desk the other. Breath? What you eat and drink gives that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be
connected with that because priests that are supposed to be are different. Women buzz
round it like flies round treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree of
forbidden priest. O father, will you? Let me be the first to. That diffuses itself all through the
body, permeates. Source of life and it's extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.

Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat. Almonds or. No.
Lemons it is. Ah, no, that's the soap.

O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. Never went back and the
soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag this morning. Hynes might have paid me
that three shillings. I could mention Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he works that
paragraph. Two and nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do I owe
you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving credit another time. Lose
your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellow run up a bill on the slate and then slinking around
the back streets into somewhere else.

Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as far as turn back.
Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now.
Grace after meals. After supper walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere,
government sit. Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still
you learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't mock what
matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now. The Mystery Man on the
Beach, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per
column. And that fellow today at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet
however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some
somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old Betty's joints are
on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the twinkling.
No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.

Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or they might think it a
house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists:
lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash better. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt
you. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the small guts for
nothing. Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best
time to spray plants too in the shade after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest.
Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A star I see.
Venus? Can't tell yet. Two, when three it's night. Were those nightclouds there all the time?
Looks like a phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they. An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of
the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land, goodnight.

Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white fluxions. Never have
little baby then less he was big strong fight his way up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks
too like a summer cold, sore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the
position. Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked.
I begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose it's the only
time we cross legs, seated. Also the library today: those girl graduates. Happy chairs under
them. But it's the evening influence. They feel all that. Open like flowers, know their hours,
sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps.
Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length
oil-painting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself.
Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Life, love, voyage round your own little world.
And now? Sad about her lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much
pity. They take advantage.

All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The rhododendrons. I am a fool
perhaps. He gets the plums and I the plumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen.
Names change: that's all. Lovers: yum yum.

Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of me, little wretch. She
kissed me. My youth. Never again. Only once it comes. Or hers. Take the train there
tomorrow. No. Returning not the same. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I
want. Nothing new under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's barn. Are you not happy in your?
Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and his bevy
of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was.

Year before we. And the old major partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I
an only child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round
is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van
Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle:
cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the
sideboard watching. Moorish eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed.
Forgotten. The young are old. His gun rusty from the dew.

Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree, so blind. Have
birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could be changed into a tree from grief.
Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes. Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up
there. Very likely. Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I
suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray for us. And pray for us.
And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same thing with ads. Buy from us. And buy from
us. Yes, there's the light in the priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the
mistake in the valuation when I was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have.
Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out at night like
mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What frightens them, light or
noise? Better sit still. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water out of the end of a jar by
throwing in pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost
see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours depend on the light you see. Stare the
sun for example like the eagle then look at a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to
stamp his trademark on everything. Instance, that cat this morning on the staircase. Colour
of brown turf. Say you never see them with three colours. Not true. That half tabbywhite
tortoise-shell in the City Anns with the letter em on her forehead. Body fifty different
colours. Howth a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing. That's how that wise man what's his
name with the burning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists' matches.
What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and light. Or broken bottles in the
furze act as a burning glass in the sun. Archimedes. I have it! My memory's not so bad.

Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last week got into the
room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the one bit me, come back to see.
Birds too never find out what they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he.
Nerve? they have to fly over the ocean and back. Lot must be killed in storms, telegraph
wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of ocean-going steamers floundering along in
the dark, lowing out like seacows. Faugh a ballagh. Out of that, bloody curse to you.
Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the
stormy winds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth
somewhere. No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has a good
job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail
end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails
with a scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well? And the tephilim no what's this they call it
poor papa's father had on his door to touch. That brought us out of the land of Egypt and into
the house of bondage. Something in all those superstitions because when you go out never
know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life, life-belt round
round him, gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs till the sharks catch hold of him.
Do fish ever get seasick?

Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid, crew and cargo in
smithereens, Davy Jones' locker. Moon looking down. Not my fault, old cockalorum.

A lost long candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of funds for Mercer's
hospital and broke, drooping, and sheda cluster of violet but one white stars. They floated,
fell: they faded. The shepherd's hour: the hour of holding: hour of tryst. From house to house,
giving his everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the glowworm's lamp
at his belt gleaming here and there through the laurel hedges. And among the five young
trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by
equal gardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: Evening Telegraph, stop press edition!
Result of the Gold Cup race! and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out and
called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the sands the coming surf
crept, grey. Howth settled for slumber tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was
old) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye
unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on Kish bank the
anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.

Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish Lights board. Penance
for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for
the pleasure cruise in the Erin's King, throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the
zoo. Filthy trip. Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to feed the
herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces. Milly, no sign of funk. Her
blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death is at that age. And then their stomachs
clean. But being lost they fear. When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to.
Mamma! Mamma! Babes in the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing them up
in the air to catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or children playing battle. Whole
earnest. How can people aim guns at each other? Sometimes they go off. Poor kids. Only
troubles wildfire and nettlerash. Calomel purge I got her for that. After getting better asleep
with Molly. Very same teeth she has. What do they love? Another themselves? But the
morning she chased her with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse.
Ticking. Little hand it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that the hand says when you touch.
Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first stays I remember. Made me laugh to see.
Little paps to begin with. Left one is more sensitive, I think. Mine too. Nearer the heart.
Padding themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her growing pains at night, calling, wakening me.
Frightened she was when her nature came on her first. Poor child! Strange moment for the
mother too. Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista. O'Hara's tower.
The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family. Sundown, gunfire for
the men to cross the lines. Looking out over the sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear,
no clouds. I always thought I'd marry a lord or a gentleman with a private yacht. Buenos
noches, señorita. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa. Why me? Because you were so
foreign from the others.

Better not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you dull. Must be getting on
for nine by the light. Go home. Too late for Leoh, Lily of Killarney. No. Might be still up.
Call to the hospital to see. Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral,
house of keys, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that bawler in Barney
Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters. What I said about his God made him
wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought to go home and laugh at themselves. Always
want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me.
Look at it other way round. Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant. Three cheers for
Israel. Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her mouth. Same
style of beauty. Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of the wild
man of Borneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morning at close range.
Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow. But Dignam's put the boots on
it. Houses of mourning so depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the
money. Must call to those Scottish widows as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for
granted we're going to pop off first. That widow on Monday was it outside Cramer's that
looked at me. Buried the poor husband but progressing favourably on the premium. Her
widow's mite. Well? What do you expect her to do? Must wheedle her way along. Widower
I hate to see. Looks so forlorn. Poor man O'Connor wife and five children poisoned by
mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good matronly woman in a pork-pie hat to
mother him. Take him in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies' grey flannelette
bloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say.
Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die. See him
sometimes walking about trying to find out who played the trick. U. p.: up. Fate that is. He,
not me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait.
Something confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she
does. Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat.
Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes's. Work Hynes and Crawford.
Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them. What's that? Might be money.

Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He brought it near his
eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can't read. Better go. Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an
old copybook. All those holes and pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you
find. Bottle with story of a treasure in it thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always
want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's this? Bit of stick.

O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here tomorrow? Wait
for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do. Will I?

Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a message for her.
Might remain. What?

I.

Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide comes here a pool
near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark mirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with
lines and scars and letters. O, those transparent! Besides they don't know. What is the
meaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like.

AM. A.

No room. Let it go.

Mr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand. Nothing grows in it.
All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here. Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish
in eighty days. Done half by design.

He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now if you were trying to
do that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance. We'll never meet again. But it was lovely.
Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made me feel so young.

Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone. Not even the
smoke. And she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast. I won't go. Race there, race back
to Ennis. Let him. Just close my eyes a moment. Won't sleep though. Half dream. It never
comes the same. Bat again. No harm in him. Just a few.

O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do love sticky we two
naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul to
perfume your wife black hair heave under embon señorita young eyes Mulvey plump years
dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return
next in her next her next.

A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom with open mouth,
his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for a few.

Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo

The clock on the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon O'Hanlon and Father
Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were taking tea and sodabread and butter and
fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about

Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo

Because it was a little canarybird bird that came out of its little house to tell the time that
Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because she was as quick as anything
about a thing like that, was Gerty MacDowell, and she noticed at once that that foreign
gentleman that was sitting on the rocks looking was

Cuckoo
Cuckoo
Cuckoo