Page 694 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

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.
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

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