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, 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 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