Going to Shrewsbury
by Sarah Orne Jewett
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 country woman, 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 carpetbag 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 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, 't was 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.
"'T wa'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 't wouldn'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 't was somethin' 'bout bein' responsible for the taxes. We was scant o' money, an' I was wore
out with watchin' an' bein' 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' that 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 b'en 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 forty-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 't was so I could, till then. He'd made sly talk, you see, about my electin' to leave the farm and go 'long o' 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
"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' changin', 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 'nother; 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. 'T will 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 situated and make me some kind of a plot. I wrote to Isabella,
though she is ambitious, and said 't was so I'd got to ask to come an' make her a visit, an' she wrote back she
would be glad to have me; but she didn't write right off, and her letter was scented up dreadful strong with some
sort o' essence, and I don't feel heartened about no great of a welcome. But there. I've got eyes, an' I can see
how 't is when I git where 't is. Sister Winn's gals ain't married, an' they've always boarded, an' worked in the shop
on trimmin's. Isabella's well off; she had some means from her father's sister. I thought it all over by night an' day,
an' I recalled that our folks kept Sister Wayland's folks all one winter, when he'd failed up and got into trouble. I'm
reckonin' on sendin' over to-night an' gittin' the Winn gals to come and see me and advise. Perhaps some on 'em
may know of somebody that'll take me for what help I can give about house, or some clever folks that have been
lookin' for a smart cat, any ways; no, I don't know 's I could let her go to strangers.
"There was two or three o' the folks round home that acted real warm-hearted towards me, an' urged me to come
an' winter with 'em," continued the exile; "an' this mornin' I wished I'd agreed to, 't was so hard to break away.
But now it's done I feel more 'n ever it's best. I couldn't bear to live right in sight o' the old place, and come spring I
shouldn't 'prove of anything Is'iah ondertakes to do with the land. Oh, dear sakes! now it comes hard with me not
to have had no child'n. When I was young an' workin' hard and into everything, I felt kind of free an' superior to
them that was so blessed, an' their houses cluttered up from mornin' till night, but I tell ye it comes home to me
now. I'd be most willin' to own to even Is'iah, mean 's he is; but I tell ye I'd took it out of him 'fore he was a grown
man, if there'd be'n any virtue in cow-hidin' of him. Folks don't look like wild creatur's for nothin'. Is'iah's got fox
blood in him, an' p'r'aps 't is his misfortune. His own mother always favored the looks of an old fox, true's the
world; she was a poor tool, a poor tool! I d' know 's we ought to blame him same 's we do.
"I've always been a master proud woman, if I was riz among the pastures," Mrs. Peet added, half to herself. There
was no use in saying much to her; she was conscious of little beside her own thoughts and the smouldering
excitement caused by this great crisis in her simple existence. Yet the atmosphere of her loneliness, uncertainty,
and sorrow was so touching that after scolding again at her nephew's treachery, and finding the tears come fast
to my eyes as she talked, I looked intently out of the car window, and tried to think what could be done for the
poor soul. She was one of the old-time people, and I hated to have her go away; but even if she could keep her
home she would soon be too feeble to live there alone, and some definite plan must be made for her comfort.
Farms in that neighborhood were not valuable. Perhaps through the agency of the law and quite in secret, Isaiah
Peet could be forced to give up his unrighteous claim. Perhaps, too, the Winn girls, who were really no longer
young, might have saved something, and would come home again. But it was easy to make such pictures in one's
mind, and I must do what I could through other people, for I was just leaving home for a long time. I wondered
sadly about Mrs. Peet's future, and the ambitious Isabella, and the favorite Sister Winn's daughters, to whom, with
all their kindliness of heart, the care of so old and perhaps so dependent an aunt might seem impossible. The
truth about life in Shrewsbury would soon be known; more than half the short journey was already past.
To my great pleasure, my fellow-traveler now began to forget her own troubles in looking about her. She was an
alert, quickly interested old soul, and this was a bit of neutral ground between the farm and Shrewsbury, where
she was unattached and irresponsible. She had lived through the last tragic moments of her old life, and felt a
certain relief, and Shrewsbury might be as far away as the other side of the Rocky Mountains for all the
consciousness she had of its real existence. She was simply a traveler for the time being, and began to comment,
with delicious phrases and shrewd understanding of human nature, on two or three persons near us who
attracted her attention.
"Where do you suppose they be all goin'?" she asked contemptuously. "There ain't many on 'em but what looks
kind o' respectable. I'll warrant they've left work to home they'd ought to be doin'. I knowed, if ever I stopped to
think, that cars was hived full o' folks, an' wa'n't run to an' fro for nothin'; but these can't be quite up to the
average, can they? Some on 'em 's real thrif'less; guess they've be'n shoved out o' the last place, an' goin' to try
the next one, like me, I suppose you'll want to say! Jest see that flauntin' old creatur' that looks like a stopped
clock. There! everybody can't be o' one goodness, even preachers."
I was glad to have Mrs. Peet amused, and we were as cheerful as we could be for a few minutes. She said
earnestly that she hoped to be forgiven for such talk, but there were some kinds of folks in the cars that she never
had seen before. But when the conductor came to take her ticket she relapsed into her first state of mind, and
was at a loss.
"You'll have to look after me, dear, when we get to Shrewsbury," she said, after we had spent some distracted
moments in hunting for the ticket, and the cat had almost escaped from the basket, and the bundle-handkerchief
had become untied and all its miscellaneous contents scattered about our laps and the floor. It was a touching
collection of the last odds and ends of Mrs. Peet's housekeeping: some battered books, and singed holders for
flatirons, and the faded little shoulder shawl that I had seen her wear many a day about her bent shoulders. There
were her old tin match-box spilling all its matches, and a goose-wing for brushing up ashes, and her
much-thumbed Leavitt's Almanac. It was most pathetic to see these poor trifles out of their places. At last the
ticket was found in her left-hand woolen glove, where her stiff, work-worn hand had grown used to the feeling of it.
"I shouldn't wonder, now, if I come to like living over to Shrewsbury first-rate," she insisted, turning to me with a
hopeful, eager look to see if I differed. "You see 't won't be so tough for me as if I hadn't always felt it lurking within
me to go off some day or 'nother an' see how other folks did things. I do' know but what the Winn gals have laid
up somethin' sufficient for us to take a house, with the little mite I've got by me. I might keep house for us all,
'stead o' boardin' round in other folks' houses. That I ain't never been demeaned to, but I dare say I should find it
pleasant in some ways. Town folks has got the upper hand o' country folks, but with all their work an' pride they
can't make a dandelion. I do' know the times when I've set out to wash Monday mornin's, an' tied out the line
betwixt the old pucker-pear tree and the corner o' the barn, an' thought, 'Here I be with the same kind o' week's
work right over again.' I'd wonder kind o' f'erce if I couldn't git out of it noways; an' now here I be out of it, and an
up-rooteder creatur' never stood on the airth. Just as I got to feel I had somethin' ahead come that spool-factory
business. There! you know he never was a forehanded man; his health was slim, and he got discouraged pretty
nigh before ever he begun. I hope he don't know I'm turned out o' the old place. 'Is'iah's well off; he'll do the right
thing by ye,' says he. But my! I turned hot all over when I found out what I'd put my name to, me that had
always be'n counted a smart woman! I did ondertake to read it over, but I couldn't sense it. I've told all the folks so
when they laid it off on to me some: but handwritin' is awful tedious, and my head felt that day as if the works was
"I ain't goin' to sag on to nobody," she assured me eagerly, as the train rushed along. "I've got more work in me
now than folks expects at my age. I may be consid'able use to Isabella. She's got a family, an' I'll take right holt in
the kitchen or with the little gals. She had four on 'em, last I heared. Isabella was never one that liked house-work.
Little gals! I do' know now but what they must be about grown, time doos slip away so. I expect I shall look
outlandish to 'em. But there! everybody knows me to home, an' nobody knows me to Shrewsbury; 't wont [sic]
make a mite o' difference, if I take holt willin'."
I hoped, as I looked at Mrs. Peet, that she never would be persuaded to cast off the gathered brown silk bonnet
and the plain shawl that she had worn so many years; but Isabella might think it best to insist upon more modern
Mrs. Peet suggested, as if it were a matter of little consequence, that she had kept it in mind to buy some
mourning; but there were other things to be thought of first, and so she had let it go until winter, any way, or until
she should be fairly settled in Shrewsbury.
"Are your nieces expecting you by this train?" I was moved to ask, though with all the good soul's ready talk and
appealing manner I could hardly believe that she was going to Shrewsbury for more than a visit; it seemed as if
she must return to the worn old farmhouse over by the sheep-lands. She answered that one of the Barnes boys
had written for her the day before, and there was evidently little uneasiness about her first reception.
We drew near the junction where I must leave her within a mile of the town. The cat was clawing indignantly at her
basket, and her mistress grew as impatient of the car. She began to look very old and pale, my poor
fellow-traveler, and said that she felt dizzy, going so fast. Presently the friendly red-cheeked young brakeman
came along, bringing the carpet-bag and other possessions, and insisted upon taking the alarmed cat beside, in
spite of an aggressive paw that had worked its way through the wicker prison. Mrs. Peet watched her goods
disappear with suspicious eyes, and clutched her bundle-handkerchief as if it might be all she could save. Then
she anxiously got to her feet, much too soon, and when I said good-by to her at the car door she was ready to
cry. I pointed to the car which she was to take next on the branch line of railway, and I assured her that it was only
a few minutes' ride to Shrewsbury, and that I felt certain she would find somebody waiting. The sight of that worn,
thin figure adventuring alone across the platform gave my heart a sharp pang as the train carried me away.
Some of the passengers who sat near asked me about my old friend with great sympathy, after she had gone.
There was a look of tragedy about her, and indeed it had been impossible not to get a good deal of her history, as
she talked straight on in the same tone, when we stopped at a station, as if the train were going at full speed, and
some of her remarks caused pity and amusement by turns. At the last minute she said, with deep self-reproach,
"Why, I haven't asked a word about your folks; but you'd ought to excuse such an old stray hen as I be."
In the spring I was driving by on what the old people of my native town call the sheep-lands road, and the sight of
Mrs. Peet's former home brought our journey freshly to mind. I had heard from her last just after she had got to
Shrewsbury, when she had sent me a message.
"Have you ever heard how she got on?" I eagerly asked my companion.
"Didn't I tell you that I met her in Shrewsbury High Street one day?" I was answered. "She seemed perfectly
delighted with everything. Her nieces have laid up a good bit of money, and are soon to leave the mill, and most
thankful to have old Mrs. Peet with them. Somebody told me that they wished to buy the farm here, and come
back to live; but she wouldn't hear of it, and thought they would miss too many privileges. She has been going to
concerts this winter, and insists that Isaiah did her a good turn."
We both laughed. My own heart was filled with joy, for the uncertain, lonely face of this homeless old woman had
often haunted me. The rain-blackened little house did certainly look dreary, and a whole lifetime of patient toil lad
left few traces. The pucker- pear tree was in full bloom, however, and gave a welcome gayety to the deserted
A little way beyond we met Isaiah Peet, the prosperous money- lender, who had cheated the old woman of her own. I fancied that he looked somewhat ashamed, as he recognized us. To my
surprise, he stopped his horse in most social fashion.
"Old Aunt Peet's passed away," he informed me briskly. "She had a shock, and went right off sudden yisterday
fore-noon. I'm about now tendin' to the funeral 'rangements. She's b'en extry smart, they say, all winter, out to
meetin' last Sabbath; never enjoyed herself so complete as she has this past month. She'd b'en a vary
hard-workin' woman. Her folks was glad to have her there, and give her every attention. The place here never
was good for nothin'. The old gen'leman, uncle, you know, he wore hisself out tryin' to make a livin' off from
There was an ostentatious sympathy and half-suppressed excitement from bad news which were quite lost upon
us, and we did not linger to hear much more. It seemed to me as if I had known Mrs. Peet better than any one
else had known her. I had counted upon seeing her again, and hearing her own account of Shrewsbury life, its
pleasures and its limitations. I wonder what has become of the cat and the contents of the faded
bundle-handkerchief. Sarah Orne Jewett.