Miss Tempy’s Watchers

"Miss Tempy’s Watchers" is a charming short story by Sarah Orne Jewett that revolves around the character of Miss Tempy, an elderly woman living in a quiet New England town. The narrative unfolds as she grapples with the passage of time and the changes in her community, particularly through the lens of her relationships with her neighbors and the younger generation. The story explores themes of aging, memory, and the importance of community connections, all rendered with Jewett's signature attention to the nuances of rural life. Through a blend of warmth and insight, Jewett captures the essence of human experiences and the bonds that tie individuals together.

• Short story

								
The time of year was April; the place was a small farming town in New
Hampshire, remote from any railroad. One by one the lights had been
blown out in the scattered houses near Miss Tempy Dent’s; but as her
neighbors took a last look out-of-doors, their eyes turned with
instinctive curiosity toward the old house, where a lamp burned
steadily. They gave a little sigh. “Poor Miss Tempy!” said more than one
bereft acquaintance; for the good woman lay dead in her north chamber,
and the light was a watcher’s light. The funeral was set for the next
day, at one o’clock.

The watchers were two of the oldest friends, Mrs. Crowe and Sarah Ann
Binson. They were sitting in the kitchen, because it seemed less awesome
than the unused best room, and they beguiled the long hours by steady
conversation. One would think that neither topics nor opinions would
hold out, at that rate, all through the long spring night; but there was
a certain degree of excitement just then, and the two women had risen to
an unusual level of expressiveness and confidence. Each had already told
the other more than one fact that she had determined to keep secret;
they were again and again tempted into statements that either would have
found impossible by daylight. Mrs. Crowe was knitting a blue yarn
stocking for her husband; the foot was already so long that it seemed as
if she must have forgotten to narrow it at the proper time. Mrs. Crowe
knew exactly what she was about, however; she was of a much cooler
disposition than Sister Binson, who made futile attempts at some sewing,
only to drop her work into her lap whenever the talk was most engaging.

Their faces were interesting,—of the dry, shrewd, quick-witted New
England type, with thin hair twisted neatly back out of the way. Mrs.
Crowe could look vague and benignant, and Miss Binson was, to quote her
neighbors, a little too sharp-set; but the world knew that she had need
to be, with the load she must carry of supporting an inefficient widowed
sister and six unpromising and unwilling nieces and nephews. The eldest
boy was at last placed with a good man to learn the mason’s trade. Sarah
Ann Binson, for all her sharp, anxious aspect, never defended herself,
when her sister whined and fretted. She was told every week of her life
that the poor children never would have had to lift a finger if their
father had lived, and yet she had kept her steadfast way with the little
farm, and patiently taught the young people many useful things, for
which, as everybody said, they would live to thank her. However
pleasureless her life appeared to outward view, it was brimful of
pleasure to herself.

Mrs. Crowe, on the contrary, was well to do, her husband being a rich
farmer and an easy-going man. She was a stingy woman, but for all that
she looked kindly; and when she gave away anything, or lifted a finger
to help anybody, it was thought a great piece of beneficence, and a
compliment, indeed, which the recipient accepted with twice as much
gratitude as double the gift that came from a poorer and more generous
acquaintance. Everybody liked to be on good terms with Mrs. Crowe.
Socially she stood much higher than Sarah Ann Binson. They were both old
schoolmates and friends of Temperance Dent, who had asked them, one day,
not long before she died, if they would not come together and look after
the house, and manage everything, when she was gone. She may have had
some hope that they might become closer friends in this period of
intimate partnership, and that the richer woman might better understand
the burdens of the poorer. They had not kept the house the night before;
they were too weary with the care of their old friend, whom they had not
left until all was over.

There was a brook which ran down the hillside very near the house, and
the sound of it was much louder than usual. When there was silence in
the kitchen, the busy stream had a strange insistence in its wild voice,
as if it tried to make the watchers understand something that related to
the past.

“I declare, I can’t begin to sorrow for Tempy yet. I am so glad to have
her at rest,” whispered Mrs. Crowe. “It is strange to set here without
her, but I can’t make it clear that she has gone. I feel as if she had
got easy and dropped off to sleep, and I’m more scared about waking her
up than knowing any other feeling.”

“Yes,” said Sarah Ann, “It’s just like that, ain’t it? But I tell you we
are goin’ to miss her worse than we expect. She’s helped me through with
many a trial, has Temperance. I ain’t the only one who says the same,
neither.”

These words were spoken as if there were a third person listening;
somebody beside Mrs. Crowe. The watchers could not rid their minds of
the feeling that they were being watched themselves. The spring wind
whistled in the window crack, now and then, and buffeted the little
house in a gusty way that had a sort of companionable effect. Yet, on
the whole, it was a very still night, and the watchers spoke in a
half-whisper.

“She was the freest-handed woman that ever I knew,” said Mrs. Crowe,
decidedly. “According to her means, she gave away more than anybody. I
used to tell her ’t wa’n’t right. I used really to be afraid that she
went without too much, for we have a duty to ourselves.”

Sister Binson looked up in a half-amused, unconscious way, and then
recollected herself.

Mrs. Crowe met her look with a serious face. “It ain’t so easy for me to
give as it is for some,” she said simply, but with an effort which was
made possible only by the occasion. “I should like to say, while Tempy
is laying here yet in her own house, that she has been a constant lesson
to me. Folks are too kind, and shame me with thanks for what I do. I
ain’t such a generous woman as poor Tempy was, for all she had nothin’
to do with, as one may say.”

Sarah Binson was much moved at this confession, and was even pained and
touched by the unexpected humility. “You have a good many calls on
you”—she began, and then left her kind little compliment half finished.

“Yes, yes, but I’ve got means enough. My disposition’s more of a cross
to me as I grow older, and I made up my mind this morning that Tempy’s
example should be my pattern henceforth.” She began to knit faster than
ever.

“’Tain’t no use to get morbid: that’s what Tempy used to say herself,”
said Sarah Ann, after a minute’s silence. “Ain’t it strange to say ‘used
to say’?” and her own voice choked a little. “She never did like to hear
folks git goin’ about themselves.”

“’Twas only because they’re apt to do it so as other folks will say’t
wasn’t so, an’ praise ’em up,” humbly replied Mrs. Crowe, “and that
ain’t my object. There wa’n’t a child but what Tempy set herself to work
to see what she could do to please it. One time my brother’s folks had
been stopping here in the summer, from Massachusetts. The children was
all little, and they broke up a sight of toys, and left ’em when they
were going away. Tempy come right up after they rode by, to see if she
couldn’t help me set the house to rights, and she caught me just as I

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