The Town Poor

"The Town Poor" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant novella that explores the lives and struggles of the impoverished residents of a small New England town. Set in the late 19th century, the narrative centers on the themes of community, compassion, and social justice, as it delves into the relationships between the town's wealthier citizens and those facing economic hardship. Through rich characterizations and evocative prose, Jewett highlights the complexities of poverty and the societal attitudes towards the disadvantaged, ultimately inviting readers to reflect on the moral responsibilities of individuals and communities.

• Short story

								
Mrs. William Trimble and Miss Rebecca Wright were driving along Hampden
east road, one afternoon in early spring. Their progress was slow. Mrs.
Trimble’s sorrel horse was old and stiff, and the wheels were clogged by
clay mud. The frost was not yet out of the ground, although the snow was
nearly gone, except in a few places on the north side of the woods, or
where it had drifted all winter against a length of fence.

“There must be a good deal o’ snow to the nor’ard of us yet,” said
weather-wise Mrs. Trimble. “I feel it in the air; ’tis more than the
ground-damp. We ain’t goin’ to have real nice weather till the
up-country snow ’s all gone.”

“I heard say yesterday that there was good sleddin’ yet, all up through
Parsley,” responded Miss Wright. “I shouldn’t like to live in them
northern places. My cousin Ellen’s husband was a Parsley man, an’ he was
obliged, as you may have heard, to go up north to his father’s second
wife’s funeral; got back day before yesterday. ’Twas about twenty-one
miles, an’ they started on wheels; but when they’d gone nine or ten
miles, they found ’twas no sort o’ use, an’ left their wagon an’ took a
sleigh. The man that owned it charged ’em four an’ six, too. I shouldn’t
have thought he would; they told him they was goin’ to a funeral; an’
they had their own buffaloes an’ everything.”

“Well, I expect it’s a good deal harder scratchin’, up that way; they
have to git money where they can; the farms is very poor as you go
north,” suggested Mrs. Trimble kindly. “’Tain’t none too rich a country
where we be but I’ve always been grateful I wa’n’t born up to Parsley.”

The old horse plodded along, and the sun, coming out from the heavy
spring clouds, sent a sudden shine of light along the muddy road. Sister
Wright drew her large veil forward over the high brim of her bonnet. She
was not used to driving, or to being much in the open air; but Mrs.
Trimble was an active business woman, and looked after her own affairs
herself, in all weathers. The late Mr. Trimble had left her a good farm,
but not much ready money, and it was often said that she was better off
in the end than if he had lived. She regretted his loss deeply, however;
it was impossible for her to speak of him, even to intimate friends,
without emotion, and nobody had ever hinted that this emotion was
insincere. She was most warm-hearted and generous, and in her limited
way played the part of Lady Bountiful in the town of Hampden.

“Why, there’s where the Bray girls lives, ain’t it?” she exclaimed, as,
beyond a thicket of witch-hazel and scrub-oak, they came in sight of a
weather-beaten, solitary farmhouse. The barn was too far away for thrift
or comfort, and they could see long lines of light between the shrunken
boards as they came nearer. The fields looked both stony and sodden.
Somehow, even Parsley itself could be hardly more forlorn.

“Yes’m,” said Miss Wright, “that’s where they live now, poor things. I
know the place, though I ain’t been up here for years. You don’t
suppose, Mis’ Trimble—I ain’t seen the girls out to meetin’ all winter.
I’ve re’lly been covetin’”—

“Why, yes, Rebecca, of course we could stop,” answered Mrs. Trimble
heartily. “The exercises was over earlier ’n I expected, an’ you’re
goin’ to remain over night long o’ me, you know. There won’t be no tea
till we git there, so we can’t be late. I’m in the habit o’ sendin’ a
basket to the Bray girls when any o’ our folks is comin’ this way, but I
ain’t been to see ’em since they moved up here. Why, it must be a good
deal over a year ago. I know ’t was in the late winter they had to make
the move. ’Twas cruel hard, I must say, an’ if I hadn’t been down with
my pleurisy fever I’d have stirred round an’ done somethin’ about it.
There was a good deal o’ sickness at the time, an’—well, ’twas kind o’
rushed through, breakin’ of ’em up, an’ lots o’ folks blamed the
selec’men; but when ’twas done, ’twas done, an’ nobody took holt to
undo it. Ann an’ Mandy looked same ’s ever when they come to meetin’,
’long in the summer,—kind o’ wishful, perhaps. They’ve always sent me
word they was gittin’ on pretty comfortable.”

“That would be their way,” said Rebecca Wright. “They never was any hand
to complain, though Mandy’s less cheerful than Ann. If Mandy’d been
spared such poor eyesight, an’ Ann hadn’t got her lame wrist that wa’n’t
set right, they’d kep’ off the town fast enough. They both shed tears
when they talked to me about havin’ to break up, when I went to see ’em
before I went over to brother Asa’s. You see we was brought up
neighbors, an’ we went to school together, the Brays an’ me. ’Twas a
special Providence brought us home this road, I’ve been so covetin’ a
chance to git to see ’em. My lameness hampers me.”

“I’m glad we come this way, myself,” said Mrs. Trimble.

“I’d like to see just how they fare,” Miss Rebecca Wright continued.
“They give their consent to goin’ on the town because they knew they’d
got to be dependent, an’ so they felt ’twould come easier for all than
for a few to help ’em. They acted real dignified an’ right-minded,
contrary to what most do in such cases, but they was dreadful anxious to
see who would bid ’em off, town-meeting day; they did so hope ’twould be
somebody right in the village. I just sat down an’ cried good when I
found Abel Janes’s folks had got hold of ’em. They always had the name
of bein’ slack an’ poor-spirited, an’ they did it just for what they got
out o’ the town. The selectmen this last year ain’t what we have had. I
hope they’ve been considerate about the Bray girls.”

“I should have be’n more considerate about fetchin’ of you over,”
apologized Mrs. Trimble. “I’ve got my horse, an’ you’re lame-footed;
’tis too far for you to come. But time does slip away with busy folks,
an’ I forgit a good deal I ought to remember.”

“There’s nobody more considerate than you be,” protested Miss Rebecca
Wright.

Mrs. Trimble made no answer, but took out her whip and gently touched
the sorrel horse, who walked considerably faster, but did not think it
worth while to trot. It was a long, round-about way to the house,
farther down the road and up a lane.

“I never had any opinion of the Bray girls’ father, leavin’ ’em as he
did,” said Mrs. Trimble.

“He was much praised in his time, though there was always some said his
early life hadn’t been up to the mark,” explained her companion. “He was
a great favorite of our then preacher, the Reverend Daniel Longbrother.
They did a good deal for the parish, but they did it their own way.
Deacon Bray was one that did his part in the repairs without urging. You
know ’twas in his time the first repairs was made, when they got out the
old soundin’-board an’ them handsome square pews. It cost an awful sight
o’ money, too. They hadn’t done payin’ up that debt when they set to
alter it again an’ git the walls frescoed. My grandmother was one that
always spoke her mind right out, an’ she was dreadful opposed to
breakin’ up the square pews where she’d always set. They was countin’ up

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