The Life Book of Uncle Jesse by Lucy Maud
Uncle Jesse! The name calls up the vision of him as I saw him so often
in those two enchanted summers at Golden Gate; as I saw him the first
time, when he stood in the open doorway of the little low-eaved
cottage on the harbour shore, welcoming us to our new domicile with
the gentle, unconscious courtesy that became him so well. A tall,
ungainly figure, somewhat stooped, yet suggestive of great strength
and endurance; a clean-shaven old face deeply lined and bronzed; a
thick mane of iron-grey hair falling quite to his shoulders; and a
pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes, which sometimes twinkled and
sometimes dreamed, but oftener looked out seaward with a wistful
question in them, as of one seeking something precious and lost. I was
to learn one day what it was for which Uncle Jesse looked.
It cannot be denied that Uncle Jesse was a homely man. His spare jaws,
rugged mouth, and square brow were not fashioned on the lines of
beauty, but though at first sight you thought him plain you never
thought anything more about it—the spirit shining through that rugged
tenement beautified it so wholly.
Uncle Jesse was quite keenly aware of his lack of outward comeliness
and lamented it, for he was a passionate worshipper of beauty in
everything. He told Mother once that he'd rather like to be made over
again and made handsome.
"Folks say I'm good," he remarked whimsically, "but I sometimes wish
the Lord had made me only half as good and put the rest of it into
looks. But I reckon He knew what He was about, as a good Captain
should. Some of us have to be homely or the purty ones—like Miss Mary
there—wouldn't show up so well."
I was not in the least pretty but Uncle Jesse was always telling me I
was—and I loved him for it. He told the fib so prettily and sincerely
that he almost made me believe it for the time being, and I really
think he believed it himself. All women were lovely and of good report
in his eyes, because of one he had loved. The only time I ever saw
Uncle Jesse really angered was when someone in his hearing cast an
aspersion on the character of a shore girl. The wretched man who did
it fairly cringed when Uncle Jesse turned on him with lightning of eye
and thundercloud of brow. At that moment I no longer found it hard to
reconcile Uncle Jesse's simple, kindly personality with the wild,
adventurous life he had lived.
We went to Golden Gate in the spring. Mother's health had not been
good and her doctor recommended sea air and quiet. Uncle James, when
he heard it, proposed that we take possession of a small cottage at
Golden Gate, to which he had recently fallen heir by the death of an
old aunt who had lived in it.
"I haven't been up to see it," he said, "but it is just as Aunt
Elizabeth left it and she was the pink of neatness. The key is in the
possession of an old sailor living nearby—Jesse Boyd is the name, I
think. I imagine you can be very comfortable in it. It is built right
on the harbour shore, inside the bar, and it is within five minutes'
walk of the outside shore."
Uncle James's offer fitted in very opportunely with our limp family
purse, and we straightway betook ourselves to Golden Gate. We
telegraphed to Jesse Boyd to have the house opened for us and, one
crisp spring day, when a rollicking wind was scudding over the harbour
and the dunes, whipping the water into white caps and washing the
sandshore with long lines of silvery breakers, we alighted at the
little station and walked the half mile to our new home, leaving our
goods and chattels to be carted over in the evening by an obliging
station agent's boy.
Our first glimpse of Aunt Elizabeth's cottage was a delight to soul
and sense; it looked so like a big grey seashell stranded on the
shore. Between it and the harbour was only a narrow strip of shingle,
and behind it was a gnarled and battered fir wood where the winds were
in the habit of harping all sorts of weird and haunting music. Inside,
it was to prove even yet more quaint and delightful, with its low,
dark-beamed ceilings and square, deep-set windows by which, whether
open or shut, sea breezes entered at their own sweet will. The view
from our door was magnificent, taking in the big harbour and sweeps of
purple hills beyond. The entrance of the harbour gave it its name—a
deep, narrow channel between the bar of sand dunes on the one side and
a steep, high, frowning red sandstone cliff on the other. We
appreciated its significance the first time we saw a splendid golden
sunrise flooding it, coming out of the wonderful sea and sky beyond
and billowing through that narrow passage in waves of light. Truly, it
was a golden gate through which one might sail to "faerie lands
As we went along the path to our little house we were agreeably
surprised to see a blue spiral of smoke curling up from its big,
square chimney, and the next moment Uncle Jesse (we were calling him
Uncle Jesse half an hour after we met him, so it seems scarcely
worthwhile to begin with anything else) came to the door.
"Welcome, ladies," he said, holding out a big, hard, but scrupulously
clean hand. "I thought you'd be feeling a bit tired and hungry, maybe,
so when I came over to open up I put on a fire and brewed you up a cup
of tea. I just delight in being neighbourly and 'tain't often I have
We found that Uncle Jesse's "cup of tea" meant a veritable spread. He
had aired the little dining room, set out the table daintily with Aunt
Elizabeth's china and linen—"knowed jest where to put my hands on
'em—often and often helped old Miss Kennedy wash 'em. We were
cronies, her and me. I miss her terrible"—and adorned it with
mayflowers which, as we afterwards discovered, he had tramped several
miles to gather. There was good bread and butter, "store" biscuits, a
dish of tea fit for the gods on high Olympus, and a platter of the
most delicious sea trout, done to a turn.
"Thought they'd be tasty after travelling," said Uncle Jesse. "They're
fresh as trout can be, ma'am. Two hours ago they was swimming in
Johnson's pond yander. I caught 'em—yes, ma'am. It's about all I'm
good for now, catching trout and cod occasional. But 'tweren't always
so—not by no manner of means. I used to do other things, as you'd
admit if you saw my life-book."
I was so hungry and tired that I did not then "rise to the bait" of
Uncle Jesse's "life-book." I simply wanted to begin on those trout.
Mother insisted that Uncle Jesse sit down and help us eat the repast
he had prepared, and he assented without undue coaxing.
"Thank ye kindly. 'Twill be a real treat. I mostly has to eat my meals
alone, with the reflection of my ugly old phiz in a looking glass
opposite for company. 'Tisn't often I have the chance to sit down with
two such sweet purty ladies."
Uncle Jesse's compliments look bald enough on paper, but he paid them
with such gracious, gentle deference of tone and look that the woman
who received them felt that she was being offered a queen's gift in
He broke bread with us and from that moment we were all friends
together and forever. After we had eaten all we could, we sat at our
table for an hour and listened to Uncle Jesse telling us stories of
"If I talk too much you must jest check me," he said seriously, but
with a twinkle in his eyes. "When I do get a chance to talk to anyone
I'm apt to run on terrible."
He had been a sailor from the time he was ten years old, and some of
his adventures had such a marvellous edge that I secretly wondered if
Uncle Jesse were not drawing a rather long bow at our credulous
expense. But in this, as I found later, I did him injustice. His tales
were all literally true, and Uncle Jesse had the gift of the born
story-teller, whereby "unhappy, far-off things" can be brought vividly
before the hearer and made to live again in all their pristine
Mother and I laughed and shivered over Uncle Jesse's tales, and once
we found ourselves crying. Uncle Jesse surveyed our tears with
pleasure shining out through his face like an illuminating lamp.
"I like to make folks cry that way," he remarked. "It's a compliment.
But I can't do justice to the things I've seen and helped do. I've got
'em all jotted down in my life-book but I haven't got the knack of
writing them out properly. If I had, I could make a great book, if I
had the knack of hitting on just the right words and stringing
everything together proper on paper. But I can't. It's in this poor
human critter," Uncle Jesse patted his breast sorrowfully, "but he
can't get it out."
When Uncle Jesse went home that evening Mother asked him to come often
to see us.
"I wonder if you'd give that invitation if you knew how likely I'd be
to accept it," he remarked whimsically.
"Which is another way of saying you wonder if I meant it," smiled
Mother. "I do, most heartily and sincerely."
"Then I'll come. You'll likely be pestered with me at any hour. And
I'd be proud to have you drop over to visit me now and then too. I
live on that point yander. Neither me nor my house is worth coming to
see. It's only got one room and a loft and a stovepipe sticking out of
the roof for a chimney. But I've got a few little things lying around
that I picked up in the queer corners I used to be poking my nose
into. Mebbe they'd interest you."
Uncle Jesse's "few little things" turned out to be the most
interesting collection of curios I had ever seen. His one neat little
living room was full of them—beautiful, hideous or quaint as the case
might be, and almost all having some weird or exciting story attached.
Mother and I had a beautiful summer at Golden Gate. We lived the life
of two children with Uncle Jesse as a playmate. Our housekeeping was
of the simplest description and we spent our hours rambling along the
shores, reading on the rocks or sailing over the harbour in Uncle
Jesse's trim little boat. Every day we loved the simple-souled, true,
manly old sailor more and more. He was as refreshing as a sea breeze,
as interesting as some ancient chronicle. We never tired of listening
to his stories, and his quaint remarks and comments were a continual
delight to us. Uncle Jesse was one of those interesting and rare
people who, in the picturesque phraseology of the shore folks, "never
speak but they say something." The milk of human kindness and the
wisdom of the serpent were mingled in Uncle Jesse's composition in
One day he was absent all day and returned at nightfall.
"Took a tramp back yander." "Back yander" with Uncle Jesse might mean
the station hamlet or the city a hundred miles away or any place
between—"to carry Mr. Kimball a mess of trout. He likes one
occasional and it's all I can do for a kindness he did me once. I
stayed all day to talk to him. He likes to talk to me, though he's an
eddicated man, because he's one of the folks that's got to talk or
they're miserable, and he finds listeners scarce 'round here. The
folks fight shy of him because they think he's an infidel. He ain't
that far gone exactly—few men is, I reckon—but he's what you might
call a heretic. Heretics are wicked but they're mighty interesting.
It's just that they've got sorter lost looking for God, being under
the impression that He's hard to find—which He ain't, never. Most of
'em blunder to Him after a while I guess. I don't think listening to
Mr. Kimball's arguments is likely to do me much harm. Mind you, I
believe what I was brought up to believe. It saves a vast of
trouble—and back of it all, God is good. The trouble with Mr. Kimball
is, he's a leetle too clever. He thinks he's bound to live up to
his cleverness and that it's smarter to thrash out some new way of
getting to heaven than to go by the old track the common, ignorant
folks is travelling. But he'll get there sometime all right and then
he'll laugh at himself."
Nothing ever seemed to put Uncle Jesse out or depress him in any way.
"I've kind of contracted a habit of enjoying things," he remarked
once, when Mother had commented on his invariable cheerfulness. "It's
got so chronic that I believe I even enjoy the disagreeable things.
It's great fun thinking they can't last. 'Old rheumatiz,' I says, when
it grips me hard, 'you've got to stop aching sometime. The worse you
are the sooner you'll stop, perhaps. I'm bound to get the better of
you in the long run, whether in the body or out of the body.'"
Uncle Jesse seldom came to our house without bringing us something,
even if it were only a bunch of sweet grass.
"I favour the smell of sweet grass," he said. "It always makes me
think of my mother."
"She was fond of it?"
"Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any sweet grass. No, it's
because it has a kind of motherly perfume—not too young, you
understand—something kind of seasoned and wholesome and
dependable—just like a mother."
Uncle Jesse was a very early riser. He seldom missed a sunrise.
"I've seen all kinds of sunrises come in through that there Gate," he
said dreamily one morning when I myself had made a heroic effort at
early rising and joined him on the rocks halfway between his house and
ours. "I've been all over the world and, take it all in all, I've
never seen a finer sight than a summer sunrise out there beyant the
Gate. A man can't pick his time for dying, Mary—jest got to go when
the Captain gives his sailing orders. But if I could I'd go out when
the morning comes in there at the Gate. I've watched it a many times
and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great
white glory to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain't mapped
out on any airthly chart. I think, Mary, I'd find lost Margaret
He had already told me the story of "lost Margaret," as he always
called her. He rarely spoke of her, but when he did his love for her
trembled in every tone—a love that had never grown faint or
forgetful. Uncle Jesse was seventy; it was fifty years since lost
Margaret had fallen asleep one day in her father's dory and
drifted—as was supposed, for nothing was ever known certainly of her
fate—across the harbour and out of the Gate, to perish in the black
thunder squall that had come up suddenly that long-ago afternoon. But
to Uncle Jesse those fifty years were but as yesterday when it is
"I walked the shore for months after that," he said sadly, "looking to
find her dear, sweet little body, but the sea never gave her back to
me. But I'll find her sometime. I wisht I could tell you just how she
looked but I can't. I've seen a fine silvery mist hanging over the
Gate at sunrise that seemed like her—and then again I've seen a white
birch in the woods back yander that made me think of her. She had pale
brown hair and a little white face, and long slender fingers like
yours, Mary, only browner, for she was a shore girl. Sometimes I wake
up in the night and hear the sea calling to me in the old way and it
seems as if lost Margaret called in it. And when there's a storm and
the waves are sobbing and moaning I hear her lamenting among them. And
when they laugh on a gay day it's her laugh—lost Margaret's sweet
little laugh. The sea took her from me but some day I'll find her,
Mary. It can't keep us apart forever."
I had not been long at Golden Gate before I saw Uncle Jesse's
"life-book," as he quaintly called it. He needed no coaxing to show it
and he proudly gave it to me to read. It was an old leather-bound book
filled with the record of his voyages and adventures. I thought what a
veritable treasure trove it would be to a writer. Every sentence was a
nugget. In itself the book had no literary merit; Uncle Jesse's charm
of story-telling failed him when he came to pen and ink; he could only
jot down roughly the outlines of his famous tales, and both spelling
and grammar were sadly askew. But I felt that if anyone possessing the
gift could take that simple record of a brave, adventurous life,
reading between the bald lines the tale of dangers staunchly faced and
duties manfully done, a wonderful story might be made from it. Pure
comedy and thrilling tragedy were both lying hidden in Uncle Jesse's
"life-book," waiting for the touch of the magician's hand to waken the
laughter and grief and horror of thousands. I thought of my cousin,
Robert Kennedy, who juggled with words in a masterly fashion, but
complained that he found it hard to create incidents or characters.
Here were both ready to his hand, but Robert was in Japan in the
interests of his paper.
In the fall, when the harbour lay black and sullen under November
skies, Mother and I went back to town, parting with Uncle Jesse
regretfully. We wanted him to visit us in town during the winter but
he shook his head.
"It's too far away, Mary. If lost Margaret called me I mightn't hear
her there. I must be here when my time comes. It can't be very far off
I wrote often to Uncle Jesse through the winter and sent him books and
magazines. He enjoyed them but he thought—and truly enough—that none
of them came up to his life-book for real interest.
"If my life-book could be took and writ by someone that knowed how, it
would beat them holler," he wrote in one of his few letters to me.
In the spring we returned joyfully to Golden Gate. It was as golden as
ever and the harbour as blue; the winds still rollicked as gaily and
sweetly and the breakers boomed outside the bar as of yore. All was
unchanged save Uncle Jesse. He had aged greatly and seemed frail and
bent. After he had gone home from his first call on us, Mother cried.
"Uncle Jesse will soon be going to seek lost Margaret," she said.
In June Robert came. I took him promptly over to see Uncle Jesse, who
was very much excited when he found that Robert was a "real writing
"Robert wants to hear some of your stories, Uncle Jesse," I said.
"Tell him the one about the captain who went crazy and imagined he was
the Flying Dutchman."
This was Uncle Jesse's best story. It was a compound of humour and
horror, and though I had heard it several times, I laughed as heartily
and shivered as fearsomely over it as Robert did. Other tales
followed; Uncle Jesse told how his vessel had been run down by a
steamer, how he had been boarded by Malay pirates, how his ship had
caught fire, how he had helped a political prisoner escape from a
South American republic. He never said a boastful word, but it was
impossible to help seeing what a hero the man had been—brave, true,
resourceful, unselfish, skilful. He sat there in his poor little room
and made those things live again for us. By a lift of the eyebrow, a
twist of the lip, a gesture, a word, he painted some whole scene or
character so that we saw it as it was.
Finally, he lent Robert his life-book. Robert sat up all night reading
it and came to the breakfast table in great excitement.
"Mary, this is a wonderful book. If I could take it and garb it
properly—work it up into a systematic whole and string it on the
thread of Uncle Jesse's romance of lost Margaret, it would be the
novel of the year. Do you suppose he would let me do it?"
"Let you! I think he would be delighted," I answered.
And he was. He was as excited as a schoolboy over it. At last his
cherished dream was to be realized and his life-book given to the
"We'll collaborate," said Robert. "You will give the soul and I the
body. Oh, we'll write a famous book between us, Uncle Jesse. And we'll
get right to work."
Uncle Jesse was a happy man that summer. He looked upon the little
back room we gave up to Robert for a study as a sacred shrine. Robert
talked everything over with Uncle Jesse but would not let him see the
manuscript. "You must wait till it is published," he said. "Then
you'll get it all at once in its best shape."
Robert delved into the treasures of the life-book and used them
freely. He dreamed and brooded over lost Margaret until she became a
vivid reality to him and lived in his pages. As the book progressed it
took possession of him and he worked at it with feverish eagerness. He
let me read the manuscript and criticize it; and the concluding
chapter of the book, which the critics later on were pleased to call
idyllic, was modelled after my suggestions, so that I felt as if I had
a share in it too.
It was autumn when the book was finished. Robert went back to town,
but Mother and I decided to stay at Golden Gate all winter. We loved
the spot and, besides, I wished to remain for Uncle Jesse's sake. He
was failing all the time, and after Robert went and the excitement of
the book-making was past, he failed still more rapidly. His tramping
expeditions were over and he seldom went out in his boat. Neither did
he talk a great deal. He liked to come over and sit silently for hours
at our seaward window, looking out wistfully toward the Gate with his
swiftly whitening head leaning on his hand. The only keen interest he
still had was in Robert's book. He waited and watched impatiently for
"I want to live till I see it," he said, "just that long—then I'll be
ready to go. He said it would be out in the spring—I must hang on
till it comes, Mary."
There were times when I doubted sadly if he would "hang on." As the
winter wore away he grew frailer and frailer. But ever he looked
forward to the coming of spring and "the book," his book,
transformed and glorified.
One day in young April the book came at last. Uncle Jesse had gone to
the post office faithfully every day for a month, expecting it, but
this day he was too feeble to go and I went for him. The book was
there. It was called simply, The Life-Book of Jesse Boyd, and on the
title page the names of Robert Kennedy and Jesse Boyd were printed as
I shall never forget Uncle Jesse's face as I handed it to him. I came
away and left him reading it, oblivious to all else. All night the
light burned in his window, and I looked out across the sands to it
and pictured the delight of the old man poring over the printed pages
whereon his own life was portrayed. I wondered how he would like the
ending—the ending I had suggested. I was never to know.
After breakfast I went over to Uncle Jesse's house, taking some little
delicacy Mother had cooked for him. It was an exquisite morning, full
of delicate spring tints and sounds. The harbour was sparkling and
dimpling like a girl, the winds were playing hide and seek roguishly
among the stunted firs, and the silver-flashing gulls were soaring
over the bar. Beyond the Gate was a shining, wonderful sea.
When I reached the little house on the point I saw the lamp still
burning wanly in the window. A quick alarm struck at my heart. Without
waiting to knock, I lifted the latch, and entered.
Uncle Jesse was lying on the old sofa by the window, with the book
clasped to his heart. His eyes were closed and on his face was a look
of the most perfect peace and happiness—the look of one who has long
sought and found at last.
We could not know at what hour he had died, but somehow I think he had
his wish and went out when the morning came in through the Golden
Gate. Out on that shining tide his spirit drifted, over the sunrise
sea of pearl and silver, to the haven where lost Margaret waited
beyond the storms and calms.