“You must know the things you do,” said the Philosopher, “but you may not understand how to put them in order. The great trouble about any kind of examination is to know where to begin, but there are always two places in everything with which we can commence—they are the beginning and the end. From either of these points a view may be had which comprehends the entire period. So we will begin with the things you did this morning.” “I am satisfied with that,” said the boy. The Philosopher then continued: “When you awakened this morning and went out of the house what was the first thing you did?” The boy thought “I went out, then I picked up a stone and threw it into the field as far as I could.” “What then?” said the Philosopher. “Then I ran after the stone to see could I catch up on it before it hit the ground.” “Yes,” said the Philosopher. “I ran so fast that I tumbled over myself into the grass.” “What did you do after that?” “I lay where I fell and plucked handfuls of the grass with both hands and threw them on my back.” “Did you get up then?” “No, I pressed my face into the grass and shouted a lot of times with my mouth against the ground, and then I sat up and did not move for a long time.” “Were you thinking?” said the Philosopher. “No, I was not thinking or doing anything.” “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.” “I will make a poem some day,” said the boy, “and every man will shout when he hears it.” “God be with you, my son,” said the Philosopher, and he embraced the boy and went forward on his journey.