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 might n't hear her there . I must be here when my time comes . It ca n't be very far off now . '' 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 man . '' `` 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 XXXXX heartily and shivered as fearsomely over it as Robert did .
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