BLOOM: _(Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent
snowballs, struggles to rise.)_ Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark!
Let’s ring all the bells in Montague street. _(He cheers feebly.)_
Hurray for the High School!
THE ECHO: Fool!
THE YEWS: _(Rustling.)_ She is right, our sister. Whisper. _(Whispered
kisses are heard in all the wood. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the
boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)_ Who
profaned our silent shade?
THE NYMPH: _(Coyly, through parting fingers.)_ There? In the open air?
THE YEWS: _(Sweeping downward.)_ Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.