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 2th, 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 for a while before they broke
into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the
teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed
his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his
example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and
Harry 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 brothers 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 their 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 reluctantly, having to be
called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's
grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father
spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place
between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as 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 sorry for him, because he had
no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square,
carrying 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, carrying 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 stirred up the papers inside it.