ROCKPORT — Kids and animals always know best. They responded to James from the first time they laid eyes on him because he was the closest thing to a leprechaun that will ever be found.

He was a tough old Newfoundlander who had tales of hunting for sharks in a dory off Cornerbrook, of loading coal barges for a few cents a day during the Depression, of working in the woods, of fishing in the dangerous trawlers off the old Commercial wharf in Boston or working the fast-paced construction jobs in Boston before coming to Maine to “retire.” His retirement consisted of building houses and teaching the tricks of the trade to a generation of carpenters five decades younger.

He might have been a shadow over 5 feet 5 inches tall, but he could (and did) work younger and bigger men into an afternoon nap. He loved to say that you could drop a “Newf” in the woods with a good ax and he would live just about forever. He loved to say that he looked like Spencer Tracy.

With that distinctive Irish-Newfoundland brogue, he told his stories again and again for the joy was in the telling and the sharing, as well as in the punch line.

There was the “work bucket” in the old days in Newfoundland. This young man wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning, an unpardonable sin on a Newfy farm. His father finally had enough, walked to the stream, kicked a hole through the ice and got a bucketful of water. He walked into the lazy son’s room, pulled back the covers and eliminated any further troubles with late rising. James said that after the “work bucket” incident, when the son heard his father’s foot on the bottom step, the son leapt out of bed and hollered “I’m up, I’m up” before the father could reach the second step.

Then there was Hampy Madore. In one horrible construction accident or another on some Boston job, poor Hampy lost all of two fingers and a part of a third. So every day at 2:30 p.m. on the construction site, someone would ask Hampy what time it was. He would hold up what was left of his fingers to show the correct time, 2:30.

There was the time when he got a “site” aboard an Icelandic fishing vessel working out of the Boston Fish Pier. He had thrown his bag aboard, ready to go when another Newf came down to the boat and threw James’ bag back ashore. It seems that the Newf had just come back from a trip aboard the same trawler, a trip where the captain took on so many fish that the ancient vessel nearly swamped getting back to Boston. James needed the money, but reluctantly went back ashore. The dragger went back out to the Banks and is still out there.

On a particularly icy fishing trip, a wave washed him overboard and he gave himself up for dead. A Newfoundland fishermen never learned to swim, he said, because it would just “prolong the agony” in the icy water. But the next wave washed him back on deck where strong hands grabbed him. During one of many hurricanes in the North Atlantic, the crew lashed themselves to their bunks for safety. During the long, violent and endless night, a fisherman holding on for dear life turned to James and said, “Thank God the storm blew out to sea.”

Like so many men who lasted through the Depression, James hated to sit down. He would rather tear down a wall (or put one up) than sit watching television. The joy came when he would finally take a break and sit down for a cup of tea. Then, the stories would flow.

He loved and was loved, especially by his three granddaughters. He remembered obscure stories from their childhood and delighted in telling and retelling the stories, year after year.

During the good years, he watched older men, stricken with illness and always said he would rather be dead than lose the power of his body. So, it was the ultimate irony that a stroke robbed him of his speech and strength, eight years before his death. His grandchildren forgot his voice, the delightful brogue, some of the stories.

But they would never forget him, James the Leprechaun, who passed away Wednesday morning, a few days after his 80th birthday.