Speaker 1: A jury of her peers by Susan Glaspell. When Martha
Hale opened the storm door and got a cut of
the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf.
As she hurriedly wound that round her head, her eye
made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no
ordinary thing that called her away. It was probably further
from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dixon County.
But what her eye took in was that her kitchen
was in no shape for leaving her bread already for mixing,
half the flower sifted and half unsifted. She hated to
see things half done, but she had been at that
when the team from town stopped to get mister Hale,
and then the sheriff came running in to say his
wife wished missus Hale would come too, adding with a
grin that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted
another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where
it was. Martha now came her husband's impatient voice, don't
keep folks waiting out here in the cold. She again
opened the storm door, and this time joined the three
men and the one woman waiting for her in the
big two seated buggy. After she had the robes tucked
round her, she took another look at the woman who
sat beside her on the back seat. She had met
Missus Peters the year before at the county fair, and
the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't
seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin
and didn't have a strong voice. Missus Gorman, sheriff's wife
before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a
voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law
with every word. But if Missus Peters didn't look like
a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like
a sheriff. He was, to a dot, the kind of
man who could get himself elected sheriff, a heavy man
with a big voice, who was particularly funial with the Laura,
abiding as if to make it plain that he knew
the difference between criminals and non criminals. And right there
it came into Missus Hale's mind with a stab that
this man who was so pleasant and lively with all
of them, was going to the rights now as a sheriff.
The country's not very pleasant this time of year. Missus
Peters at last ventured as if she felt they ought
to be talking as well as the men. Missus Hale
scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a
little hill and could see the right place now, and
seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It
looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always
been a lonesome looking place. It was down in a hollow,
and the poplar trees around it were lonesome looking trees.
The men were looking at it and talking about what
had happened. The County Attorney was bending to one side
of the buggy and kept looking steadily at the place
as they drew up to it. I'm glad you came
with me, Missus Peters, said nervously, as the two women
were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door.
Even after she had her foot on the doorstep her
hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of
feeling she could not cross that threshold and the reason
it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because
she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again, it
had been in her mind. I ought to go over
and see Minnie Foster. She still thought of her as
Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Missus Wright.
And then there was always something to do, and Minnie
Foster would go from her mind. But now she could come.
The men went over to the stove. The women stood
close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney,
turned around and said, come up to the fire, ladies.
Missus Peters took a step forward and stopped. I'm not cold,
she said, And so the two women stood by the
door at first, not even so much as looking around
the kitchen. The men talked for a minute about what
a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his
deputy out that morning to make a fire for them.
And then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned
his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen
table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning
of official business. Now, mister Hale, he said, in a
sort of semi official voice, before we move things about, you,
tell mister Henderson just what it was you saw when
you came here yesterday morning. The county attorney was looking
around the kitchen. By the way, he said, has anything
been moved? He turned to the sheriff. Are things just
as you left them yesterday? Peters looked from cupboard to sink,
from that to a small worn rocker a little to
one side of the g table. It's just the same.
Somebody should have been here yesterday, said the county attorney. Oh, yesterday,
returned the sheriff, with a little gesture, as of yesterday
having been more than he could bear to think of
when I had to send Frank to Morris Center for
that man who went crazy. Let me tell you I
had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get
back from Omaha by to day, George, And as long
as I went over everything here myself, well, mister Hale,
said the county attorney, in a way of letting what
was past and gone go. Tell us just what happened
when you came here yesterday morning. Missus Hale, still leaning
against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother
whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often
wandered along and got things mixed up in a story.
He hoped he would tell this straightened, plain and not
say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for
Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed
that he looked queer, as if standing in that kitchen
and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday
morning made him almost sick. Yes, mister Hale, the county
attorney reminded, Harry and I had started a town with
a load of potatoes. Missus Hale's husband began. Harry was
Missus Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now for
the very good reason that those potatoes never got to
town yesterday, and he was taking them this morning, so
he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say
he wanted mister Hale to come over to the right
place and tell the county attorney his story there where
he could point it all out with all Missus Hale's
other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't
dressed warm enough. They hadn't any of them realized how
that north wind did bite we come along this road.
Hale was going on with a motion of his hand
to the road over which they had just come. And
as we got inside of the house, I says to Harry,
I'm going to see if I can't get John Wright
take a telephone, you see, he explained to Henderson. Unless
I can get somebody to go in with me, they
won't come out on this branch road except for a
price I can't pay. I'd spoken to write about it
once before, but he put me off, saying folks talk
too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet.
Guess you know about how much he talked himself. But
I thought maybe if I went to the house and
talked about it before his wife and said all the
women folks like the telephones, and that in this lonesome
stretch of road, it would be a good thing. Well,
I said to Harry that that was what I was
going to say, though I said at the same time
that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made
much difference to John. Now there he was saying things
he didn't need to say. Missus Hale tried to catch
her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with
let's talk about that a little later, mister Hale. I
do want to talk about that, but I'm very anxious
now to get along to just what happened when you
got here. When he began this time, it was very
deliberately and carefully. I didn't see or hear anything. I
knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside.
I knew they must be up. It was past eight o'clock,
so I knocked again louder, and I thought I heard
somebody say come in. I wasn't sure. I'm not sure yet,
but I opened the door this door, jerking a hand
toward the door by which the two women stood, and
there in that rocker, pointing to it, sat Missus Wright.
Every one in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It
came into missus Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look
in the least like Minnie Foster, the mini Foster of
twenty years before. It was a dingy read with wooden
rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone,
and the chair sagged to one side. How did she look?
The county attorney was inquiring, Well, said Hale, she looked queer.
How do you mean queer? As he asked it, he
took out a notebook and pencil. Missus Hale did not
like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye
fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from
saying unnecessary things that would go into that note book
and make trouble. Hale did speak guardedly, as if the
pencil had affected him too, well, as if she didn't
know what she was going to do next, and kind
of done up. How did she seem to feel about
your coming? Why? I don't think she minded one way
or other. She didn't pay much of I said, how
do missus right? It's cold, ain't it? And she said
is it? And went on pleating at her apron Well.
I was surprised she didn't ask me to come up
to the stove or to sit down, but just sat there,
not even looking at me. And so I said, I
want to see John, and then she laughed. I guessed
you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry
and the team outside. So I said, a little sharp,
can I see John? No? Says she kind of dull, like,
ain't ye home? Says I. Then she looked at me, Yes,
says she. He's home. Then why can't I see him?
I asked her, out of patience with her now, because
he's dead, says she just as quiet and dull and
fell to pleat in her apron dead says I like
you do when you can't take in what you've heard.
She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited,
but rocking back and forth. Why where is he says, I.
Not knowing what to say, she just pointed upstairs like this,
pointing to the room above. I got up with the
idea of going up there myself. By this time I
didn't know what to do. I walked from there to hear.
Then I says, why what did he die of? He
died of a rope around his neck, says she, and
just went on pleating at her apron. Hale stopped speaking
and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were
still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before.
Nobody spoke. It was as if everyone was seeing the
woman who had sat there the morning before. And what
did you do? Then? The attorney at last broke the silence.
I went out and called Harry. I thought I might
need help. I got Harry in and we went upstairs.
His voice fell almost to a whisper. There he was
lying over the I think I'd rather have you go
into that upstairs, the county attorney interrupted, Where you can
point it all out, Just go on now with the
rest of the story. Well, my first thought was to
get that rope off. It looked he stopped his face twitching.
But Harry, he went up to him, and he said, no,
he's dead, all right, and we'd better not touch anything.
So we went downstairs. She was still sitting that same way.
Has anybody been notified? I asked, No, says she, unconcerned.
Who did this, missus Wright, said Harry. He said it
business like, and she stopped pleating at her apron. I
don't know, she says. You don't know, says Harry. Weren't
you sleeping in the bed with him, yes, says she.
But I was on the inside. Somebody slipped a rope
round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up,
says Harry. I didn't wake up, she said after him.
We may have looked as if we didn't see how
that could be. For after a minute, she said, I
sleep sound. Harry was going to ask her more questions,
but I said, maybe that weren't our business. Maybe we
ought to let her tell her story first to the
coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went as fast as
he could over to high road, the River's place, where
there's a telephone, And what did she do when she
knew you had gone for the coroner? The attorney got
his pencil in his hand, all ready for writing. She
moved from that chair to this one over here. Hale
pointed to a small chair in the corner and just
sat there with her hands held together and looking down.
I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation,
so I said I had come in to see if
John wanted to put in a telephone. And at that
she started to laugh. And then she stopped and looked
at me, scared at the sound of a moving pencil.
The man who was telling the story looked up. I dunno,
maybe it wasn't scared, he hastened. I wouldn't like to
say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then doctor
Lloyd came and knew mister Peters, And so I guess
that's all I know that you don't. He said that
last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing.
Everyone moved a little. The County attorney walked toward the
stair door. I guess we go upstairs first, then out
to the barn and around there. He paused and looked
around the kitchen. You're convinced there was nothing important here,
he asked the sheriff, Nothing that would point to any motive.
The sheriff, too, looked all around as if to reconvince himself.
Nothing here but kitchen things, he said, with a little laugh,
for the insignificance of kitchen things. The county attorney was
looking at the cupboard, a peculiar, ungainly structure, half closet
and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built
in the wall, and the lower part just the old
fashioned kitchen cupboard, as if its queerness attracted him. He
got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in.
After a moment he drew his hand away. Sticky, here's
a nice mess, he said, resentfully. The two women had
drawn nearer, and now the Sheriff's wife spoke, Oh her fruit,
she said, looking to missus Hale for sympathetic understanding. She
turned back to the county Attorney and explained she worried
about that when it turned so cold last night. She said,
the fire would go out and her jars might burst.
Missus Peter's husband broke into a laugh, Well can you
beat the woman held for murder? And worrying about her preserves.
The young attorney set his lips. I guess before we
are through with her, she may have something more serious
than preserves to worry about. Oh well, said missus Hale's husband,
with good natured superiority. Women are used to worrying over trifles.
The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of
them spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his
manners and think of his future. And yet said he,
with the gallantry of a young politician, for all their worries,
what would we do without the ladies? The women did
not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink
and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them
on the roller towel. Welled it for a cleaner place.
Dirty towels. Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies.
He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.
There's a great deal of work to be done on
a farm, said missus Hale, stiffly, to be sure, and yet,
with a little bow to her I know there are
some Dixon County farm houses that do not have such
roller towels. He gave it a pull to expose its
full length again. Those towels get dirty orful quick. Men's
hands aren't aways as clean as they might be. Ah
loyal to your sex, I see, he laughed. He stopped
and gave her a keen look. But you and missus
Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends too. Martha
Hale shook her head. I've seen little enough of her
of late years. I've not been in this house it's
more than a year. And why was that you didn't
like her? I liked her well enough, she replied with spirit.
Farmer's wives have their hands full, mister Henderson, and then
she looked around the kitchen. Yes, he encouraged, it never
seemed a very cheerful place, said she, more to herself
than to him. No, he agreed, I don't think any
one would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had
the home making instinct. Well I don't know as right
had either. She muttered, You mean they didn't get on
very well? He was quick to ask. No, I don't
mean anything, she answered with decision. As she turned a
little away from him. She added, but I don't think
a place would be any the cheerfuller for John Wright's
be in it. I'd like to talk to you about
that a little later, Missus Hale, he said, I'm anxious
to get the lay of things upstairs now. He moved
toward the stair door, followed by the two men. I
suppose anything Missus Peters does will be all right, the
sheriff inquired. She was to take some clothes in for her,
you know, and a few little things we left in
such a hurry yesterday. The county attorney looked at the
two women they were leaving there alone among the kitchen things. Yes,
Missus Peters, he said, his glance resting on the woman
who was not Missus Peters, the big farmer woman who
stood behind the sheriff's wife. Of course, Missus Peters is
one of us, he said, in a manner of intrusting responsibility.
And keep your eye out, Missus Peters, for anything that
might be of use. No telling you. Women might come
upon a clue to the motive, and that's the thing
we need. Mister Hale rubbed face, after the fashion of
a showman getting ready for a pleasantry. But would the
women know a clue if they did come upon it?
He said, And having delivered himself of this, he followed
the others through the stair door. The women stood motionless
and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs,
then in the room above them. Then, as if releasing
herself from something strange, missus Hale began to arrange the
dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful
push at the foot had deranged. I'd hate to have
men coming into my kitchen, she said, testily, snooping round
and criticizing. Of course, it's no more than her duty,
said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence.
Duty's all right, replied missus Hale bluffly. But I guess
that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire
might have got a little of this on. She gave
the roller towel a pull. Wish had thought of that sooner.
Seems mean to talk about her for not having things
slicked up when she had to come away in such
a hurry. She looked around the kitchen. Suddenly it was
not slicked up. Her eye was held by a bucket
of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off
the wooden bucket and beside it was a paper bag
half full. Missus Hale moved toward it. She was putting
this in there, she said to herself. Slowly. She thought
of the flower in her kitchen at home, half sifted,
half not sifted. She had been interrupted and had left
things half done. What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had
that work been left half done? She made a move
as if to finish it. Unfinished things always bothered her.
And then she glanced round and saw that Missus Peters
was watching her, and she didn't want Missus Peters to
get that feeling. She had got work begun and then
for some reason not finished. It's a shame about her fruit,
she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the County
Attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring, I
wonder if it's all gone. It was a sorry enough
looking sight. But here's one that's all right, she said
at last, she held it toward the light. Missus cherries too.
She looked again. I declare I believe that's the only one.
With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went
to the sink and wiped off the bottle. She'll feel
awful bad after all, her hard work in the hot weather.
I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.
She set the bottle on a table, and, with another sigh,
started to sit down in the rocker. But she did
not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in
that chair. She straightened, stepped back, and half turned away,
stood looking at it. Seeing the woman who had sat
there pleating at her apron, The thin voice of the
sheriff's wife broke in upon her. I must be getting
those things from the front room closet. She opened the
door into the other room, started in, stepped back. You
coming with me, Missus Hale, she asked, nervously. You you
could help me get them. They were soon back. The
stark coldness of that shut up room was not a
thing to linger in my said Missus Peters, dropping the
things on the table and hurrying to the stove. Missus
Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being
detained in town had said she wanted right. Was close,
she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black skirt that bore
the marks of much making over. I think maybe that's
why she kept so much to herself. I suppose she
felt she couldn't do her part, and then you don't
enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear
pretty clothes and be lively when she was Minnie Foster,
one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But that, oh,
that was twenty years ago. With a carefulness in which
there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and
piled them at one corner of the table. She looked
up at Missus Peters, and there was something in the
other woman's look that irritated her. She don't care, she
said to herself, much difference it makes to her whether
Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl.
Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure. In fact,
she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure about Missus Peters.
She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked
as if they could see a long way into things.
This all you was to take, in, asked Missus Hale, No,
said the sheriff's wife. She said she wanted an apron
funny thing to want. She ventured in her nervous little way,
For there's not much to get you dirty in jail.
Goodness knows but I suppose just to make her feel
more natural if you're used to wearing an apron. She said,
they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes,
here they are, And then her little shawl that always
hung on the stair door. She took the small gray
shawl from behind the door leading up stairs and stood
a minute looking at it. Suddenly missus Hale took a
quick step toward the other woman, Missus Peters. Yes, missus Hale,
do you think she did it? A frightened look blurred
the other thing in missus Peters's eyes. Oh I don't know,
she said, in a voice that seemed to shrink away
from the subject. Well I don't think she did, affirmed
missus Hale, stoutly asking for an apron and her little shawl,
worrying about her fruit. Mister Peters says footsteps were heard
in the room above. She stopped, looked up, and then
went on in a lowered voice. Mister Peters says, it
looks bad for her. Mister Henderson is awful sarcastic in
a speech, and he's going to make fun of her,
saying she didn't wake up for a moment. Missus Hale
had no answer. Then, well, I guess John Wright didn't
wake up when they were slipping that rope under his neck.
She muttered, No, it's strange, breathed missus Peters. So I
think it was such a funny way to kill a man.
She began to laugh. At sound of the laugh abruptly stopped.
That's just what mister Hale said, said Missus Hale, in
a resolutely natural voice. There was a gun in the house,
he says. That's what he can't understand. Mister Henderson said
coming out, though what was needed for the case was
a motive, something to show anger or sudden feeling. Well,
I don't see any signs of anger around here, said
missus Hale. I don't. She stopped. It was as if
her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by
a dish towel in the middle of the kitchen table.
Slowly she moved toward the table, One half of it
was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made
a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar
and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun and
not finished. After a moment, she stepped back and said,
in that manner of releasing herself. Wonder how they're finding
things upstairs. I hope she had it a little more
redd up up there, you know, she paused, and feeling gathered.
It seems kind of sneaking, locking her up in town
and coming out here to get her own house to
turn against her. But missus Hale said the sheriff's wife.
The law is the law, I suppose tis, answered missus Hale.
Shortly she turned to the stove, saying something about that
fire not being much to brag of. She worked with
it for a minute, and when she straightened up, she
said aggressively, the law is the law, and a bad
stove is a bad stove. How do you like to
cook on this? Pointing with the poker to the broken lining.
She opened the oven door and started to express her
opinion of the oven. But she was swept in her
own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean year after
year to have that stove to wrestle with the thought
of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven, and
the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster.
She was startled by hearing Missus Peters say a person
gets discouraged and loses heart. The sheriff's wife had looked
from the stove to the sink, to the pail of
water which had been carried in from outside. The two
women stood there, silent. Above them the footsteps of the
men who were looking for evidence against the woman who
had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things,
of seeing through a thing to something else, was in
the eyes of the sheriff's wife. Now. When missus Hale
next spoke to her, it was gently, better loosen up
your things, Missus Peters, will not feel them when we
go out. Missus Peters went to the back of the
room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing.
A moment later, she exclaimed why she was piecing a
quilt and held up a large sewing basket piled high
with quilt pieces. Missus Hale spread some of the blocks
on a table. It's low cabin patten, she said, putting
several of them together. Pretty, isn't it. They were so
engaged with a quilt that they did not hear the
footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened,
Missus Hale was saying, do you suppose she was going
to quilt it? Or just not it. The sheriff threw
up his hands. They wonder whether she was going to
quilt it or just not it. There was a laugh
for the ways of women, a warming of hands over
the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly, well,
let's go right out to the barn and get that
cleared up. I don't see as there's anything so strange,
missus Hale said, resentfully, after the outside door had closed on.
The three men are taking up our time with little
things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence.
I don't see as it's anything to laugh about. Of course,
they've got awful important things on their minds, said the
sheriff's wife apologetically. They returned to an inspection of the
block for the quilt. Missus Hale was looking at the fine,
even sewing and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who
had done that sewing, when she heard the Sheriff's wife say,
in a queer tone, why look at this one? She
turned to take the block held out to her. The
sewing said Missus Peters in a troubled way. All the
rest of them have been so nice and even, but
this one, why it looks as if she didn't know
what she was about. Her eyes met, something flashed to
life passed between them. Then, as if with an effort,
they seemed to pull away from each other a moment.
Missus Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing,
which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing.
Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads.
Oh what are you doing, missus Hale, asked the sheriff's
wife startled, just pulling out a stitch or two that's
not sewed very good, said missus Hale, mildly. I don't
think we ought to touch things, Missus Peters said, a
little helplessly. I'll just finish up this end, answered missus Hale.
Still in that mild, matter of fact fashion, she threaded
a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good.
For a little while she sewed in silence. Then in
that thin, timid voice, she heard missus Hale. Yes, Missus Peters,
what do you suppose she was so nervous about? Oh?
I don't know, said missus Hale, as if dismissing a
thing not important enough to spend much time on. I
don't know. As she was nervous. I sow awful queer
sometimes when I'm just tired. She cut a thread, and
out of the corner of her eye, looked up at
Missus Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife
seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look
of peering into something. But next moment she moved and said,
in her thin, indecisive way, well, I must get those
clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think.
I wonder where I could find a piece of paper
and string in that cupboard, may be, suggested missus Hale.
After a glance around, one piece of the crazy sewing
remained unripped. Missus Peter's back turned. Martha Hale now scrutinized
that piece compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of
the other blocks. The difference was startling. Holding this block
made her feel queer, as if the distracted thoughts of
the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try
and quiet herself, were communicating themselves to her. Missus Peter's
voice roused her. Here's a bird, she said. Did she
have a bird? Missus Hale? Why? I don't know whether
she did or not. She turned to look at the cage.
Missus Peters was holding up. I've not been here in
so long, she sighed. There was a man round last
year selling canary's cheap, but I don't know as she
took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real
pretty herself. Missus Peters looked around the kitchen. Seems kind
of funny to think of a bird here, she half laughed.
An attempt to put up a barrier. But she must
have had one, or why would she have a cage?
I wonder what happened to it. I suppose maybe the
cat got it, suggested Missus Hale, resuming her sewing. No,
she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some
people have about cats being afraid of them. When they
brought her to our house yesterday. My cat got in
the room and she was real upset and asked me
to take it out. My sister Bessie was like that,
laughed missus Hale. The sheriff's wife did not reply. The
silence made missus Hale turn round. Missus Peters was examining
the bird cage. Look at this door, she said, slowly.
It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart. Missus Hale
came nearer, looks as if some one must have been
rough with it. Again, their eyes met, startled, questioning, apprehensive.
For a moment, neither spoke nor stirred. Then missus Hale,
turning away, said briskly, if they're going to find any evidence,
I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place,
but I'm awful glad you came with me, missus Hale.
Missus Peters put the bird cage on the table and
sat down. It would be lonesome for me sitting here alone. Yes,
it would, wouldn't it, agreed missus Hale, a certain determined
naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing,
but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured
in a different voice. But I tell you what I
do wish, Missus Peters, I wish I had come over
here sometimes when she was here, I wish I had.
But of course you were awful busy, missus Hale, your
house and your children. I could have come, retorted missus
Hale shortly. I stayed away because it weren't cheerful, and
that's why I ought to have come. I She looked
around I've never liked this place, maybe because it's down
in a hollow and you don't see the road. I
don't know what it is, but it's a lonesome place,
and always was. I wish I had come over to
see Minny Foster. Sometimes I can see now she did
not put it into words. Well, you mustn't reproach yourself,
counseled Missus Peters. Sometimes we just don't see how it
is with other folks till something comes up. Not having
children makes less work, mused Missus Hale after a silence,
But it makes a quiet house. And write out to
work all day and no company. When he did come in.
Did you know John Wright? Missus Peters, not to know him.
I've seen him in town. They say he was a
good man. Yes, good, conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly. He
didn't drink and kept his word as well as most,
I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a
hard man, Missus Peters. Just to pass the time of
day with him. She stopped, shivered a little, like a
raw wind that gets to the bone. Her eye fell
upon the cage on the table before her, and she added,
almost bitterly, I should think she would have wanted a bird. Suddenly,
she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage. But what
do you suppose went wrong with it? I don't know,
returned missus Peters, unless it got sick and died. But
after she said it, she reached over and swung the
broken door. Both women watched, as if somehow held by it.
You didn't know her, missus Hale asked, a gentler note
in her voice. Not till they brought her yesterday, said
the sheriff's wife. She come to think of it, she
was kind of like a bird herself, real sweet and pretty,
but kind of timid and fluttery. How she did change
that held her for a long time. Finally, as if
struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back
to every every day things, she exclaimed, Tell you what,
missus Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you?
It might take up her mind. Why, I think that's
a real nice idea, missus Hale, agreed the Sheriff's wife,
as if she too were glad to come into the
atmosphere of a simple kindness. There couldn't possibly be any
objection to that, could there? Now? Just what will I take.
I wonder if her patches are in here and her
other things. They turned to the sewing basket. Here's some red,
said missus Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth underneath.
That was a box here. Maybe her scissors are in
here and her things. She held it up. What a
pretty box. I'll warrant that was something she had a
long time ago, when she was a girl. She held
it in her hand a moment, then, with a little sigh,
opened it instantly. Her hand went to her nose. Why,
missus Peters drew nearer, then turned away. There's something wrapped
up in this piece of silk, faltered missus Hale. This
isn't her scissors, said Missus Peters in a shrinking voice.
Her hand not steady. Missus Hale raised the piece of silk. Oh,
Missus Peters, she cried, it's Missus Peters bent closer. It's
the bird, she whispered. But Missus Peters, cried missus Hale,
look at it. It's neck, Look at its neck. It's
all other side too. She held the box away from her,
the sheriff's wife again benting closer. Somebody wrung its neck,
said she, in a voice that was slow and deep,
and then again the eyes of the two women met,
this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension
of growing horror. Missus Peters looked from the dead bird
to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met,
and just then there was a sound at the outside door.
Missus Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in
the basket and sank into the chair before it. Missus
Peters stood holding the table. The county Attorney and the
sheriff came in from outside. Well, ladies, said the county attorney,
as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries. Have
you decided whether she was going to quilt it or
not it? We think, began the Sheriff's wife, in a
flurried voice, that she was going to not it. He
was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in
her voice on that last. Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure,
he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird cage.
Has the bird? We think the cat got it, said
Missus Hale, in a voice curiously even He was walking
up and down, as if thinking something out. Is there
a cat? He asked absently, Missus Hale shot a look
up at the sheriff's wife. Well not now, said Missus Peters.
They're superstitious, you know. They leave. She sank into her chair.
The county attorney did not heed her, no sign at
all of anyone having come in from the outside. He
said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation,
their own rope. Now, let's go upstairs again and go
over it piece by piece. It would have to have
been someone who knew just the The stair door closed
behind them, and their voices were lost. The two women
sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if
peering into something, and at the same time holding back
when they spoke. Now it was as if they were
afraid of what they were saying, but as if they
could not help saying it. She liked the bird, said
Martha Hale, low and slowly. She was going to bury
it in that pretty box. When I was a girl,
said Missus Peters under her breath, my kitten, there was
a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes, before
I could get there, she covered her face an instant.
If they hadn't held me back, I would have she
caught herself, looked up stairs, where footsteps were heard, and
finished weakly hurt him. Then they sat without speaking or moving.
I wonder how it would seem. Missus Hale at last began,
as if feeling her way over strange ground, never to
have had any children around. Her eyes made a slow
sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen
had meant through all the years. No right wouldn't like
the bird, she said, after that, a thing that sang
she used to sing. He killed that too. Her voice tightened.
Missus Peters moved uneasily. Of course, we don't know who
killed the bird. I knew John Wright, was missus Hale's answer.
It was an awful thing was done in this house
that night, missus Hale said, the sheriff's wife killing a
man while he slept, slipping a thing round his neck
that choked the life out of him. Missus Hale's hand
went out to the bird cage. We don't know who
killed him, whispered missus Peters wildly. We don't know. Missus
Hale had not moved. If there had been years and
years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you,
it would be awful still after the bird was still.
It was as if something within her, not herself, had spoken,
and it found in Missus Peters something she did not
know as herself. I know what stillness is, she said,
in a queer, monotonous voice, When we homesteaded in Dakota
and my first baby died after he was two years old,
and me with no other Then missus Hale stirred, how
soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence.
I know what stillness is, repeated Missus Peters in just
that same way. Then she too pulled back. The law
has got to punish crime, Missus Hale, she said, in
her tight little way. I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster
was the answer. When she wore a white dress with
blue ribbons and stood up there in a choir and
sang the picture of that girl. The fact that she
had lived neighbor to that girl for twenty years and
had let her die for lack of life was suddenly
more than she could bear. Oh I wish I'd come
over here once in a while, she cried. That was
a crime. Who's going to punish that? We mustn't take on,
said Missus Peters with a frightened look toward the stairs.
I might have known she needed help. I tell you
it's queer, Missus Peters. We lived close together, and we
live far apart. We all go through the same things.
It's all just a different kind of the same thing.
If it weren't, why do you and I understand? Why
do we know what we know? This minute? She dashed
her hand across her eyes. Then see the jar of
fruit on the table. She reached for it and choked out.
If I was you, I wouldn't tell her her fruit
was gone. Tell her it ain't. Tell her it's all right,
all of it here. Take this in to prove it
to her. She she may never know whether it was
broke or not. She turned away. Missus Peters reached out
for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad
to take it, as if touching a familiar thing, having
something to do, could keep her from something else. She
got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in,
took a petticoat from a pile of clothes she had
brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that
round the bottle. My, she began, in a high, false voice.
It's a good thing. The men couldn't hear us getting
all stirred up over a little thing like a dead canary.
She hurried over that, as if that could have anything
to do with with Why wouldn't they laugh? Footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Maybe they would, muttered missus Hale.
Maybe they wouldn't. No, Peters, said the county attorney incisively.
It's all perfectly clear except the reason for doing it.
But you know juries when it comes to women. If
there was some definite thing, something to show, something to
make a story about, something that would connect up with
this clumsy way of doing it in a covert way.
Missus Hale looked at missus Peters. Missus Peters was looking
at her. Quickly, they looked away from each other. The
outer door opened and mister Hale came in. I've got
the team round now, he said, pretty cold out there.
I'm going to stay here a while by myself. The
county attorney suddenly announced, you can send Frank out for me,
can't you? He asked the sheriff. I want to go
over everything. I'm not satisfied we can't do better again.
For one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another.
The sheriff came up to the table. Did you want
to see what Missus Peters was going to take in?
The county attorney picked up the apron He laughed, Oh,
I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have
picked out. Missus Hale's hand was on the sewing basket
in which the box was concealed. She felt that she
ought to take her hand off the basket. She did
not seem mabel to. He picked up one of the
quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box.
Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling that
if he took up the basket she would snatch it
from him, but he did not take it up. With
another little laugh, he turned away, saying, no, Missus Peters
doesn't need supervising for that matter, A sheriff's wife is
married to the law. Ever think of it that way,
Missus Peters. Missus Peters was standing beside the table. Missus
Hale shot a look up at her, but she could
not see her face. Missus Peters had turned away. When
she spoke, her voice was muffled. Not just that way,
she said, married to the law, chuckled. Missus Peters husband
He moved toward the door into the front room and
said to the county Attorney, I just want you to
come in here a minute, George. We ought to take
a look at these windows. Oh windows, said the county attorney, scoffingly.
We'll be right out, mister Hale, said the sheriff to
the farmer, who was still waiting by the door. Hale
went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the
county attorney into the other room again for one final moment,
the two women were alone in that kitchen. Martha Hale
sprang up her hands tight together, looking at that other
woman with whom it rested. At first, she could not
see her eyes, for the Sheriff's wife had not turned
back since she had turned away at that suggestion of
being married to the law. But now Missus Hale made
her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back slowly, unwillingly.
Missus Peters turned her head until her eyes met the
eyes of the other woman. There was a moment when
they held each other in a steady, burning look in
which there was no evasion or flinching. Then Martha Hale's
eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was
hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of
the other woman, that woman who was not there, and
yet who had been there with them all through that hour.
For a moment Missus Peters did not move, and then
she did it with a rush forward. She threw back
the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it
in her hand bag. It was too big. Desperately she
opened it, started to take the bird out, but there
she broke. She could not touch the bird. She stood there, helpless, foolish.
There was the sound of a knob turning in the
inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's
wife and got it in the pocket of her big coat,
just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back
into the kitchen. Well, Henry said the county attorney facetiously.
At least we found out that she was not going
to quilt it. She was going to what is it
you call it, ladies, Missus Hale's hand was against the
pocket of her coat. We call it not it, mister Henderson.
End of a Jury of her Peers by Susan Glaspell