Old Pat lived alone in Northern Ireland.

He wanted to spade his potato garden, but it was very hard work. His

only son, Mick, who used to help him, was in an English prison. The old

man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:





Dear Mick,

I am feeling a mite down because it looks like I won't be able to plant

me potato garden this year. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a

garden plot. If you were here, all my troubles would be over. I know you

would dig the plot for me. Love, Da





A few days later he received a letter from his son:





Dear Da,





For CHRIST'S SAKE, don't dig up the garden!

That's where I buried all them feckin' BODIES!

Love, Mick







At 4 A. M. the next morning, a dozen agents from Scotland Yard and local

police officers showed up and dug up the entire garden down to a depth

of about six feet. That evening, not finding any bodies, they apologized

to the old man and left.





The next day the old man received another letter from his son:





Dear Da,

Go ahead and plant yer spuds now.

It's the best I could do under the circumstances.