THE LOTTERY by Shirley Jackson (1948)

This text is the beginning of the short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, published in 1948. The story takes place on June 27th in a small village where the annual lottery is about to take place. The villagers gather in the square, with the children assembling first, followed by the men and women. The lottery is conducted by Mr. Summers, who runs the coal business and is known for his involvement in civic activities. He brings a black wooden box to the square, which is used for the lottery. The box is old and there has been talk of making a new one, but no one wants to upset tradition. The story sets the scene for the events that will unfold during the lottery.

THE LOTTERY by Shirley
Jackson (1948)
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
27th. 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.
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. Mr. 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. There was a story
that the present box had been made with some
pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one

that had been constructed when the first people
settled down to make a village here. Every year,
after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking
again about a new box, but every year the
subject was allowed to fade off without
anything's being done. The black box grew
shabbier each year: by now it was no longer
completely black but splintered badly along one
side to show the original wood color, and in
some places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the
black box securely on the stool until Mr.
Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with
his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been
forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been
successful in having slips of paper substituted
for the chips of wood that had been used for
generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had
argued had been all very well when the village
was tiny, but now that the population was more
than three hundred and likely to keep on
growing, it was necessary to use something that
would fit more easily into the black box. The
night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr.
Graves made up the slips of paper and put them
in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of
Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until
Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square
next morning. The rest of the year, the box was
put way, sometimes one place, sometimes
another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's
barn and another year underfoot in the post
office and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the
Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done
before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open.
There were the lists to make up--of heads of
families, heads of households in each family,
members of each household in each family.
There was the proper swearing-in of Mr.
Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the
lottery; at one time, some people remembered,
there had been a recital of some sort, performed
by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory,
tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each
year; some people believed that the official of
the lottery used to stand just so when he said or
sang it, others believed that he was supposed to
walk among the people, but years and years ago
this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse.
There had been, also, a
ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had
had to use in addressing each person who came
up to draw from the box, but this also had
changed with time, until now it was felt
necessary only for the official to speak to each
person approaching. Mr. Summers was very
good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue
jeans with one hand resting carelessly on the
black box he seemed very proper and important
as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the
Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and
turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs.
Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the
square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders,
and slid into place in the back of the crowd.
"Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs.
Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both
laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out
back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on,
"and then I looked out the window and the kids
was gone, and then I remembered it was the
twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried
her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said,
"You're in time, though. They're still talking
away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through
the crowd and found her husband and children
standing near the front. She tapped Mrs.
Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to
make her way through the crowd. The people
separated good-humoredly to let her through:
two or three people said in voices just loud
enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here
comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she

made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her
husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been
waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were
going to have to get on without you, Tessie."
Mrs. Hutchinson said grinning, "Wouldn't have
me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you.
Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as
the people stirred back into position after Mrs.
Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess
we better get started, get this over with, so's we
can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar.
Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde
Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his
leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said and Mr. Summers
turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her
husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a
grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although
Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village
knew the answer perfectly well, it was the
business of the official of the lottery to ask such
questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with
an expression of polite interest while Mrs.
Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said
regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man
this year."
"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on
the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson
boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here,"
he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me."
He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his
head as several voices in the crowd said things
like "Good fellow, lad." and "Glad to see your
mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's
everyone. Old Man Warner make it?" "Here," a
voice said and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr.
Summers cleared his throat and looked at the
list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the
names--heads of families first--and the men
come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep
the paper folded in your hand without looking at
it until everyone has had a turn. Everything
clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they
only half listened to the directions: most of them
were quiet, wetting their lips not looking around.
Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and
said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from
the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr.
Summers said and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe."
They grinned at one another humorlessly and
nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the
black box and took out a folded paper. He held it
firmly by one corner as he turned and went
hastily back to his place in the crowd where he
stood a little apart from his family not looking
down at his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson....
Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between
lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs.
Graves in the back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one
only last week."
"Time sure goes fast -- Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said.
She held her breath while her husband went
forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar
went steadily to the box while one of the women
said. "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There
she goes."
"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched
while Mr. Graves came around from the side of
the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and
selected a slip of paper from the box. By now,
all through the crowd there were men holding
the small folded papers in their large hand
turning them over and over nervously Mrs.
Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs.
Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said and
the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man
Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the
north village they're talking of giving up the
lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools,"
he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's
good enough for them. Next thing you know,
they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves,
nobody work any more, live that way for a
while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in
June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know,
we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns.
There's always been a lottery," he added
petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe
Summers up there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs.
Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner
said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father
go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her
older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar
said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then
stepped forward precisely and selected a slip
from the box. Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old
Man Warner said as he went through the crowd.
"Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through
the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous,
Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time,
son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless
pause, until Mr. Summers holding his slip of
paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a
minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of
paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women
began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?"
"Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?" "Is it the
Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's
Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her
older son.

People began to look around to see the
Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing
quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand.
Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr.
Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to
take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't
fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called,
and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the
same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was
done pretty fast, and now we've got to be
hurrying a little more to get done in time." He
consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw
for the Hutchinson family. You got any other
households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled.
"Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families,
Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know
that as well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said
regretfully. "My daughter draws with her
husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got
no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is
concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in
explanation, "and as far as drawing for
households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked
formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave.
And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you
got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of
paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr.
Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs.
Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell
you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time
enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put
them in the box and he dropped all the papers
but those onto the ground where the breeze
caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was
saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked and Bill
Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his
wife and children, nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "take the slips
and keep them folded until each person has
taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr.
Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came
willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper
out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy
put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take
just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you
hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's
hand and removed the folded paper from the
tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next
to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was
twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily
as she went forward switching her skirt, and
took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr.
Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his
feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he
got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said.
She hesitated for a minute, looking around
defiantly and then set her lips and went up to the
box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind
her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson
reached into the box and felt around, bringing
his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope
it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper
reached the edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner
said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to
be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the
papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there
was a general sigh through the crowd as he held
it up and everyone could see that it was blank.
Nancy and Bill Jr. opened theirs at the same
time and both beamed and laughed, turning
around to the crowd and holding their slips of
paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause,
and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill
Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and
showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice
was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced
the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black
spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had
made the night before with the heavy pencil in
the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it
up and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's
finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual
and lost the original black box, they still
remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the
boys had made earlier was ready; there were
stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of
paper that had come out of the box Delacroix
selected a stone so large she had to pick it up
with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar.
"Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and
she said gasping for breath. "I can't run at all.
You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with
you."
The children had stones already. And someone
gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared
space by now, and she held her hands out
desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It
isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of
the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come
on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in
the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs.
Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson
screamed, and then they were upon her.