PERSONS OF THE PLAY ANTHONY HARRY ARCHER, Claire's husband HATTIE, The maid CLAIRE DICK, Richard Demming TOM EDGEWORTHY ELIZABETH, Claire's daughter ADELAIDE, Claire's sister DR EMMONS

MRS HALE: (her hand against her pocket) We call it—knot it, Mr Henderson.

MRS HALE: (her hand against her pocket) We call it—knot it, Mr Henderson.

a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs Peters? MRS PETERS: Not—just that way. SHERIFF: (chuckling) Married to the law. (moves toward the other room) I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except a reason for doing it. But you know juries 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 strange way of doing it—

THE VERGE

MRS HALE: (with a slow look around her) I wonder how it would seem never to have had any children around, (pause) No, Wright wouldn't like the bird—a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS HALE: I could've come. I stayed away because it weren't cheerful—and that's why I ought to have come. I—I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I dunno what it is, but it's a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now—(shakes her head)

MRS HALE: (mildly) Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good. (threading a needle) Bad sewing always made me fidgety. MRS PETERS: (nervously) I don't think we ought to touch things. MRS HALE: I'll just finish up this end. (suddenly stopping and leaning forward) Mrs Peters? MRS PETERS: Yes, Mrs Hale? MRS HALE: What do you suppose she was so nervous about? MRS PETERS: Oh—I don't know. I don't know as she was nervous. I sometimes sew awful queer when I'm just tired. (MRS HALE starts to say something, looks at MRS PETERS, then goes on sewing) Well I must get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think, (putting apron and other things together) I wonder where I can find a piece of paper, and string.

MRS HALE: (examining another block) Mrs Peters, look at this one. Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It's all over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!

SHERIFF: They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it! (The men laugh, the women look abashed.)

MRS HALE: Well, I don't think she did. Asking for an apron and her little shawl. Worrying about her fruit.

MRS PETERS: (in a frightened voice) Oh, I don't know.

MRS HALE: (examining the skirt) Wright was close. I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. She didn't even belong to the Ladies Aid. 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 Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was to take in?

She was going to put this in there

I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticising. (She arranges the pans under sink which the LAWYER had shoved out of place.) MRS PETERS: Of course it's no more than their duty. MRS HALE: Duty's all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. (gives 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.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes—? MRS HALE: (looking about) It never seemed a very cheerful place. COUNTY ATTORNEY: No—it's not cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the homemaking instinct. MRS HALE: Well, I don't know as Wright had, either. COUNTY ATTORNEY: You mean that they didn't get on very well? MRS HALE: No, I don't mean anything. But I don't think a place'd be any cheerfuller for John Wright's being in it.

Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too. MRS HALE: (shaking her head) I've not seen much of her of late years. I've not been in this house—it's more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I guess before we're through she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about.

SHERIFF: Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin' about her preserves.

motive

she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me—scared

HALE: Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked ... (stops, his face twitches) ... 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 back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I asked. 'No', says she unconcerned. 'Who did this, Mrs Wright?' said Harry. He said it business-like—and she stopped pleatin' of her apron. 'I don't know', she says. 'You don't know?' says Harry. 'No', says she. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?' says Harry. '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 must 'a 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 we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner, or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers' place, where there's a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs, where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story.

He died of a rope round his neck',

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't I see John?' 'No', she says, kind o' dull like. 'Ain't he home?' says I. 'Yes', says she, 'he's home'. 'Then why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience. ''Cause he's dead', says she. 'Dead?' says

she didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to set down, but just sat there, not even looking at me,

I knew they must be up, it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again,

HALE: Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came along the road from my place and as I got here I said, I'm going to see if I can't get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone.' I spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet—I 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, though I said to Harry that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John—

I went over everything here myself— COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, Mr Hale,

and you know Frank.

SHERIFF: (unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to mark the beginning of official business) Now, Mr Hale, before we move things about, you explain to Mr Henderson just what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

SCENE: The kitchen is the now abandoned farmhouse of JOHN WRIGHT, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in order—unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the bread-box, a dish-towel on the table—other signs of incompleted work. At the rear the outer door opens and the SHERIFF comes in followed by the COUNTY ATTORNEY and HALE. The SHERIFF and HALE are men in middle life, the COUNTY ATTORNEY is a young man; all are much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by the two women—the SHERIFF's wife first; she is a slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. MRS HALE is larger and would ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women have come in slowly, and stand close together near the door.

or maybe it was how he used fire 15 to describe the trees.

blooming forty years later—

pastoral

a poem I would gift my mother

I see a man's pink tongue razing the horizon

No matter where we go, there's a history

a child (recently) was blown apart

after stepping on a mine, a bulb, I guess

No matter where we go, there's a history of white men describing a landscape so they can claim it.