Портрет художника в юності

           HeknewthathisfatherhadpaidaguineaforitinDunn’sofD’OlierStreetandthatthemanhadproddeditoftenatthebreastbonetoshowhowgooditwas:andherememberedtheman’svoicewhenhehadsaid:

           —Takethatone,sir.That’stherealAllyDaly.

           WhydidMrBarrettinClongowescallhispandybataturkey?ButClongoweswasfaraway:andthewarmheavysmellofturkeyandhamandceleryrosefromtheplatesanddishesandthegreatfirewasbankedhighandredinthegrateandthegreenivyandredhollymadeyoufeelsohappyandwhendinnerwasendedthebigplumpuddingwouldbecarriedin,studdedwithpeeledalmondsandsprigsofholly,withbluishfirerunningarounditandalittlegreenflagflyingfromthetop.

           ItwashisfirstChristmasdinnerandhethoughtofhislittlebrothersandsisterswhowerewaitinginthenursery,ashehadoftenwaited,tillthepuddingcame.ThedeeplowcollarandtheEtonjacketmadehimfeelqueerandoldish:andthatmorningwhenhismotherhadbroughthimdowntotheparlour,dressedformass,hisfatherhadcried.Thatwasbecausehewasthinkingofhisownfather.AnduncleCharleshadsaidsotoo.

           MrDedaluscoveredthedishandbegantoeathungrily.Thenhesaid:

           —PooroldChristy,he’snearlylopsidednowwithroguery.

           —Simon,saidMrsDedalus,youhaven’tgivenMrsRiordananysauce.

           MrDedalusseizedthesauceboat.

           —Haven’tI?hecried.