Letitia Maclintock.

t so happened that Finn and his gigantic
relatives were all working at the Giant’s
Causeway in order to make a bridge, or,
what was still better, a good stout pad-road
across to Scotland, when Finn, who was very
fond of his wife, Oonagh, took it into his head
that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in
his absence. So accordingly he pulled up a fir-tree, and after
lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it
and set out on his way to Oonagh.

Finn lived at this time on Knockmany Hill, which faces Cullamore, that rises up, half hill, half mountain, on the opposite side.

The truth is that honest Finn’s affection for his wife was by no manner of means the whole cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Far Rua—some say he was Irish and some say he was Scotch—but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near, and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but the report went that by one blow of his fist he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket in the shape of a pancake to show to all his enemies when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn M’Coul himself; and he swore that he would never rest night or day, winter or summer, till he could serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Finn, however, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry, so accordingly he kept dodging about from place to place—not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure—whenever he happened to get the hard word that Far Rua was on the scent of him. And the long and the short of it was that he heard Far Rua was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was, naturally enough, seized in consequence with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, who was delicate in her health, poor woman, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence.

“God save all here,” said Finn good-humouredly, putting his honest face into his own door.

“Musha, Finn, avick, an’ you’re welcome to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.” Here followed a smack that it is said to have made the waters of the lake curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.

“Faith,” said Finn, “beautiful; and how are you, Oonagh—and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?”