hands, O Fionn," he said. "Now it sounds here, and now it sounds there, and again it encircles us, but still I do not see the minstrel. Perhaps it is Angus Oge playing on his lyre in the heart of the mountain, or some other great harper of the Sidhe."
A little laugh echoed from behind Fionn's back, and he turned sharply round. There, standing a short distance from him, was a very small man, so small that he reached only half-way to Fionn's knee. He stood leaning on his little harp, which was almost as big as himself, and smiled up into Fionn's face. Long bright yellow hair he had, and his eyes were blue as a cloudless summer sky.
"Who are you, little man," asked Fionn, "and where did you come from?"
"Cnu Deireoil, or the Little Nut of Melody, is my name," he answered, "and out of Slieve-na-man I come. From the place of the Sidhe I come to you; a place where there is abundance of ale and mead and food, for what is eaten one day is there the next, as though it had never been touched."
"A fair and wonderful place you come
