Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
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 National 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 growing 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 unbridles 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 football 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.)_