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Updated: May 12, 2025
In these heart-burnings about the good things of this world, he was treated with uncommon forbearance: in his owner he always had a friend, from whom, when he grunted out his appeal to him, he was certain of receiving redress: "Barney, behave, avick: lay down the potstick, an' don't be batin' the pig, the crathur."
I tell him many's the time it's in the asylum he should be, but sure, you might as well talk to the potstick as talk to him. He'll drive you to the station with a heart an' a han', and the capers of him when you both come back'll be like nothin' on God's earth!" "So long as he doesn't capsize us both into the ditch!..." "Him capsize you! I'd warm his lug for him if he dar'd to do such a thing!..."
Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen. Did you put in the books? Boody asked. Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow. They wouldn't give anything on them, she said. Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble. Where did you try? Boody asked.
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