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THE YEWS: (Mingling their boughs) Listen. Whisper. She is
right, our sister. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave
shade on languorous summer days.JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (In the background, in Irish Na-
tional Forester’s uniform, doffs his plumed hat) Prosper! Give
shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!
THE YEWS: (Murmuring) Who came to Poulaphouca
with the High School excursion? Who left his nutquesting
classmates to seek our shade?
BLOOM: (Scared) High School of Poula? Mnemo? Not in
full possession of faculties. Concussion. Run over by tram.
THE ECHO: Sham!
BLOOM: (Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in
nondescript juvenile grey and black striped suit, too small for
him, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops
and a red schoolcap with badge) I was in my teens, a grow-
ing boy. A little then sufficed, a jolting car, the mingling
odours of the ladies’ cloakroom and lavatory, the throng
penned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes,
instinct of the herd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre un-
bridles vice), even a pricelist of their hosiery. And then the
heat. There were sunspots that summer. End of school. And
tipsycake. Halcyon days.
(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue and white foot-
ball jerseys and shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master
Abraham Chatterton, Master Owen Goldberg, Master Jack
Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a clearing of the
trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)