Speaker 1: A jury of her peers. 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 farther 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 scared 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
around 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 up for it in looking
like a sheriff. He was too, a dot, the kind
of man who could get himself elected sheriff, a heavy
man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with
the law 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,
then 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 kitchen table.
It's just the same. Somebody should have been left 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 Moore Center for that man who went crazy.
Let me tell you I had my hands full yesterday.
I I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, 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 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. Louis
often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story.
She hoped he would tell it straight and 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 to 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 the 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
to take a telephone, you see, he explained to Henderson.
Unless I can get somebody to go in with me,
they won't come out this Branch road except for a
price I can't pay. I'd spoke 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 liked the telephones, and 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 is 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 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 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, looking a hand toward the door
by which the two women stood, and there in that rocker,
pointing to it, sat missus right. Everyone in the kitchen
looked at that 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 red 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 side 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 notebook 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 attention.
I said, ho, do missus right? It's cold, ain't it?
And she said is it? And went on pleatin 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 guess 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. Light. Ain't he 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 pleatin' 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 know 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 round
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 were seeing the woman who had sat there
the morning before. And what did you do? Then? The
county 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
pleatin' at her apron. I don't know, she says. You
don't know, says Harry. Weren't you sleepin' 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 corner or the sheriff. So Harry went 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 pensil in his hand, already 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
don't know, 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 you, 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'll 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 looked around as if to
re convince 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 covered, 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 Peters's husband broke
into a laugh, Well can you beat the women held
for murder and worrying about her preserves. The young attorney
set his lips. I guess before we're through with her,
she may have something more serious 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. Neither of them spoke. The county
attorneys seemed suddenly to remember his manners and think of
his future. And yet he said, 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,
whirled 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 farmhouses that do not have such roller towels.
He gave it a pull to expose its full length again.
Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always
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 to a spirit farmers 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 anyone would call it cheerful.
I shouldn't say she had the homemaking 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 beIN 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 in some clothes
for her, you know, and a few little things we
left in such a hurry yesterday. The county attorney looked
at the two women whom they were leaving alone there
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 entrusting responsibility. And keep your eye out,
Missus Peters, for anything that might be of use. No
telling you. Women might come upon the clue to the motive,
and that's the thing we need. Mister Hale rubbed his
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.
Women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first
upon the stairs and then in the room above them.
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 of the foot had deranged. I'd
hate to have men coming into my kitchen, she said, testily,
snoopin round and criticizin'. Of course, it's no more than
their 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 I'd 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.
Certainly it was not slicked up. Her eye was held
by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The
cover was off of 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 around and saw that
Missus Peters was watching her. And she didn't want Missus
Peters to get the feeling that she had got work
begun and then for some reason not finish. 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. This is Cherry's 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 the 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 back soon. 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 shirt 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 many 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 the 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 and 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 upstairs 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 things 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 our fruit. Mister Peter says footsteps were heard
in the room above. She stopped, looked up, and then
went on in a lowered voice. Mister Peter 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 was slipping that rope under his neck.
She mut no, it's strange, breathed missus Peters. They think
it was such a funny way to kill a man.
She began to laugh. At the 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 that what was needed for this
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 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 red 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 supposed his answered missus Hale. Shortly,
she turned to the stove, saying something about that fire
not being much to brag of. She worked with it
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 into 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 lose his heart. The sheriff's wife had looked
from the stove to the sink, to the pale 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
out on her table. It's a log cabin pattern, she said,
putting several of them together. Pretty, isn't it. They were
so engaged with the 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 nod it. The sheriff threw
up his hands. They wonder whether she was went to
quilt it or just nod it. There was a laugh
for the ways of women, a warming of hands over
the stove, and 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.
Our 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.
Their eyes met, thing 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 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 so awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired.
She cut athad 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, maybe,
suggested missus Hale. After a glance around, one piece of
the crazy sewing remained unripped. Missus Peters 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 Peters's voice roused her. Here's a bird cage, 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 so long, she sighed. There was a man
round last year selling canaries 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 someone must have been rough
with it again. They're eyes met, startled, questioning, apprehensive. For
a moment, neither spoke nor stirred. Then missus Hale, turning away,
said brusquely, 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
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.
Wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster. Sometimes
I can see now she did not put it into words. Well,
you mustn't reproach yourself, counseled Missus Peters. Somehow 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
right 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 it,
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. 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 everyday things, she exclaimed,
Tell you what, missus Peters, why don't you take the
quilton 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 things. They turned to the sewing basket.
Here's some rere, 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
bent closer. Somebody wrung its neck, she said, 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 to 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
nod it? We think, began the Sheriff's wife, in a
flattered voice, that she was going to nod it. He
was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in
her voice on the last. Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure,
he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird cage.
Has the bird flown? 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 at 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 upstairs, where the 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 the 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. His neck choked the
life out of him. 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 than 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 the choir and sang
the picture of that girl. The fact that she 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,
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 live 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, seeing 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 the 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
my wouldn't they laugh? Footsteps were heard on the stairs.
Maybe they would, muttered Missus Hale. Maybe they wouldn't know, Peters,
said the county attorney incisively. It's all perfectly clear except
the reason for doing it. But you know, jury's when
it comes to women. If there was some definite thing,
something to show, something to make a story about, a
thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of
doing it in a covert way. Missus Hale looked 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 able 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 turned away at the
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 nor 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, the 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 handbag. 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, nodded mister Henderson. And of a jury
of her Peers by Susan Glaspell