ng 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,
lifebelt 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 so
peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.

A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of
funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster
of violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The
shepherd's hour: the hour of folding: 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