To Kill a Mockingbird 1 of 10

Cadmon presents To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Read by Sissy Spacek. Copyright 1960, renewed 1988 by Harper Lee. Production copyright 2006 by Harper Collins Publishers. "Lawyers, I suppose, were children once." Charles Lamb. Part one. One. When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got His arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being Able to play football were assuaged, He was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right. When he stood or walked, the back of his Hand was at right angles to his body, His thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he Could pass and punt. When enough years had gone by to enable us To look back on them, we sometimes discussed the Events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, But Jem, who was four years my senior, Said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to Us, when Dill first gave us the idea of Making Boo Radley come out. I said if he wanted to take a broad View of the thing, it really began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn't run the Creeks up The creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up The Alabama, and where would we be if he Hadn't? We were far too old to settle an argument With a fistfight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right. Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to Some members of the family that we had no Recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping Apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded Only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution Of those who called themselves Methodists at the Hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon Called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across The Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, Thence to Mobile, and up the St. Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley's strictures on the use of Many words in buying and selling, Simon made a Pile practicing medicine. But in this pursuit, he was unhappy lest he Be tempted into doing what he knew was not For the glory of God, as the putting on Of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher's dictum on The possession of human chattels, bought three Slaves and with their aid established a homestead on The banks of the Alabama River some 40 miles Above St. Stephens. He returned to St. Stephens only once to find A wife, and with her established a line that Ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich. It was customary for the men in the family To remain on Simon's homestead, Finch's Landing, And make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient, modest in comparison With the empires around it. The landing nevertheless produced everything Required to sustain life except ice, Wheat flour, and articles of clothing supplied by Riverboats from Mobile. Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the Disturbance between the North and the South as it Left his descendants stripped of everything but Their land. Yet the tradition of living on the Land remained unbroken until well into the 20th Century when my father, Atticus Finch, Went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger Brother went to Boston to study medicine. Their sister, Alexandra, was the Finch who remained At the landing. She married a taciturn man who Spent most of his time lying in a hammock By the river wondering if his trot lines were Full. When my father was admitted to the bar, he Returned to Maycomb and began his practice. Maycomb, some 20 miles east of Finch's Landing, Was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus's office in the courthouse contained little More than a hat rack, a spittoon, A checkerboard, and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients were the last two persons Hanged in the Maycomb County Jail. Atticus had urged them to accept the state's Generosity in allowing them to plead guilty to Second-degree murder and escape with their lives, But they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name Synonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb's leading Blacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the Alleged wrongful detention of a mayor, Were imprudent enough to do it in the presence Of three witnesses, and insisted that the son of A bitch had it coming to him was a Good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading not guilty to First-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus could do for his clients except be present At their departure, an occasion that was probably The beginning of my father's profound distaste for The practice of criminal law. During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything. For several years thereafter, he invested his Earnings in his brother's education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than my Father and chose to study medicine at a time When cotton was not worth growing. But after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticus Derived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb. He was Maycomb County born and Bred. He knew his people. They knew him. And because of Simon Finch's Industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage To nearly every family in the town. Maycomb was an old town, but it was a Tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather, the streets turned a red slop. Grass grew on the sidewalks. The courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then. A black dog suffered on a summer's day. Bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in The sweltering shade of the live oaks on the Square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o'clock Naps, and by nightfall were like soft tea cakes With frostings of sweat and sweet talcum. People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out Of the stores around it, took their time about Everything. A day was twenty-four hours long, But seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to Go, Nothing to buy and no money to buy it With, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for Some of the people. Maycomb County had recently been told that it had Nothing to fear but fear itself. We lived on the main residential street in town. Atticus, Jim, and I, plus Calpurnia, Our cook. Jim and I found our father satisfactory. He played with us, read to us, And treated us with courteous detachment. Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones. She was nearsighted. She squinted. Her hand was wide as a bed Slat and twice as hard. She was always ordering me out of the kitchen, Asking me why I couldn't behave as well as Jim when she knew he was older, And calling me home when I wasn't ready to Come. Our battles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always Took her side. She had been with us ever since Jim was Born, and I had felt her tyrannical presence as Long as I could remember. Our mother died when I was two, so I Never felt her absence. She was a Graham from Montgomery. Atticus met her when he was first elected to The state legislature. He was middle-aged then. She was fifteen years his junior. Jim was the product of their first year of Marriage. Four years later I was born, And two years later our mother died from a Sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jim Did. He remembered her clearly, and sometimes in the Middle of a game he would sigh at length, Then go off and play by himself behind the Car house. When he was like that, I knew better than To bother him. When I was almost six, and Jim was nearly Ten, our summertime boundaries, Within calling distance of Calpurnia, Were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose's house, Two doors to the north of us, and the Radley place, three doors to the south. We were never tempted to break them. The Radley place was inhabited by an unknown entity, The mere description of whom was enough to make Us behave for days on end. Mrs. Dubose was plain hell. That was the summer Dill came to us. Early one morning, as we were beginning our day's Play in the backyard, Jim and I heard something Next door in Miss Rachel Haverford's collared patch. We went to the wire fence to see if There was a puppy. Miss Rachel's rat terrier was Expecting. Instead, we found someone sitting looking At us. Sitting down, he wasn't much higher than The collards. We stared at him until he spoke. Hey. Hey yourself, said Jim pleasantly. I'm Charles Baker Harris, he said. I can read. So what? I said. I just thought you'd like to know I can Read. You got anything needs reading, I can do it. How old are you? Asked Jim. Four and a half? Going on seven. Shoot, no wonder then, said Jim, Jerking his thumb at me. Scout yonder's been reading ever since she was born, And she ain't even started to school yet. You look right puny for going on seven. "I'm little, but I'm old," he said. Jem brushed his hair back to get a better Look. "Why don't you come over, Charles Baker Harris?" He said. "Lord, what a name." "It's not any funnier than yours. Aunt Rachel says your name's Jeremy Atticus Finch." Jem scowled. "I'm big enough to fit mine," he said. "Your name's longer than you are. Bet it's a foot longer." "Folks call me Dill," said Dill, Struggling under the fence. "Do better if you go over it instead under It," I said. "Where'd you come from?" Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, Was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, And would be spending every summer in Maycomb from Now on. His family was from Maycomb County Originally. His mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a beautiful Child contest, and won five dollars. She gave the money to Dill, who went to The picture show 20 times on it. "Don't have any picture shows here, except Jesus Ones in the courthouse sometimes," said Jem. "Ever see anything good?" Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem To eye him with the beginning of respect. "Tell it to us," he said. Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his Shirt. His hair was snow white and stuck to His head like duck fluff. He was a year my senior, but I towered Over him. As he told us the old tale, His blue eyes would lighten and darken. His laugh was sudden and happy. He habitually pulled at a cowlick in the center Of his forehead. When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, And Jem said the show sounded better than the Book, I asked Dill where his father was. "You ain't said anything about him." "I haven't got one." "Is he dead?" "No." "Then if he's not dead, you've got one, haven't You?" Dill blushed, and Jem told me to hush, A sure sign that Dill had been studied and Found acceptable. Thereafter, the summer passed in routine Contentment. Routine contentment was improving our tree house That rested between giant twin chinaberry trees in The backyard, fussing, running through our list of Dramas based on the works of Oliver Optic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this matter, we were lucky to have Dill. He played the character parts formerly thrust upon Me, the ape in Tarzan, Mr. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus, we came to know Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, Strange longings, and quaint fancies. But by the end of August, our repertoire was Vapid from countless reproductions, And it was then that Dill gave us the Idea of making Boo Radley come out. The Radley place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations, It drew him as the moon draws water, But drew him no nearer than the light pole On the corner, a safe distance from the Radley Gate. There he would stand, his arm around the Fat pole, staring and wondering. The Radley place jutted into a sharp curve beyond Our house. Walking south, one faced its porch. The sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot. The house was low, was once white with a Deep front porch and green shutters, But had long ago darkened to the color of The slate gray yard around it. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the caves of the Veranda. Oak trees kept the sun away. The remains of a picket drunkenly guarded the front Yard, a swept yard that was never swept, Where Johnson grass and rabbit tobacco grew in Abundance. Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and I had Never seen him. People said he went out at night when the Moon was down and peeped in windows. When people's azaleas froze in a cold snap, It was because he had breathed on them. Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were His work. Once the town was terrorized by a series of Morbid nocturnal events. People's chickens and household pets were found Mutilated. Although the culprit was Crazy Addy, Who eventually drowned himself in Barker's Eddy, People still looked at the Radley place, Unwilling to discard their initial suspicions. A Negro would not pass the Radley place at Night. He would cut across to the sidewalk opposite And whistle as he walked. The Maycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot. From the Radley chicken yard, Tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the Schoolyard, but the nuts lay untouched by the Children. Radley pecans would kill you. A baseball hit into the Radley yard was a Lost ball and no questions asked. The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born. The Radleys, welcome anywhere in town, Kept to themselves, a predilection unforgivable in Maycomb. They did not go to church, Maycomb's principal recreation, but worshiped at Home. Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a Mid-morning coffee break with her neighbors, And certainly never joined a missionary circle. Mr. Radley walked to town at 11:30 every morning And came back promptly at 12:00, Sometimes carrying a brown paper bag that the Neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries. I never knew how old Mr. Radley made his living. Jim said he bought cotton, a polite term for Doing nothing. But Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there With their two sons as long as anybody could Remember. The shutters and doors of the Radley house were Closed on Sundays, another thing alien to Maycomb's Ways. Closed doors meant illness and cold weather Only. Of all days, Sunday was the day for Formal afternoon visiting. Ladies wore corsets. Men wore coats. Children wore shoes. But to climb the Radley front steps and call, "Hey," Of a Sunday afternoon was something their neighbors Never did. The Radley house had no screen doors. I once asked Atticus if it ever had any. Atticus said yes, but before I was born. According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens, he became acquainted With some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, An enormous and confusing tribe domiciled in the Northern part of the county, and they formed the Nearest thing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb. They did little, but enough to be discussed by The town and publicly warned from three pulpits. They hung around the barbershop. They rode the bus to Abbottsville on Sundays and Went to the picture show. They attended dances at the county's riverside Gambling hall, the Dew Drop Inn and Fishing Camp. They experimented with stump-hole whiskey. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tell Mr. Radley that his boy was in with the wrong Crowd. One night, in an excessive spurt of high spirits, The boys backed around the square in a borrowed Flivver, resisted arrest by Maycomb's ancient Beetle, Mr. Connor, and locked him in the courthouse Outhouse. The town decided something had to be done. Mr. Connor said he knew who each and every One of them was, and he was bound and Determined they wouldn't get away with it, so the Boys came before the probate judge on charges of Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, Assault and battery, and using abusive and profane Language in the presence and hearing of a female. The judge asked Mr. Connor why he included the Last charge. Mr. Connor said they cussed so loud he was sure Every lady in Maycomb heard them. The judge decided to send the boys to the State industrial school, where boys were sometimes Sent for no other reason than to provide them With food and decent shelter. It was no prison, and it was no disgrace. Mr. Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would see to it that Arthur gave no Further trouble. Knowing that Mr. Radley's word was his bond, The judge was glad to do so. The other boys attended the industrial school and Received the best secondary education to be had in The state. One of them eventually worked his way Through engineering school at Auburn. The doors of the Radley house were closed on Weekdays as well as Sundays, and Mr. Radley's boy was not seen again for 15 years. But there came a day, barely within Jim's memory, When Boo Radley was heard from and was seen By several people, but not by Jim. He said Atticus never talked much about the Radleys. When Jim would question him, Atticus's only answer Was for him to mind his own business and Let the Radleys mind theirs. They had a right to, but when it happened, Jim said Atticus shook his head and said, "Mm, mm, mm." So Jim received most of his information from Miss Stephanie Crawford, a neighborhood scold, Who said she knew the whole thing. According to Miss Stephanie, Boo was sitting in the Living room cutting some items from the Maycomb Tribune to paste in his scrapbook. His father entered the room. As Mr. Radley passed by, Boo drove the scissors Into his parent's leg, pulled them out, Wiped them on his pants, and resumed his activities. Mrs. Radley ran screaming into the street that Arthur was killing them all, but when the sheriff Arrived, he found Boo still sitting in the living Room, cutting up the Tribune. He was 33 years old then. Miss Stephanie said old Mr. Radley said no Radley was going to any asylum When it was suggested that a season in Tuscaloosa Might be helpful to Boo. Boo wasn't crazy. He was high-strung at times. It was all right to shut him up, Mr. Radley conceded, but insisted that Boo not be Charged with anything. He was not a criminal. The sheriff hadn't the heart to put him in Jail alongside Negroes, so Boo was locked in the Courthouse basement. Boo's transition from the basement to back home was Nebulous in Jim's memory. Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town Council told Mr. Radley that if he didn't take Boo back, Boo would die of mold from the Damp. Besides, Boo could not live forever on the Bounty of the county. Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight, But Jim figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of The time. Atticus said no, it wasn't that sort of thing, That there were other ways of making people into Ghosts. My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, Walk to the edge of the porch, and pour Water on her cannas. But every day, Jim and I would see Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin, leathery man with colorless eyes, So colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp, and his mouth was wide, With a thin upper lip and a full lower Lip. Miss Stephanie Crawford said he was so upright he Took the word of God as his only law, And we believed her, because Mr. Radley's posture was ramrod straight. He never spoke to us. When he passed, we would look at the ground And say, "Good morning, sir," And he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley's elder son lived in Pensacola. He came home at Christmas, and he was one Of the few persons we ever saw enter or Leave the place. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died. But there came a day when Atticus told us He'd wear us out if we made any noise In the yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in His absence if she heard a sound out of Us. Mr. Radley was dying. He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of The Radley lot. Straw was put down on the sidewalk. Traffic was diverted to the back street. Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our House and walked to the Radley's every time he Called. Jim and I crept around the yard for Days. At last, the sawhorses were taken away, And we stood watching from the front porch when Mr. Radley made his final journey past our house. "There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath Into," murmured Calpurnia, and she spat Meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarely Commented on the ways of white people. The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under, Boo would come out, But it had another think coming. Boo's elder brother returned from Pensacola and took Mr. Radley's place. The only difference between him and his father was Their ages. Jim said Mr. Nathan Radley bought cotton, too. Mr. Nathan would speak to us, however, When we said good morning, and sometimes we saw Him coming from town with a magazine in his Hand. The more we told Dill about the Radleys, The more he wanted to know. The longer he would stand hugging the light pole On the corner, the more he would wonder. "Wonder what he does in there," he would murmur. "Looks like he'd just stick his head out the Door." Jim said, "He goes out all right when it's Pitch dark. Miss Stephanie Crawford said she woke up In the middle of the night one time and Saw him looking straight through the window at her. Said his head was like a skull looking at Her. Ain't you ever waked up at night and Heard him, Dill? He walks like this." Jim slid his feet through the gravel. "Why do you think Miss Rachel locks up so Tight at night? I've seen his tracks in our Backyard many a morning, and one night I heard Him scratching on the back screen, But he was gone time Atticus got there." "Wonder what he looks like," said Dill. Jim gave a reasonable description of Boo. Boo was about six and a half feet tall, Judging from his tracks. He dined on raw squirrels and any cats he Could catch. That's why his hands were bloodstained. If you ate an animal raw, you could never Wash the blood off. There was a long, jagged scar that ran across His face. What teeth he had were yellow and rotten. His eyes popped, and he drooled most of the Time. "Let's try to make him come out," said Dill. "I'd like to see what he looks like." Jim said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, All he had to do was go up and Knock on the front door. Our first raid came to pass only because Dill Bet Jim the gray ghost against two Tom Swifts That Jim wouldn't get any farther than the Radley Gate. In all his life, Jim had never declined a Dare. Jim thought about it for three days. I suppose he loved honor more than his head, For Dill wore him down easily. "You're scared," Dill said the first day. "Ain't scared, just respectful," Jim said. The next day, Dill said, "You're too scared even To put your big toe in the front yard." "Jim said he reckoned he wasn't. He passed the Radley place every school day of His life. Always running, I said. But Dill got him the third day when he Told Jim that folks in Meridian certainly weren't as Afraid as the folks in Maycomb, that he'd never Seen such scary folks as the ones in Maycomb. This was enough to make Jim march to the Corner where he stopped and leaned against the light Pole, watching the gate hanging crazily on its Homemade hinge. I hope you've got it through your head that He'll kill us each and every one, Dill Harris, Said Jim when we joined him. Don't blame me when he gouges your eyes out. You started it, remember? You're still scared, murmured Dill patiently. Jim wanted Dill to know once and for all That he wasn't scared of anything. It's just that I can't think of a way To make him come out without him getting us. Besides, Jim had his little sister to think of. When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Jim had his little sister to think of the Time I dared him to jump off the top Of the house. If I got killed, what'd become of you, He asked. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, And his sense of responsibility left him until Confronted by the Radley place. You gonna run out on a dare, asked Dill. If you are, then, Dill, you have to think About these things, Jim said. Let me think a minute. It's sort of like making a turtle come out. How's that, asked Dill. Strike a match under him. I told Jim if he set fire to the Radley house, I was gonna tell Atticus on him. Dill said striking a match under a turtle was Hateful. Ain't hateful, just persuades him. It's not like you'd chunk him in the fire, Jim growled. How do you know a match don't hurt him? Turtles can't feel, stupid, said Jim. Were you ever a turtle, huh? My stars, Dill, now let me think. Reckon we can rock him. Jim stood and thought so long that Dill made A mild concession. I won't say you ran out on a dare, And I'll swap you the gray ghost if you Just go up and touch the house. Jim brightened. Touch the house? That's all? Dill nodded. Sure that's all now. I don't want you hollering something different the Minute I get back. Yeah, that's all, said Dill. He'll probably come out after you when he sees You in the yard. Then Scout and me'll jump On him and hold him down till we can Tell him we ain't gonna hurt him. We left the corner, crossed the side street that Ran in front of the Radley house, And stopped at the gate. Well, go on, said Dill. Scout and me's right behind you. I'm going, said Jim. Don't hurry me. He walked to the corner of the lot, then Back again, studying the simple terrain as if Deciding how best to effect an entry, Frowning and scratching his head. Then I sneered at him. Jim threw open the gate and sped to the Side of the house, slapped it with his palm, And ran back past us, not waiting to see If his foray was successful. Dill and I followed on his heels. Safely on our porch, panting and out of breath, We looked back. The old house was the same, droopy and sick. But as we stared down the street, We thought we saw an inside shutter move. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, And the house was still. Two. Dill left us early in September to return to Meridian. We saw him off on the five o'clock bus, And I was miserable without him until it occurred To me that I would be starting to school In a week. I never looked forward more to anything in my Life. Hours of wintertime had found me in the Treehouse, looking over at the schoolyard, Spying on multitudes of children through a two-power Telescope Jim had given me, learning their games, Following Jim's red jacket through wriggling circles Of blind man's buff, secretly sharing their Misfortunes and minor victories. I longed to join them. Jim condescended to take me to school the first Day, a job usually done by one's parents. But Atticus had said Jim would be delighted to Show me where my room was. I think some money changed hands in this Transaction, for as we trotted around the corner Past the Radley place, I heard an unfamiliar jingle In Jim's pockets. When we slowed to a walk at the edge Of the schoolyard, Jim was careful to explain that During school hours, I was not to bother him. I was not to approach him with requests to Enact a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, To embarrass him with references to his private Life, or tag along behind him at recess and Noon. I was to stick with the first grade, And he would stick with the fifth. In short, I was to leave him alone. You mean we can't play anymore? I asked. "We'll do like we always do at home," He said. "But you'll see, school's different." It certainly was. Before the first morning was over, Miss Caroline Fisher, our teacher, hauled me up to the front Of the room and patted the palm of my Hand with a ruler, then made me stand in The corner until noon. Miss Caroline was no more than 21. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks, And wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heel pumps and a red-and-white Striped dress. She looked and smelled like a Peppermint drop. She boarded across the street one door down from Us in Miss Maudie Atkinson's upstairs front room, And when Miss Maudie introduced us to her, Jem was in a haze for days. Miss Caroline printed her name on the blackboard and Said, "This says, 'I am Miss Caroline Fisher. I am from North Alabama, from Winston County.'" The Class murmured apprehensively should she prove to Harbor her share of the peculiarities indigenous to That region. When Alabama seceded from the Union on January 11th, 1861, Winston County seceded from Alabama, And every child in Maycomb County knew it. North Alabama was full of liquor interests, Big mules, steel companies, Republicans, Professors, and other persons of no background. Miss Caroline began the day by reading us a Story about cats. The cats had long conversations with one another. They wore cunning little clothes and lived in a Warm house beneath a kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Cat called the drugstore for An order of chocolate malted mice, The class was wriggling like a bucket full of Catawba worms. Miss Caroline seemed unaware that the ragged, Denim-shirted, and flour-sack-skirted first grade, Most of whom had chopped cotton and fed hogs From the time they were able to walk, Were immune to imaginative literature. Miss Caroline came to the end of the story And said, "Oh, my, wasn't that nice?" Then she went to the blackboard and printed the Alphabet in enormous square capitals, Turned to the class, and asked, "Does anyone know What these are?" Everybody did. Most of the first grade had failed It last year. I suppose she chose me because she knew my Name. As I read the alphabet, a faint line Appeared between her eyebrows, and after making me Read most of my first reader and the stock Market quotations from the Mobile Register aloud, She discovered that I was literate and looked at Me with more than faint distaste. Miss Caroline told me to tell my father not To teach me anymore. It would interfere with my reading. "Teach me?" I said in surprise. "He hadn't taught me anything, Miss Caroline. Atticus ain't got time to teach me anything," I added when Miss Caroline smiled and shook her Head. "Why, he's so tired at night, He just sits in the living room and reads." "If he didn't teach you, who did?" Miss Caroline asked good-naturedly. "Somebody did. You weren't born reading the Mobile Register." "Jim says I was. He read in a book where I was a Bullfinch instead of a Finch. Jim says my name's really Jean Louise Bullfinch, That I got swapped when I was born, and I'm really a..." Miss Caroline apparently thought I was lying. "Let's not let our imaginations run away with us, Dear," she said. "Now, you tell your father not to teach you Anymore. It's best to begin reading with a fresh Mind. You tell him I'll take over from here And try to undo the damage." "Ma'am?" "Your father does not know how to teach. You can have a seat now." I mumbled that I was sorry and retired meditating Upon my crime. I never deliberately learned to read, But somehow I had been wallowing illicitly in the Daily papers. In the long hours of church, was it then I learned? I could not remember not being able to read Hymns. Now that I was compelled to think about It, reading was something that just came to me, As learning to fasten the seat of my union Suit without looking around, or achieving two bows From a snarl of shoelaces. I could not remember when the lines above Atticus's Moving finger separated into words, But I had stared at them all the evenings In my memory, listening to the news of the Day, bills to be enacted into laws, The diaries of Lorenzo Dow, anything Atticus Happened to be reading when I crawled into his Lap every night. Until I feared I would lose it, I never Loved to read. One does not love breathing. I knew I had annoyed Miss Caroline, so I Let well enough alone and stared out the window Until recess when Jem cut me from the covey Of first-graders in the schoolyard. He asked how I was getting along. I told him, "If I didn't have to stay, I'd leave. Jem, that damn lady says Atticus has Been teaching me to read and for him to Stop it." "Don't worry, Scout," Jim confronted me. "Our teacher says Miss Caroline's introducing a new Way of teaching. She learned about it in college. It'll be in all the grades soon. You don't have to learn much out of books That way. It's like if you want to learn About cows, you go milk one, see?" "Yeah, Jim, but I don't want to study cows. I-" "Sure you do. You have to know about cows. They're a big part of life in Macomb County." I contented myself with asking Jim if he'd lost His mind. "I'm just trying to tell you the new way They're teaching the first grade. Stubborn. It's the Dewey Decimal System." Having never questioned Jim's pronouncements, I saw no reason to begin now. The Dewey Decimal System consisted, In part, of Miss Caroline waving cards at us On which were printed the, cat, Rat, man, and you. No comment seemed to be expected of us. And the class received these impressionistic Revelations in silence. I was bored, so I began a letter to Dill. Miss Caroline caught me writing and told me to Tell my father to stop teaching me. Besides, she said, we don't write in the first Grade. We print. You won't learn to write until you're in the Third grade. Calpurnia was to blame for this. It kept me from driving her crazy on rainy Days, I guess. She would set me a writing Task by scrawling the alphabet firmly across the top Of a tablet, then copying out a chapter of The Bible underneath. If I reproduced her penmanship satisfactorily, She rewarded me with an open-faced sandwich of bread And butter and sugar. In Calpurnia's teaching, there was no Sentimentality. I seldom pleased her, And she seldom rewarded me. Everybody who goes home to lunch hold up your Hands, said Miss Caroline, breaking into my new Grudge against Calpurnia. The town children did so, and she looked us Over. Everybody who brings his lunch put it on top Of his desk. Molasses buckets appeared from nowhere, And the ceiling danced with metallic light. Miss Caroline walked up and down the rows, Peering and poking into lunch containers, Nodding if the contents pleased her, Frowning a little at others. She stopped at Walter Cunningham's desk. Where's yours? She asked. Walter Cunningham's face told everybody in the first Grade he had hookworms. His absence of shoes told us how he got Them. People caught hookworms going barefooted in Barnyards and hog wallers. If Walter had owned any shoes, he would have Worn them the first day of school, and then Discarded them until midwinter. He did have on a clean shirt and neatly Mended overalls. Did you forget your lunch this morning? Asked Miss Caroline. Walter looked straight ahead. I saw a muscle jump in his skinny jaw. Did you forget it this morning? Asked Miss Caroline. Walter's jaw twitched again. Yep, he finally mumbled. Miss Caroline went to her desk and opened her Purse. Here's a quarter, she said to Walter. Go and eat downtown today. You can pay me back tomorrow. Walter shook his head. No, Thank you, ma'am, he drawled softly. Impatience crept into Miss Caroline's voice. Here, Walter, come get it. Walter shook his head again. When Walter shook his head a third time, Someone whispered, Go on and tell her, Scout. I turned around and saw most of the town People and the entire bus delegation looking at me. Miss Caroline and I had conferred twice already, And they were looking at me in the innocent Assurance that familiarity breeds understanding. I rose graciously on Walter's behalf. Uh, Miss Caroline? What is it, Jean Louise? Miss Caroline, He's a Cunningham. I sat back down. What, Jean Louise? I thought I had made things sufficiently clear. It was clear enough to the rest of us. Walter Cunningham was sitting there lying his head Off. He didn't forget his lunch. He didn't have any. He had none today, nor would he have any Tomorrow or the next day. He had probably never seen three quarters together At the same time in his life. I tried again. Walter's one of the Cunninghams, Miss Caroline. I beg your pardon, Jean Louise. That's okay, ma'am. You'll get to know all the Country folks after a while. The Cunninghams never took anything they can't pay Back. No church baskets and no script stamps. They never took anything off of anybody. They get along on what they have. They don't have much, but they get along on It. My special knowledge of the Cunningham tribe, One branch that is, was gained from events of Last winter. Walter's father was one of Atticus's Clients. After a dreary conversation in our living room one Night about his entailment, before Mr. Cunningham left, he said, Mr. Finch, I don't know when I'll ever be able To pay you. Let that be the least of your worries, Walter, Atticus said. When I asked Jem what entailment was, And Jem described it as a condition of having Your tail in a crack, I asked Atticus if Mr. Cunningham would ever pay us. Not in money, Atticus said, but before the year's Out, I'll have been paid. You watch. We watched. One morning, Jem and I found a load of Stovewood in the backyard. Later, a sack of hickory nuts appeared on the Back steps. With Christmas came a crate of smilax And holly. That spring, when we found a croaker sack full Of turnip greens, Atticus said Mr. Cunningham had more than paid him. Why does he pay you like that? I asked. Because that's the only way he can pay me. He has no money. Are we poor, Atticus? Atticus nodded. We are indeed. Jem's nose wrinkled. Are we as poor as the Cunninghams? Not exactly. The Cunninghams are country folks, Farmers, and the crash hit them hardest. Atticus said professional people were poor because The farmers were poor. As Maycomb County was farm country, Nickels and dimes were hard to come by for Doctors and dentists and lawyers. Entailment was only a part of Mr. Cunningham's vexations. The acres not entailed were mortgaged to the hilt, And the little cash he made went to interest. If he held his mouth right, Mr. Cunningham could get a WPA job, But his land would go to ruin if he Left it, and he was willing to go hungry To keep his land and vote as he pleased. Mr. Cunningham, said Atticus, came from a set breed Of men. As the Cunninghams had no money to pay a Lawyer, they simply paid us with what they had. Did you know, said Atticus, that Dr. Reynolds works the same way? He charges some folks a bushel of potatoes for Delivery of a baby. Miss Scout, if you give me your attention, I'll tell you what entailment is. Jem's definitions are very nearly accurate Sometimes. If I could have explained these things to Miss Caroline, I would have saved myself some Inconvenience and Miss Caroline's subsequent Mortification. But it was beyond my ability to Explain things as well as Atticus. So I said, You're shaming him, Miss Caroline. Walter hasn't got a quarter at home to bring You, and you can't use any stovewood. Miss Caroline stood stock still, Then grabbed me by the collar and hauled me Back to her desk. Jean Louise, I've had about enough of you this Morning, she said. You're starting off on the wrong Foot in every way, my dear. Hold out your hand. I thought she was going to spit in it, Which was the only reason anybody in Maycomb held Out his hand. It was a time-honored method of sealing oral Contracts. Wondering what bargain we had made, I turned to the class for an answer, but The class looked back at me in puzzlement. Miss Caroline picked up her ruler, Gave me half a dozen quick little pats, Then told me to stand in the corner. A storm of laughter broke loose when it finally Occurred to the class that Miss Caroline had whipped Me. When Miss Caroline threatened it with a similar Fate, the first grade exploded again, Becoming cold sober only when the shadow of Miss Blunt fell over them. Miss Blunt, a native Maycombian, As yet uninitiated in the mysteries of the decimal System, appeared at the door, hands on hips, And announced, If I hear another sound from this Room, I'll burn up everybody in it. Miss Caroline, the sixth grade cannot concentrate on The pyramids for all this racket. My sojourn in the corner was a short one. Saved by the bell, Miss Caroline watched the class File out for lunch. As I was the last to leave, I saw Her sink down into her chair and bury her Head in her arms. Had her conduct been more friendly toward me, I would have felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. Three. Catching Walter Cunningham in the schoolyard gave me Some pleasure. But when I was rubbing his nose In the dirt, Jem came by and told me To stop. You're bigger than he is, He said. He's as old as you, nearly, I said. He made me start off on the wrong foot. Let him go, Scout. Why? He didn't have any lunch, I said, And explained my involvement in Walter's dietary Affairs. Walter had picked himself up and was standing Quietly listening to Jem and me. His fists were half-cocked, as if expecting an Onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him to chase him away, But Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation. Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum? He asked, And Walter nodded. Walter looked as if he'd been raised on fish Food. His eyes, as blue as Dill Harris's, Were red-rimmed and watery. There was no color in his face except at The tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, Nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jim suddenly grinned at him. "Come on home to dinner with us, Walter," he Said. "We'd be glad to have you." Walter's face brightened, then darkened. Jim said, "Our daddy's a friend of your daddy's. Scout here, she's crazy. She won't fight you anymore." "I wouldn't be too certain of that," I said. Jim's free dispensation of my pledge irked me, But precious noontime minutes were ticking away. "Yeah, Walter, I won't jump on you again. Don't you like butter beans? Our Cal's a real good cook." Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Jim and I gave up, and we were nearly To the Radley place when Walter called, "Hey, I'm coming." When Walter caught up with us, Jim made pleasant Conversation with him. "A haint lives there," he said cordially, Pointing to the Radley house. "Ever hear about him, Walter?" "Reckon I have," said Walter. "Almost died first year I come to school and Et them pecans. Folks say he pisoned them and Put them over on the school side of the Fence." Jim seemed to have little fear of Boo Radley Now that Walter and I walked beside him. Indeed, Jim grew boastful. "I went all the way up to the house Once," he said to Walter. "Anybody who went up to the house once oughta Not to still run every time he passes it," I said to the clouds above. "And who's running, Miss Priss? You are when ain't nobody with you." By the time we reached our front steps, Walter Had forgotten he was a Cunningham. Jim ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to Set an extra plate. We had company. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about Crops neither Jim nor I could follow. "Reason I can't pass the first grade, Mr. Finch, is I've had to stay out every spring And help Papa with the chopping, but there's another One at the house now that's field size." "Did you pay a bushel of potatoes for him?" I asked, but Atticus shook his head at me. While Walter piled food on his plate, He and Atticus talked together like two men, To the wonderment of Jim and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems when Walter interrupted to ask if there was any molasses In the house. Atticus summoned Calpurnia, who returned bearing the Syrup pitcher. She stood waiting for Walter to help Himself. Walter poured syrup on his vegetables and Meat with a generous hand. He would probably have poured it into his milk Glass had I not asked what the Sam Hill He was doing. The silver saucer clattered when he replaced the Pitcher, and he quickly put his hands in his Lap. Then he ducked his head. Atticus shook his head at me again. "But he's gone and drowned his dinner in syrup," I protested. "He's poured it all over." It was then that Calpurnia requested my presence in The kitchen. She was furious, and when she was furious, Calpurnia's grammar became erratic. When in tranquility, her grammar was as good as Anybody's in Maycomb. Atticus said Calpurnia had more education than most Colored folks. When she squinted down at me, the tiny lines Around her eyes deepened. "There's some folks who don't eat like us," she Whispered fiercely, "but you ain't called on to Contradict them at the table when they don't. That boy's your company, and if he wants to Eat up the tablecloth, you let him, You hear?" "He ain't company, Cal. He's just a Cunningham." "Hush your mouth. Don't matter who they are. Anybody sets foot in this house is your company, And don't you let me catch you remarking on Their ways like you was so high and mighty. Your folks might be better than the Cunninghams, But it don't count for nothing the way you're Disgracing them. If you can't act fit to eat at the Table, you can just sit here and eat in The kitchen." Calpurnia sent me through the swinging door to the Dining room with a stinging smack. I retrieved my plate and finished dinner in the Kitchen, thankful, though, that I was spared the Humiliation of facing them again. I told Calpurnia to just wait. I'd fix her. One of these days when she wasn't looking, I'd Go off and drown myself in Barker's eddy, And then she'd be sorry. Besides, I added, she'd already gotten me in trouble Once today. She had taught me to write, And it was all her fault. "Hush you fussing," she said. Jim and Walter returned to school ahead of me. Staying behind to advise Atticus of Calpurnia's Iniquities was worth a solitary sprint past the Radley place. "She likes Jim better than she likes Me anyway," I concluded and suggested that Atticus Lose no time in packing her off. "Have you ever considered that Jim doesn't worry her Half as much?" Atticus's voice was flinty. "I have no intention of getting rid of her, Now or ever. We couldn't operate a single day without Cal. Have you ever thought of that? You think about how much Cal does for you, And you mind her, you hear?" I returned to school and hated Calpurnia steadily Until a sudden shriek shattered my resentments. I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in The middle of the room, sheer horror flooding her Face. Apparently, she had revived enough to Persevere in her profession. "It's alive!" she screamed. The male population of the class rushed as one To her assistance. "Lord," I thought, "she's scared of a mouse." Little Chuck Little, whose patience with all living Things was phenomenal, said, "Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us where he went, Quick, DC." He turned to a boy behind him. "DC, shut the door and we'll catch him. Quick, ma'am, where did he go?" Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger, Not at the floor, nor at a desk, But to a hulking individual unknown to me. Little Chuck's face contracted and he said gently, "You mean him, ma'am? Yes'm, he's alive. Did he scare you some way?" Miss Caroline said desperately, "I was just walking By when it crawled out of his hair. Just crawled out of his hair." Little Chuck grinned broadly. "There ain't no need to fear a cootie, ma'am. Ain't you ever seen one? Now, don't you be afraid. You just go back to your desk and teach Us some more." Little Chuck Little was another member of the Population who didn't know where his next meal was Coming from, but he was a born gentleman. He put his hand under her elbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. "Now, don't you fret, ma'am," he said. "There ain't no need to fear cootie. I'll just fetch you some cool water." The cootie's host showed not the faintest interest In the furor he had wrought. He searched the scalp above his forehead, Located his guest, and pinched it between his thumb And forefinger. Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid Fascination. Little Chuck brought water in a paper Cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally, she found her voice. "What is your name, son?" She asked softly. The boy blinked. "Who, me?" Miss Caroline nodded. "Burris Ewell." Miss Caroline inspected her roll book. "I have a Ewell here, but I don't have A first name. Would you spell your first name For me?" "Don't know how. They call me Burris at home." "Well, Burris," said Miss Caroline, "I think we'd better excuse you for the rest Of the afternoon. I want you to go home And wash your hair." From her desk, she produced a thick volume, Leafed through its pages, and read for a moment. "A good home remedy for... Burris, I want you to go home and wash Your hair with lye soap. When you've done that, treat your scalp with Kerosene." "What for, missus?" "To get rid of the, Er, cooties. You see, Burris, the other children might catch Them, and you wouldn't want that, would you?" The boy stood up. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen. His neck was dark gray, the backs of his Hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black Deep into the quick. He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean Space on his face. No one had noticed him, probably because Miss Caroline and I had entertained the class most of The morning. "And Burris," said Miss Caroline, "please bathe yourself before you come back Tomorrow." The boy laughed rudely. "You ain't sending me home, missus. I was on the verge of leaving. I done done my time for this year." Miss Caroline looked puzzled. "What do you mean by that?" The boy did not answer. He gave a short, contemptuous snort. One of the elderly members of the class answered Her. "He's one of the Ewells, ma'am." And I wondered if this explanation would be as Unsuccessful as my attempt, but Miss Caroline seemed Willing to listen. "Whole school's full of them. They come first day every year and