Now that he had heard the history of the Fairy Rowan Tree, Flann often looked at the clusters of scarlet berries that were high up on its branches. The Tree could be climbed, Flann knew. But on the top of the tree and along its branches were the fierce yellow cats--the cats that the Hags of the Long Teeth had reared for Crom Duv, thinking that he would some time give each of them the berry that would make them young again. And at the butt of the tree there were more cats. And all about the courtyard the Hags’ fierce cats paraded themselves.
The walls round the Giant’s Keep were being built higher by Crom Duv, helped by his servant Flann. The Giant’s herd was now increased by many calves, and Morag the byre-maid had much to do to keep all the cows milked. And day and night Morag and Flann heard the bellowing of the Bull of the Mound.
Now one day while Crom Duv was away with his herd, Flann and Morag were in the courtyard. They saw the Little Red Hen rouse herself up, shake her wings and turn a bright eye on them. “What dost thou say, my Little Red Hen?” said Morag.
“The Pooka,” murmured the Little Red Hen. “The Pooka rides a fierce horse, but the Pooka himself is a timid little fellow.” Then the Little Red Hen drooped her wings again, and went on picking in the courtyard.
“The Pooka rides a fierce horse,” said Morag, “if the Pooka rides a fierce horse he might carry us past the Bull of the Mound.”
“And if the Pooka himself is a timid little fellow we might take the fierce horse from him,” said Flann.
“But this does not tell us how to get the berries off the Fairy Rowan Tree,” said Morag.
“No,” said Flann, “it does not tell us how to get the berries off the tree the cats guard.”
The next day Morag gave grains to the Little Red Hen and begged for words. After a while the Little Red Hen murmured, “There are things I know, and things I don’t know, but I do know what grows near the ground, and if you pull a certain herb, and put it round the necks of the cats they will not be able to see in the light nor in the dark. And to-morrow is the day of Sowain,” said the Little Red Hen. She said no more words. She had become sleepy and now she flew down and roosted under the table. There she went on murmuring to herself--as all hens murmur--where the Children of Dana hid their treasures--they know, for it was the Children of Dana who brought the hens to Ireland.