Cucullin clenched his hand over it. He squeezed and pressed, and pressed and squeezed till his face grew black and his eyes stood out. But never a drop of water fell from the great white stone. He might rip up rocks and turn houses but to squeeze water from a stone was quite beyond him.
“Would you let me try?” asked Fin.
Cucullin handed it to him. Turning a little, Fin exchanged it for the curds Oonagh had made for him. Then holding them up, he squeezed till the whey, as clear as water, showered down upon the ground.
Cucullin’s face turned white. His knees were knocking; his hands were shaking. “If the son’s like this, what must the father be! And suppose Fin should be coming home!” thought he.
Over to Oonagh he went. “Indeed, indeed, ma’am,” said he, “I thank you kindly for your welcome. It’s a fine, strong son you have. And it’s sorry I am I can’t be waiting to see Fin. But I’ve out-stayed my time already, and it’s back to Scotland I must be going before the tide rises in the Channel.”
And with never a good-by more, the terrible giant Cucullin turned and ran over hill, over dale, through wood, through wave. And never again did he show his face in Ireland.
As for Fin and Oonagh, they never got over laughing in their little house turned wrongside foremost on the top of Knockmany Hill.
—From a Celtic Folk-tale.
Based on Wm. Carleton’s “Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry.”