The_Lottery
THE LOTTERY
y
SHIRLEY JACKSON
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full summer day;
the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of
the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten
o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had
to be started on June 26th. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred
people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the
morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the
feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly fo
a while before they
oke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom
and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bo
y Martin had already stuffed his pockets full
of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and
oundest stones; Bo
y and Ha
y Jones and Dickie Delacroix the villagers pronounced
this name "Dellacroy" eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square
and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among
themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in
the dust or clung to the hands of their older
others or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain,
tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and thei
jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing
faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one
another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women,
standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came
eluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bo
y Martin ducked under his mother's
grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply,
and Bo
y came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest
other.
The lottery was conducted -- were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program
-- by Mr. Summers who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was
a round- faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were so
y for him
ecause he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he a
ived in the square,
ca
ying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers,
and he waved and called, "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed
him, ca
ying a three legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr.
Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a
space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you
fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and
his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers
sti
ed up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now
esting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in
town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box,
ut no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box.
There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that
had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to
make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about
a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being
done. The black box grew sha
ier each year: by now it was no longer completely black
ut splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places
faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr.
Summers had sti
ed the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual
had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of pape
substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr.
Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that
the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was
necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night
efore the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in
the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked
up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square the next morning. The rest of the
year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one yea
in Mr. Graves' barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set
on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery
open. There were the lists to make up -- of heads of families, heads of households in each
family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing- in of
Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people
emembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery,
a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some
people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it,
others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago
this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which
the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw
from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only fo
the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in
his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box,
he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves
and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs.
Hutchinson came hu
iedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her
shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was,"
she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought
my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "And then I looked
out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty- seventh
and came a- running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're
in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and
children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and
egan to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good -humouredly to let
her through: two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the
crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs.
Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully,
"Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said,
grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?" and soft
laughter ran through the crowd as the people sti
ed back into position after Mrs.
Hutchinson's a
ival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with,
so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's
oke his
leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her
husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?"
Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it
was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers
waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the
old man this year."
"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked,
"Watson boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I’m drawing for my mother and
me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd
said things like "Good fellow, Jack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a