Going to Shrewsbury

"Going to Shrewsbury" is a short story by Sarah Orne Jewett that captures the essence of rural New England life in the late 19th century. The narrative follows a journey to the town of Shrewsbury, exploring themes of community, connection, and the contrast between the simplicity of country living and the complexities of modernity. Through detailed descriptions and rich characterizations, Jewett highlights the beauty of everyday moments and the intricacies of human relationships, making the story a poignant reflection on the significance of place and belonging.

• Short story

								
The train stopped at a way station with apparent unwillingness, and
there was barely time for one elderly passenger to be hurried on board
before a sudden jerk threw her almost off her unsteady old feet and we
moved on. At my first glance I saw only a perturbed old countrywoman,
laden with a large basket and a heavy bundle tied up in an old-fashioned
bundle-handkerchief; then I discovered that she was a friend of mine,
Mrs. Peet, who lived on a small farm, several miles from the village.
She used to be renowned for good butter and fresh eggs and the earliest
cowslip greens; in fact, she always made the most of her farm’s slender
resources; but it was some time since I had seen her drive by from
market in her ancient thorough-braced wagon.

The brakeman followed her into the crowded car, also carrying a number
of packages. I leaned forward and asked Mrs. Peet to sit by me; it was a
great pleasure to see her again. The brakeman seemed relieved, and
smiled as he tried to put part of his burden into the rack overhead; but
even the flowered carpet-bag was much too large, and he explained that
he would take care of everything at the end of the car. Mrs. Peet was
not large herself, but with the big basket, and the bundle-handkerchief,
and some possessions of my own we had very little spare room.

“So this ‘ere is what you call ridin’ in the cars! Well, I do declare!”
said my friend, as soon as she had recovered herself a little. She
looked pale and as if she had been in tears, but there was the familiar
gleam of good humor in her tired old eyes.

“Where in the world are you going, Mrs. Peet?” I asked.

“Can’t be you ain’t heared about me, dear?” said she. “Well, the world’s
bigger than I used to think ’t was. I’ve broke up,—’twas the only thing
to do,—and I’m a-movin’ to Shrewsbury.”

“To Shrewsbury? Have you sold the farm?” I exclaimed, with sorrow and
surprise. Mrs. Peet was too old and too characteristic to be suddenly
transplanted from her native soil.

“’Twa’n’t mine, the place wa’n’t.” Her pleasant face hardened slightly.
“He was coaxed an’ over-persuaded into signin’ off before he was taken
away. Is’iah, son of his sister that married old Josh Peet, come it over
him about his bein’ past work and how he’d do for him like an own son,
an’ we owed him a little somethin’. I’d paid off everythin’ but that,
an’ was fool enough to leave it till the last, on account o’ Is’iah’s
bein’ a relation and not needin’ his pay much as some others did. It’s
hurt me to have the place fall into other hands. Some wanted me to go
right to law; but ’twouldn’t be no use. Is’iah’s smarter ’n I be about
them matters. You see he’s got my name on the paper, too; he said ’twas
somethin’ ’bout bein’ responsible for the taxes. We was scant o’ money,
an’ I was wore out with watchin’ an’ being broke o’ my rest. After my
tryin’ hard for risin’ forty-five year to provide for bein’ past work,
here I be, dear, here I be! I used to drive things smart, you remember.
But we was fools enough in ’72 to put about everythin’ we had safe in
the bank into that spool factory that come to nothin’. But I tell ye I
could ha’ kept myself long’s I lived, if I could ha’ held the place. I’d
parted with most o’ the woodland, if Is’iah’d coveted it. He was welcome
to that, ’cept what might keep me in oven-wood. I’ve always desired to
travel an’ see somethin’ o’ the world, but I’ve got the chance now when
I don’t value it no great.”

“Shrewsbury is a busy, pleasant place,” I ventured to say by way of
comfort, though my heart was filled with rage at the trickery of Isaiah
Peet, who had always looked like a fox and behaved like one.

“Shrewsbury’s be’n held up consid’able for me to smile at,” said the
poor old soul, “but I tell ye, dear, it’s hard to go an’ live twenty-two
miles from where you’ve always had your home and friends. It may divert
me, but it won’t be home. You might as well set out one o’ my old
apple-trees on the beach, so ’t could see the waves come in,—there
wouldn’t be no please to it.”

“Where are you going to live in Shrewsbury?” I asked presently.

“I don’t expect to stop long, dear creatur’. I’m ’most seventy-six year
old,” and Mrs. Peet turned to look at me with pathetic amusement in her
honest wrinkled face. “I said right out to Is’iah, before a roomful o’
the neighbors, that I expected it of him to git me home an’ bury me when
my time come, and do it respectable; but I wanted to airn my livin’, if
’twas so I could, till then. He’d made sly talk, you see, about my
electin’ to leave the farm and go ’long some o’ my own folks; but”—and
she whispered this carefully—“he didn’t give me no chance to stay there
without hurtin’ my pride and dependin’ on him. I ain’t said that to many
folks, but all must have suspected. A good sight on ’em’s had money of
Is’iah, though, and they don’t like to do nothin’ but take his part an’
be pretty soft spoken, fear it’ll git to his ears. Well, well, dear,
we’ll let it be bygones, and not think of it no more;” but I saw the
great tears roll slowly down her cheeks, and she pulled her bonnet
forward impatiently, and looked the other way.

“There looks to be plenty o’ good farmin’ land in this part o’ the
country,” she said, a minute later. “Where be we now? See them handsome
farm buildin’s; he must be a well-off man.” But I had to tell my
companion that we were still within the borders of the old town where we
had both been born. Mrs. Peet gave a pleased little laugh, like a girl.
“I’m expectin’ Shrewsbury to pop up any minute. I’m feared to be kerried
right by. I wa’n’t never aboard of the cars before, but I’ve so often
thought about em’ I don’t know but it seems natural. Ain’t it jest like
flyin’ through the air? I can’t catch holt to see nothin’. Land! and
here’s my old cat goin’ too, and never mistrustin’. I ain’t told you
that I’d fetched her.”

“Is she in that basket?” I inquired with interest.

“Yis, dear. Truth was, I calc’lated to have her put out o’ the misery o’
movin’, an spoke to one o’ the Barnes boys, an’ he promised me all fair;
but he wa’n’t there in season, an’ I kind o’ made excuse to myself to
fetch her along. She’s an’ old creatur’, like me, an’ I can make shift
to keep her some way or ’nuther; there’s probably mice where we’re
goin’, an’ she’s a proper mouser that can about keep herself if there’s
any sort o’ chance. ’Twill be somethin’ o’ home to see her goin’ an’
comin’, but I expect we’re both on us goin’ to miss our old haunts. I’d
love to know what kind o’ mousin’ there’s goin’ to be for me.”

“You mustn’t worry,” I answered, with all the bravery and assurance that
I could muster. “Your niece will be thankful to have you with her. Is
she one of Mrs. Winn’s daughters?”

“Oh, no, they ain’t able; it’s Sister Wayland’s darter Isabella, that
married the overseer of the gre’t carriage-shop. I ain’t seen her since
just after she was married; but I turned to her first because I knew she
was best able to have me, and then I can see just how the other girls is

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes