A Jury of Her Peers
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 Dickson
County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was
in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing,
half the flour 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 Mr. Hale, and
then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished
Mrs. 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
twoseated 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 Mrs. 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. Mrs. 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 Mrs. 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 genial with the lawabiding, as if to make it
plain that he knew the difference between criminals and
non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's
mind with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and
lively with all of them was going to the Wrights' now as a
sheriff.
"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs.
Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be
talking as well as the men.
Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone
up a little hill and could see the Wright 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," Mrs. 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 the 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 Mrs.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."
Mrs. 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, Mr. Hale," he said
in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move things
about, you tell Mr. 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 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 today, George, and as long as I went over
everything here myself --"
"Well, Mr. 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."
Mrs. 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 ...
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