A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man | Page 4

good time it was there was a moocow coming down along
the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy
named baby tuckoo
His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy
face.

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she
sold lemon platt.
O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place.
He sang that song. That was his song.
O, the green wothe botheth.
When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet.
That had the queer smell.
His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor's hornpipe
for him to dance. He danced:
Tralala lala, Tralala tralaladdy, Tralala lala, Tralala lala.
Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle
Charles was older than Dante.
Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for
Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him
a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.
The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were
Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He
hid under the table. His mother said:
--O, Stephen will apologize.
Dante said:
--O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.--
Pull out his eyes, Apologize, Apologize, Pull out his eyes. Apologize, Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes, Apologize.
The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects
urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every
charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through
the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach
of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the
throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like
that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said.
Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had
greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He
called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day be had asked:
--What is your name?
Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.
Then Nasty Roche had said:
--What kind of a name is that?
And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:
--What is your father?
Stephen had answered:
--A gentleman.
Then Nasty Roche had asked:
--Is he a magistrate?
He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and
then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his
belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a

belt. One day a fellow said to Cantwell:
--I'd give you such a belt in a second.
Cantwell had answered:
--Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give you a
toe in the rump for yourself.
That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys
in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said
goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes
were red. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice
mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two
five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything
to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door
of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering
in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried
to him from the car, waving their hands:
--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!
--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!
He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy
boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and
their legs