Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

WHAT? — AND LIKEWISE — WHERE?

But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums?

VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES.

Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis h�c otia fecit.

No, Stephen said. I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or The Parable of The Plums.

I see, the professor said.