DESPITE THEIR WELLPRAISED PROTOTYPES IN OTHER VAUNTED PRIZE REGIONS, FOR
VERY BEAUTY, OF BOSKY GROVE AND UNDULATING PLAIN AND LUSCIOUS PASTURELAND
OF VERNAL GREEN, STEEPED IN THE TRANSCENDENT TRANSLUCENT GLOW OF OUR MILD
MYSTERIOUS IRISH TWILIGHT ...


HIS NATIVE DORIC


--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.

--THAT MANTLES THE VISTA FAR AND WIDE AND WAIT TILL THE GLOWING ORB OF
THE MOON SHINE FORTH TO IRRADIATE HER SILVER EFFULGENCE ...

--O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and onions!
That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.

He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy
moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An
instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's
unshaven blackspectacled face.

--Doughy Daw! he cried.


WHAT WETHERUP SAID