that I amn’t divine He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine But have to drink water and wish it were plain That I make when the wine becomes water
He tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:
―Goodbye, now, goodbye.
Write down all I said And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.
What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly And Olivet’s breezy …
Goodbye, now, goodbye.
He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury’s hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries.
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said:
―We oughtn’t to laugh, I suppose. He’s rather blasphemous. I’m not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn’t it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?
―The ballad of Joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
―O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
―Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
―You’re