The Field of Ragworts

(as retold by Stíofán Dunn)

ONE FINE DAY in the harvest — it indeed being Lady-day in celebration of our Beloved Mother — Tom Fitzpatrick was on a ramble through the countryside, among his family's fields. He went along the sunny side of a hedge; when all of a sudden he heard a clackity click and a  clickity clack sort of noise a little before him in the Whitethorn.

"Dear me," said Tom, "but isn't it surprising to hear the stonechatters call, like stones a'knocking together, so late in the season?"

So Tom stole on, walking on the tippy tips of his toes to see if he could get a sight of what was making the noise. Tom was a clever fellow, and knew a thing or two, and his heart was aflutter with what his mind was thinking. But just as he was about to peek through the bushes to see whether he was right about his guess, the noise abruptly stopped.

Tom looked sharply through the branches, and what should he see in the gnarled root of an oak tree, but a brown pitcher, that might hold about a gallon and a half of liquid. Sitting beside the pitcher was a teeny tiny old man, with a wee three-cornered hat cocked upon his head, and a soft leather apron hung before him. By and by, he stood upon his little wooden stool, and dipped a large earthen mug into the pitcher, and took out a full measure of it. He then sat back down under the shadow of the pitcher, took a large draught from his cup, and began to work putting a heel-piece on an itsy bitsy boot of untanned hide, a type of country footwear called a brogue, with the outline of a shamrock perforated across the top.

As I said before, Tom was a clever fellow, and knew a thing or two, and one of the things he knew was to never take his eyes off the crafty little Fairy, lest he escape.

"Well, by the ancient powers," said Tom. "I've often heard tell of the Leprechauns, and, to tell God's truth, I never rightly believed in them, but if here's not one of them in the flesh."

And to himself Tom said, "If I keep my wits about me, my fortune will be made."

Tom now quietly crept a little closer, with his eyes fixed on the little man, as a cat does with a mouse.

When he got up quite close to him, Tom said, "God bless your work, neighbour."

The little man raised up his head, and, "Thank you kindly," was his reply.

"May perhaps you'd be good enough to tell me what you've got in the pitcher there?" said Tom with a growing thirst.

"That's my own business, not yours," was the reply.

But the wee fellow caught the thirst in Tom's eyes, and said, "But to be neighbourly, I will tell you with pleasure. It's good beer."

"Beer!" said Tom. "Thunder and fire! Where did you get it?"

"Where did I get it, is it? Why, I made it, it is. And what do you think of that?"

"Will you give a body a taste of your beer?" said Tom.

"I'll tell you what, young man. It would be fitter for you to be looking after your own business than to be bothering decent people with your foolish questions. There now, while you idle away your time here, the cows have broke into the oats, and are knocking your father's corn all about."

Tom was so surprised by this he was on the point of turning round when he remembered himself. So afraid was he the same might happen again, he grasped the Leprechaun, and caught him in his hand. He then swore he would squishy squash the little man if he did not show him where his crock of gold was hidden.

Tom looked so wicked and so bloody-minded the little man was quite perturbed; so said he, "Come along with me a couple of fields over, and my crock of gold will be yours."

So off they went, and Tom held the Leprechaun tight in his fist, and never took his eyes off him for a moment. On Tom went, many more than a couple of fields over; he had to cross hedges and ditches, and traipse through a wide peat bog, till at last they came to a great field of ragwort.

The Leprechaun pointed to a tall stalk with bright, yellow flowers, and said, "Dig under that weed right there, and you'll get the crock full of gold."

Tom in his hurry had not thought of bringing a shovel with him, so he made up his mind to run home and fetch one. That he might know the place again, he took off his red neckerchief, and tied it round the stem.

Then Tom said to the Leprechaun, "Swear by the good Saint Patrick, and the kings of old, ye'll not take that neckerchief off that plant." And the Leprechaun swore willingly not to touch it.

"I suppose," said the Leprechaun politely, "you have no further use for me?"

"No," replied Tom, "you may go now, if you wish, God speed to you, and may good luck find you wherever you go."

"Well, good-bye to you, Tom Fitzpatrick," said the Leprechaun, "and much good may your treasure do you when you find it."

Tom ran for dear life, till he got home, grabbed a shovel, and then away with him, as hard as he could go, back to the field of ragworts. But when he got there, lo and behold! not a ragwort in the field did not have a red neckerchief, identical to his own, tied about it.

As to digging up the whole field, that was foolhardy and nonsensical, for there were more than forty good Irish acres in every direction round him. So Tom came home again with his shovel on his shoulder, a little cooler than he went.

Many's the hearty curse, himself, Tom Fitzpatrick, gave the Leprechaun every time he thought of the neat trick he had played on him.