Not more than ten minutes after his discovery that my birthday fell on Saint Patrick’s Day he was at the house, asking if the ladies wouldn’t let him have some “grane material.” That seemed a very vague order--“grane material”--leaving such a wide margin for speculation as to what kind of “grane material” he meant. But the only information he would give was that he just wanted “grane material, dress goods or the like.”
Thereupon my mother gave him a deep flounce of all green silk, taken from a retired stage-dress of mine. This he ripped, and pressed, and sewed at, till, lo! on Saint Patrick’s morning there fluttered from the flagstaff a brilliant, green silk flag, and I was informed it was there in my honor, not Saint Patrick’s. In the years that followed I was very rarely at home on my birthday, but no matter how far away I might be, early on Saint Patrick’s morning the green silk flag ran swiftly up the staff. “But mark this now,” as he himself would say, never even in my honor, never once did that green flag fly above the “Stars and Stripes.” Honest, old Irish-American that he was, the flag he had served with arms in his hands was the first flag in the world for him, and had to take the place of honor every time.
So thoroughly did he identify himself with the family that when anything particular was going on, he, without invitation, yet equally without the faintest idea of presuming, always took his share. On one occasion “Old John” learned that I was expecting a visit from my husband’s mother, and hearing me speak of the freshness of her looks, the brightness of her mind, and her extreme activity as something remarkable in one of her advanced years, his interest was at once aroused. Knowing his ways as well as I did know them at that time, I suppose I should have bridled his fine, Irish enthusiasm; but, truth to tell, I was so busy with my own joyous preparations for her welcome coming that I gave no thought to the possible doings of my eccentric coachman. Mamma H---- had heard much of him, and was amused by his stately salute to her from the box. As we entered the gate we met welcome No. 1, in the form of a great flag flying from a staff in front of the house, a thing which had never happened before, and never happened after that visit. Then “Old John” drove down to the stable, while we ascended the stairs, to be met at the top, where we had the least breath to bear it, with welcome No. 2, in the shape of an explosion so heavy that it shook the color out of the cheeks and the breath out of the body of the welcomed lady. Seeing her, after two or three desperate gasps, recover the breath which had been literally shaken out of her, we looked at one another, and all exclaimed together: “John Hickey!” Then she understood, and falling into a chair, she spread out her hands on its arms, laid her head back, and laughed--laughed till the tears came. When she could speak again, she remarked: “What a nice, kind old man, to take so much trouble on my account--but he is a bit noisy, isn’t he, dear?”