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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 e 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 es。 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 ing 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 e 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； e 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 es 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 everwele 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 ing 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