“Why did you do all these things?” said the Philosopher.
“For no reason at all,” said the boy.
“That,” said the Philosopher triumphantly, “is the difference between age and youth. Boys do things for no reason, and old people do not. I wonder do we get old because we do things by reason instead of instinct?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy, “everything gets old. Have you travelled very far to-day, sir?”
“I will tell you that if you will tell me your name.”
“My name,” said the boy, “is MacCushin.”
“When I came last night,” said the Philosopher, “from the place of Angus Óg in the Caste of the Sleepers I was bidden say to one named MacCushin that a son would be born to Angus Óg and his wife, Caitilin, and that the sleepers of Erinn had turned in their slumbers.”
The boy regarded him steadfastly.
“I know,” said he, “why Angus Óg sent me that message. He wants me to make a poem to the people of Erinn, so that when the Sleepers arise they will meet with friends.”
“The Sleepers have arisen,” said the Philosopher. “They are about us on every side. They are walking now, but they have forgotten their names and the meanings of their names. You are to tell them their names and their lineage, for I am an old man, and my work is done.”