Michael decided to leave Ireland and go to America to earn his fortune. As he stood on the dock waiting to board the ship to New York, he was approached by a little old lady who appeared to be very sad, almost on the verge of tears. Moved, Michael said, "Ma'am, is there something I can do for you?"
       "Are ye are goin' to America, young man?" she asked. "If ye are, then indeed there is."
       "And what might that be?" young Michael asked.
       "You have a kind face," she said. "If it isn't too much trouble . . . well, you see, years ago my son left home to go to America, much as you are doin', and he promised that he'd write faithfully to his poor old mother and let me know how he is and how he's gettin' on. I got one letter from him, tellin' me that he'd was in a place called Vermont, and that he was livin' in a little white house there. He didn't write his address on the envelope, so I couldn't write back to him, and I haven't heard from him for all these years. But he did say it was a little white house in Vermont. I don't know whether he's doin' well or not . . . I don't even know if my boy is still livin'," she said, wiping away a tear.
       Michael felt both apprehensive and angry. He was apprehensive about what might have happened to the woman's son, and angry that, should he be all right, that he could be so neglectful of his mother.
       "Ma'am," Michael said resolutely, "I give you my solemn promise, on my honor, that the first thing I'm goin' to do when I get to America is look up your son and see how he's gettin' on. And if all is well, I'll see to it meself that he writes to you straightaway! Now, what might your lad's name be?"
       "His name is Patrick Dunn," she said. "And God bless you for your kindness to a poor old woman."
       "I'm happy to be of service, Mrs. Dunn, happy to be of service."
       And so Michael boards the ship and sails off to America.
       Michael is as good as his word. The very instant he sets foot on American soil, he goes to the nearest railway station. He goes to the ticket window and tells the clerk, "I'd like a railway ticket to Vermont, please."
       "Okay," says the ticket clerk, slouching against the counter and shifting her chewing gum to the other side of her mouth. "Where in Vermont?"
       "Well . . . Vermont! You have a place in America called 'Vermont,' haven't you now?"
       "Well, yeah. But where do you want to go in Vermont?"
       "Where do I—" Not only is she cheeky, she's a snoop as well! "None o' your bloody business, woman! Vermont! Just give me a ticket to Vermont!"
       Okay for you, smart guy, she thinks. And she sells him a ticket to a place in Vermont that has a train station, but it's so small it isn't even on most maps.
       Michael boards the train. Some time later, the conductor informs him that he has arrived at his destination. He gets off the train and other than the platform and a small station, he doesn't see much of anything around. The station-master, a wizened-up, stooped old gentleman looks out the door to see why the train stopped, and he squints at Michael.
       "Good day to you, my man," says Michael. "Tell me, is there a little white house somewhere around here?"
       "Ayup!" says the old man. "Around back."
       Michael walks out behind the station and there he sees a little white house. A very little white house. As he approaches to knock on the door, the door opens and a man comes out. And he's zipping up his fly.
       "Are you Dunn?" asks Michael.
       "Yeah," says the man, "I'm done."
       "Then for the love of God, man," says the angry Michael, "write to your poor old mother in Ireland!!???"
       

Don Firth