Repulsing all aid, I perceived Shaun to |1kick himself up give himself some sort of a kick or a prod up1| while all the daughters of February
Filldyke |1showed voiced1| their approvals in the usual manner by dropping to their knees & applauding with the flats of their hands. Going Shaun then I saw took from the gentlest weeper amidst all the
wailers the yellow label into which he dropped his tear, smothered a sigh, choked a cough, spat a spit & blew his nose. He next licked its stickyback side & clapped the badge of belief to his brow, waved a hand across the sea as a notice to quit and, in
selfrighting himself, toppled to the left and|1, making a fresh start,1| couriered off adown his way |1following which he silently unread was lost to sight though to memory dear1|.
Heaven speed you, rural Shaun, stout fellow, heart and soul of Shamrogueshire! May your bawny hair grow fairer and rarer, our own only whiteheaded boy! Just by nature & natural by design |1had you but been spared1| you will be longed for and looked after |1from last to first1| while you are away as the beam of light we follow receding on your pilgrimage to the antipodes of the past, you who so often delivered your tidings of great joy into our never too late to post box, dear Shaun, just pennyatimer. |1There are men still |aliving unclaimed by the death angela| who will pray fervently that they may not depart this earth |abefore tilla| you came back1| Life, it is true, will be a dream without you, a slip of the time between a date and a date from tonight to yesterday evening. But you did your |1strong1| nine furlong mile in |1swell & slick1| slapstick style |1— a deed that was remembered for centuries1|. And already the sombrer portion of the gloom is gone. Brave, footsore Shaun! Hold to! |1Win out!1| The silent cock shall crow at last. The west will |1make shake1| the east awake. Walk while you have the lightº for the noon cometh wherein every post shall sleep.