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 tortoiseshell in the _City Arms_ 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. Or what
they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have
to fly over the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph
wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing 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.
Somethi