StPatricksDay
Seamus Leprechaun
3
I arrived in Ireland with one goal in mind: to catch a leprechaun and claim his pot of gold. I had read all the old tales—how they were cunning little tricksters, always one step ahead of greedy fools. But I wasn’t just any fool. I had a plan.
It started in a small village in County Kerry, where an old man at the pub told me, half-laughing, “You won’t catch Seamus. Many have tried, and none have come close.”
Seamus. A name with weight, like a legend that had outlived the tellers.
Armed with my best running shoes, a finely woven net, and a pocket full of salt (for luck, or so I was told), I ventured into the emerald hills at dawn. The mist was thick, curling around the gnarled roots of ancient oaks, and I could hear the distant trickle of a brook. That’s when I spotted him—a tiny man, no taller than my knee, dressed in green with a beard like tangled brambles. He was sitting on a rock, whistling an old tune, polishing a single gold coin between his fingers.
“Ahh, Saints preserve us,” he sighed without lookin’ up. “Another eejit come ta test his luck.”
I lunged, net in hand—
And landed flat on my face.
Seamus was already sittin’ on a tree branch above, legs crossed like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Yer slow as a Sunday sermon, lad!” he cackled. “Ye’ll have ta do better than that!”
And so the chase began.
Through brambles and brooks he led me, laughin’ all the way. He darted through the heather like a hare, tripped me up with roots that weren’t there a second before, and even had the audacity to send a flock of startled sheep barrelin’ at me.
