FullReads

* * * * *

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 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 kingly fashion.

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 his life.