By Don O’Brien
(*Blog Editor’s note: this article was first published in the Burlington Free Press on 3/17/1950.)
’Tis a curious tale the White Thatch has for you this day of days. He records it here in all truth, as any Irishman would.
What manner of spalpeen would I be (said the Thatch to himself) if I failed to write a fit piece for the Day of St. Patrick? So he sat down at his battered typewriter, all set to begin.
When whisht! Out from behind a pile of books stepped a leprechaun. A wizened, tricky-looking little old fellow he was. The Thatch recognized him right away by his pointed cap and shoemaker’s leather apron, and the buckles on his hose.
“What would you be doing so far from the peat bogs?” The startled Thatch asked.
“If it’s any of your business,” said he, “I stowed away under a seat in a plane. I wanted to see how you Irish over here are behavin’ yourselves.”
“We do all right,” said the Thatch.
“Hah!” sneered the leprechaun. “All the tall stories I’ve heard about your big doin’s, and the first thing I’m told here is that you’ll be havin’ no parade at all, at all”
“Pay no attention to the complaining rogue,” came another voice from the right.
The Thatch looked, and sure enough there was a grinning little man, just hopping down from Mrs. Thatch’s big green frog of a flower vase, where he’d been hiding under a plant. He was one of the good Little People, you could tell that right away.
“Sure, I was on the same plane as the little omadhaun,” said the fairy with a laugh, “and he was scared sick all the way. Now all he wants is something to grumble about.”
He looked over at the leprechaun, “Go home, you divil, and hammer your shoes,” said the fairy, “and let decent folks alone!”
“He looks like a mean little cuss,” observed the White Thatch.
“That he is,” came back the grinning little man, “But I’ll tell ye something. He has a fine treasure, and if you can catch him, he’ll have to give it to ye.”
“Naw, ye don’t” squeaked the leprechaun. And with that, he scurried out of sight behind the pile of books.
“Look at the scamp run!” laughed the fairy. “That’s the way to get rid of the plagues. He thinks you’ll be chasing him now for his wealth.”
He peeked around behind the books, then came back, “Sure, the fool of a leprechaun is gone now,” he said. He went on: “Now we can talk in peace. By the way Thatch- or is it O’Thatch?- my name’s Sean O’Doul.”
“Top of the morning to you Sean,” said the Thatch with a bow.
“Have no fear about the Irish, parade or no parade,” said the small one, sitting down on a stack of paper. “They don’t need any fanfare and show to keep the spark alive.
“Look at them now, all about you- bankers and builders, priests and professors, teachers and truckers, lawyers and laborers- all part of your city and proud of it, and it proud of them, as well.
“And who is it wears the green on St.Patrick’s Day? Is it only the Murphys and Flanagans, the Os and the Macs? Not at all! See the green ribbons and ties and shamrocks on the Bouchers and the Beaudettes, the Cohens and Rothmans, the Cagliastros, the Pierratoses, the Svensens, the Perkinses, and Joneses, and so on, all down the line.
“Do they claim Irish blood? Of course not, they’re proud of their own racial strain. But they do claim brotherhood with the Irish who work with them and live with them and who fought side by side with them in strange and faraway lands. And so they wear the green to honor their Irish friends and neighbors who, with all the rest of them, make up what you call your democracy.
“Your’e a true Irishman indeed,” said the Thatch. “’Tis you should be writing a St. Patrick’s Day piece, not me.”
“Well, now,” came back the grinning little man, “you just put down what I said and you’ll have it.”
He hopped off the stack of papers, and climbed up the back of the big ornamental green frog. Then he looked back and laughed.
“What a sight it would be,” said he, “if that White Thatch of yours would turn green for the day!”
And with that, tiny Sean O’Doul disappeared under the tall, green plant.
Don O’Brien (1891-1963) was Mike O’Brien’s grandfather. Three of Don’s four grandparents were born in Ireland. Don worked as a writer and public relations agent and for about eight years wrote a regular column for The Burlington Free Press. Due to a full head of gray hair, he often called himself “White Thatch.”
*Blog editor Mike O’Brien (author website here) is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book Monastery Mornings (found here), about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah—and about his family’s roots in Burlington, Vermont—was published by Paraclete Press (more information here) in August 2021. He is working on a book about discovering his Irish heritage.
