When I was nearly thirteen, I got my arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed and my fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, I was seldom self-conscious about my injury. My left arm was somewhat shorter than my right when I stood and walked. When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to my accident. My little sister, Scout, would maintain that the Ewells started it all, but I, who was four years older than Scout, said it started long before that. I’d said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.
Our father’s name is Atticus. 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 Jale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at the 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. Maycomb was an old town where in rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. 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. We lived on the main residential street in town- Atticus, Scout and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Scout and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment. Our mother died when we were young, when Scout was only two years old. Our mother died from a heart attack that was said ran in her family. I don’t think Scout misses our mom because she was too young when she died but I do miss her and remember her clearly.
Our father’s name is Atticus. 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 Jale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at the 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. Maycomb was an old town where in rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. 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. We lived on the main residential street in town- Atticus, Scout and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Scout and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment. Our mother died when we were young, when Scout was only two years old. Our mother died from a heart attack that was said ran in her family. I don’t think Scout misses our mom because she was too young when she died but I do miss her and remember her clearly.
When I was nearly ten and Scout was almost six, our summertime boundaries were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors to the north of us and the Radley place three doors to the south. We never tempted to break them. That was the summer Dill came to us. Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Scout and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We found a boy sitting down; he wasn’t much higher than the collards. Scout and I stared at him until he said, “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” I said.
“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” Scout said.
Then he told us that he was four-and-a half years old and that he was going on seven. He also told us that he was little but old. He kept on talking to us and told us that he was from Meridian, Mississippi, and was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. Thus we came to know Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies. Dill was fascinated with the Radley Place. He gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. So Scout and I told him all we knew about the Radley Place. I told Dill that inside the house lived a malevolent phantom and that nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight, but I figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Then I gave him a reasonable description of Boo. Later, Dill told us that we should try to make Boo come out and see how he looks. Then Dill dared me to go over to the Radley Place. I had never declined a dare so I thought about it for three days and I decided to go. I walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain. Then I threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house slapped it with my palm and ran back past Scout and Dill. Dill and Scout fallowed on my heels. Safely on our porch, painting 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. A tiny, almost invisible movement and the house was still.
Dill left us early in September, to return to Meridian.
I condescended to take Scout to school the first day. As Scout and I walked at the edge of the schoolyard, I was careful to explain Scout that during school hours she was not to bother me, she was not to approach me with requests to enact a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass me with references to my private life, or tag along behind me at recess and noon. Also, that she was to stick with the first grade and I would stick with the fifth. Then I saw Scout go on to her first grade classroom. Later, I cut Scout from the covey of first- graders in the schoolyard. I asked her how she was getting along. She told me that if she didn’t have to stay she would leave and that a lady was saying that Atticus had been teaching her to read and that he had to stop.
“Don’t worry, Scout,” I comforted her. “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 wanta learn about cows, you go milk one, see?”
“Yeah Jem, but I don’t wanta study cows, I-,” Scout replied.
“Sure you do. You hafta know about cows, they’re a big part of life in Maycomb County,” I said.
“I’m just trying to tell you the new way they’re teachin’ the first grade, stubborn. It’s the Dewey Decimal System,” I said.
Having never questioned my pronouncements, Scout saw no reason to begin now. Later on that day I found Scout rubbing the nose of a boy in the dirt so I told her to stop. Then Scout told me that the boy’s name was Walter and that he didn’t have any lunch.
“Come on home to dinner with us, Walter,” I said. “We’d be glad to have you.”
Walter’s face brightened, and then darkened.
“Our daddy’s friend of your daddy’s. Scout here, she’s crazy- she won’t fight you any more,” I said.
“Yeah Walter, I won’t jump on you again. Don’t you like butterbeans? Our Cal’s a real good cook,” said Scout.
Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Scout and I gave up, and we were nearly to the Radley Place when Walter called, “Hey, I’m comin’!”
By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. I 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 Scout nor could I follow. After dinner, Walter and I returned to school ahead of Scout. By late afternoon Scout and I raced each other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming from work. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him around the post office corner in the distance.
Atticus and Scout kept reading that evening columns of print, which was reason enough for me to spend the following Saturday aloft in the treehouse. I sat there from after breakfast until sunset and would have remained overnight had not Atticus severed my supply lines. Scout had spent most of the day climbing up and down, running errands for me, providing me with literature, nourishment and water, until Atticus talked to her and she stopped. Later, I finally decided to come down of the treehouse.
“Hey yourself,” I said.
“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” Scout said.
Then he told us that he was four-and-a half years old and that he was going on seven. He also told us that he was little but old. He kept on talking to us and told us that he was from Meridian, Mississippi, and was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. Thus we came to know Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies. Dill was fascinated with the Radley Place. He gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. So Scout and I told him all we knew about the Radley Place. I told Dill that inside the house lived a malevolent phantom and that nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight, but I figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Then I gave him a reasonable description of Boo. Later, Dill told us that we should try to make Boo come out and see how he looks. Then Dill dared me to go over to the Radley Place. I had never declined a dare so I thought about it for three days and I decided to go. I walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain. Then I threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house slapped it with my palm and ran back past Scout and Dill. Dill and Scout fallowed on my heels. Safely on our porch, painting 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. A tiny, almost invisible movement and the house was still.
Dill left us early in September, to return to Meridian.
I condescended to take Scout to school the first day. As Scout and I walked at the edge of the schoolyard, I was careful to explain Scout that during school hours she was not to bother me, she was not to approach me with requests to enact a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass me with references to my private life, or tag along behind me at recess and noon. Also, that she was to stick with the first grade and I would stick with the fifth. Then I saw Scout go on to her first grade classroom. Later, I cut Scout from the covey of first- graders in the schoolyard. I asked her how she was getting along. She told me that if she didn’t have to stay she would leave and that a lady was saying that Atticus had been teaching her to read and that he had to stop.
“Don’t worry, Scout,” I comforted her. “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 wanta learn about cows, you go milk one, see?”
“Yeah Jem, but I don’t wanta study cows, I-,” Scout replied.
“Sure you do. You hafta know about cows, they’re a big part of life in Maycomb County,” I said.
“I’m just trying to tell you the new way they’re teachin’ the first grade, stubborn. It’s the Dewey Decimal System,” I said.
Having never questioned my pronouncements, Scout saw no reason to begin now. Later on that day I found Scout rubbing the nose of a boy in the dirt so I told her to stop. Then Scout told me that the boy’s name was Walter and that he didn’t have any lunch.
“Come on home to dinner with us, Walter,” I said. “We’d be glad to have you.”
Walter’s face brightened, and then darkened.
“Our daddy’s friend of your daddy’s. Scout here, she’s crazy- she won’t fight you any more,” I said.
“Yeah Walter, I won’t jump on you again. Don’t you like butterbeans? Our Cal’s a real good cook,” said Scout.
Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Scout and I gave up, and we were nearly to the Radley Place when Walter called, “Hey, I’m comin’!”
By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. I 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 Scout nor could I follow. After dinner, Walter and I returned to school ahead of Scout. By late afternoon Scout and I raced each other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming from work. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him around the post office corner in the distance.
Atticus and Scout kept reading that evening columns of print, which was reason enough for me to spend the following Saturday aloft in the treehouse. I sat there from after breakfast until sunset and would have remained overnight had not Atticus severed my supply lines. Scout had spent most of the day climbing up and down, running errands for me, providing me with literature, nourishment and water, until Atticus talked to her and she stopped. Later, I finally decided to come down of the treehouse.
