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ck 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 ing 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 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。 H