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.)

The halcyon days:  Mackerel!  Live us again.  Hurray! (They cheer)

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.

The waterfall: 

    Poulaphouca Poulaphouca
    Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

The nymph:  (With wide fingers) O, infamy!