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   Fionn asked: “Would you have got as good poems by the Shannon or the Suir or by sweet  Ana Life ?”      “They are good rivers,” was the answer. “They all belong to good gods.”      “But why did you choose this river out of all the rivers?”      Finegas beamed on his pupil. “I would tell you anything,” said he, “and I will tell you that.      A prophecy was made to me that I should catch the Salmon of Knowledge in the Boyne Water.”      “And then?” said Fionn eagerly.      “Then I would have All Knowledge.”      “And after that?” the boy insisted.      “What should there be after that?” the poet retorted.                                                    The Boyhood of Fionn Chill damp with the smell of rain on the way, everything still, birds quiet. Then it’s here, a line, a band of sharp showers advancing from the southwest, breathing loud in the trees, rattling on roofs of sheds and houses. It runs off road surfaces, off compacted pastures, washing soil and gravel from disturbe