The Life-Book of Uncle Jesse

"The Life-Book of Uncle Jesse" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a heartwarming tale that explores the life and adventures of Uncle Jesse, a charming and whimsical character. Through a series of letters and anecdotes, the narrative captures his experiences, relationships, and the wisdom he imparts to his family and friends. Montgomery's signature style of rich, descriptive prose and insightful character development brings Uncle Jesse's world to life, inviting readers to reflect on themes of love, nostalgia, and the importance of storytelling in connecting generations. This endearing work showcases the author's ability to weave humor and poignancy into the fabric of everyday life.

• Short story

								
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
forlorn."

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
the chance."

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

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