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He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled 

voice, lifting his brows: 

—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and 

water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the 

Upanishads? 

—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely. 

—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. 

Your reasons, pray? 

—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or 

out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one 

imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. 

Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight. 

—Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing 

his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you 

think she was? Quite charming! 

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he 

growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again 

vigorously at the loaf: 

—For old Mary Ann 

 She doesn’t care a damn. 

 But, hising up her petticoats ... 

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and 

droned. 

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The doorway was darkened by an entering form. 

—The milk, sir! 

—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug. 

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s 

elbow. 

—That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to 

God. 

—To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be 

sure! 

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the 

locker. 

—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak 

frequently of the collector of prepuces. 

—How much, sir? asked the old woman. 

—A quart, Stephen said. 

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into 

the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She 

poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she 

had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. 

She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. 

Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a 

witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the 

squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, 

dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, 

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names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly 

form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay 

betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the 

secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could 

not tell: but scorned to beg her favour. 

—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring 

milk into their cups. 

—Taste it, sir, she said. 

He drank at her bidding. 

—If we could live on good food like that, he said to 

her somewhat loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full 

of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, 

eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, 

horsedung and consumptives’ spits. 

—Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked. 

—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered. 

—Look at that now, she said. 

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old 

head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, 

her medicineman: me she slights. To the voice that will 

shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her 

woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in God’s 

likeness, the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that 

now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. 

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—Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her. 

—Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said 

to Haines. 

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. 

—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you? 

—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. 

Are you from the west, sir? 

—I am an Englishman, Haines answered. 

—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we 

ought to speak Irish in Ireland. 

—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m 

ashamed I don’t speak the language myself. I’m told it’s a 

grand language by them that knows. 

—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. 

Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. 

Would you like a cup, ma’am? 

—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the 

ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go. 

Haines said to her: 

—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, 

Mulligan, hadn’t we? 

Stephen filled again the three cups. 

—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a 

pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence 

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over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three 

quarts is a shilling. That’s a shilling and one and two is two 

and two, sir. 

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with 

a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his 

legs and began to search his trouser pockets. 

—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, 

smiling. 

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring 

faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a 

florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried: 

—A miracle! 

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, 

saying: 

—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I 

give. 

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand. 

—We’ll owe twopence, he said. 

—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time 

enough. Good morning, sir. 

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck 

Mulligan’s tender chant: 

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