Miss Tempy’s Watchers Page #3

"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

								


“Seems to me she looks pleasanter and pleasanter,” whispered Sarah Ann
Binson impulsively, as they gazed at the white face with its wonderful
smile. “To-morrow ’twill all have faded out. I do believe they kind of
wake up a day or two after they die, and it’s then they go.” She
replaced the light covering, and they both turned quickly away; there
was a chill in this upper room.

“’Tis a great thing for anybody to have got through, ain’t it?” said
Mrs. Crowe softly, as she began to go down the stairs on tiptoe. The
warm air from the kitchen beneath met them with a sense of welcome and
shelter.

“I don’ know why it is, but I feel as near again to Tempy down here as I
do up there,” replied Sister Binson. “I feel as if the air was full of
her, kind of. I can sense things, now and then, that she seems to say.
Now I never was one to take up with no nonsense of sperits and such, but
I declare I felt as if she told me just now to put some more wood into
the stove.”

Mrs. Crowe preserved a gloomy silence. She had suspected before this
that her companion was of a weaker and more credulous disposition than
herself. “’Tis a great thing to have got through,” she repeated,
ignoring definitely all that had last been said. “I suppose you know as
well as I that Tempy was one that always feared death. Well, it’s all
put behind her now; she knows what ’tis.” Mrs. Crowe gave a little sigh,
and Sister Binson’s quick sympathies were stirred toward this other old
friend, who also dreaded the great change.

“I’d never like to forgit almost those last words Tempy spoke plain to
me,” she said gently, like the comforter she truly was. “She looked up
at me once or twice, that last afternoon after I come to set by her, and
let Mis’ Owen go home; and I says, ‘Can I do anything to ease you,
Tempy?’ and the tears come into my eyes so I couldn’t see what kind of a
nod she give me. ‘No, Sarah Ann, you can’t, dear,’ says she; and then
she got her breath again, and says she, looking at me real meanin’, ‘I’m
only a-gettin’ sleepier and sleepier; that’s all there is,’ says she,
and smiled up at me kind of wishful, and shut her eyes. I knew well
enough all she meant. She’d been lookin’ out for a chance to tell me,
and I don’ know ’s she ever said much afterwards.”

Mrs. Crowe was not knitting; she had been listening too eagerly. “Yes,
’twill be a comfort to think of that sometimes,” she said, in
acknowledgment.

“I know that old Dr. Prince said once, in evenin’ meetin’, that he’d
watched by many a dyin’ bed, as we well knew, and enough o’ his sick
folks had been scared o’ dyin’ their whole lives through; but when they
come to the last, he’d never seen one but was willin’, and most were
glad, to go. ‘’Tis as natural as bein’ born or livin’ on,’ he said. I
don’t know what had moved him to speak that night. You know he wa’n’t in
the habit of it, and ’twas the monthly concert of prayer for foreign
missions anyways,” said Sarah Ann; “but ’twas a great stay to the mind
to listen to his words of experience.”

“There never was a better man,” responded Mrs. Crowe, in a really
cheerful tone. She had recovered from her feeling of nervous dread, the
kitchen was so comfortable with lamplight and firelight; and just then
the old clock began to tell the hour of twelve with leisurely whirring
strokes.

Sister Binson laid aside her work, and rose quickly and went to the
cupboard. “We’d better take a little to eat,” she explained. “The night
will go fast after this. I want to know if you went and made some o’
your nice cupcake, while you was home to-day?” she asked, in a pleased
tone; and Mrs. Crowe acknowledged such a gratifying piece of
thoughtfulness for this humble friend who denied herself all luxuries.
Sarah Ann brewed a generous cup of tea, and the watchers drew their
chairs up to the table presently, and quelled their hunger with good
country appetites. Sister Binson put a spoon into a small, old-fashioned
glass of preserved quince, and passed it to her friend. She was most
familiar with the house, and played the part of hostess. “Spread some o’
this on your bread and butter,” she said to Mrs. Crowe. “Tempy wanted me
to use some three or four times, but I never felt to. I know she’d like
to have us comfortable now, and would urge us to make a good supper,
poor dear.”

“What excellent preserves she did make!” mourned Mrs. Crowe. “None of us
has got her light hand at doin’ things tasty. She made the most o’
everything, too. Now, she only had that one old quince-tree down in the
far corner of the piece, but she’d go out in the spring and tend to it,
and look at it so pleasant, and kind of expect the old thorny thing into
bloomin’.”

“She was just the same with folks,” said Sarah Ann. “And she’d never git
more ’n a little apernful o’ quinces, but she’d have every mite o’
goodness out o’ those, and set the glasses up onto her best-room closet
shelf, so pleased. ‘T wa’n’t but a week ago to-morrow mornin’ I
fetched her a little taste o’ jelly in a teaspoon; and she says ‘Thank
ye,’ and took it, an’ the minute she tasted it she looked up at me as
worried as could be. ‘Oh, I don’t want to eat that,’ says she. ‘I always
keep that in case o’ sickness.’ ‘You’re goin’ to have the good o’ one
tumbler yourself,’ says I. ‘I’d just like to know who’s sick now, if you
ain’t!’ An’ she couldn’t help laughin’, I spoke up so smart. Oh, dear
me, how I shall miss talkin’ over things with her! She always sensed
things, and got just the p’int you meant.”

“She didn’t begin to age until two or three years ago, did she?” asked
Mrs. Crowe. “I never saw anybody keep her looks as Tempy did. She looked
young long after I begun to feel like an old woman. The doctor used to
say ’twas her young heart, and I don’t know but what he was right. How
she did do for other folks! There was one spell she wasn’t at home a day
to a fortnight. She got most of her livin’ so, and that made her own
potatoes and things last her through. None o’ the young folks could get
married without her, and all the old ones was disappointed if she wa’n’t
round when they was down with sickness and had to go. An’ cleanin’, or
tailorin’ for boys, or rug-hookin’,—there was nothin’ but what she could
do as handy as most. ‘I do love to work,’—ain’t you heard her say that
twenty times a week?”

Sarah Ann Binson nodded, and began to clear away the empty plates. “We
may want a taste o’ somethin’ more towards mornin’,” she said. “There’s
plenty in the closet here; and in case some comes from a distance to the
funeral, we’ll have a little table spread after we get back to the
house.”

“Yes, I was busy all the mornin’. I’ve cooked up a sight o’ things to
bring over,” said Mrs. Crowe. “I felt ’twas the last I could do for
her.”

They drew their chairs near the stove again, and took up their work.
Sister Binson’s rocking-chair creaked as she rocked; the brook sounded
louder than ever. It was more lonely when nobody spoke, and presently
Mrs. Crowe returned to her thoughts of growing old.
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