There was once an old man of Ireland who was terrible poor, and he lived by his lone in a small wee house by the roadside. At the morning of the day he would go for to gather sticks in a wood was convenient to that place, the way he’d have a clear fire to be sitting at of an evening.
It fell out one time, of a cold night, that Paddy heard a knock at the door. He went over, and when he opened it he seen a little boy in a red cap standing without.
“Let you come in and take an air to the fire,” says he, for he always had a good reception for every person.
The boy with the red cap walked in, and he stopped for a good while conversing. He was the best of company, and the old man didn’t find the time passing until he rose for to go.
“Let you come in and rest yourself here any evening you are out in these parts,” says he.
The very next night the little fellow was in it again, and the night after that, warming himself at the clear fire and talking away.
“Paddy,” says he, the evening he was in it for the third time, “Paddy, I do be thinking it is bitter poor you are!”
“I am, surely,” says the old man.
“Well, let you pay attention to me, it is the truth I’m speaking, you’ll have more gold than ever you’ll contrive for to spend.”