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. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr.
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Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?,” there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. 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. 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. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. The lottery was conducted-as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program-by Mr. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. 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. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.
The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. 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.
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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. 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. 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 only about 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 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.
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