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Almost died first year I come to school and et them pecans—folks say he pizened ‘em and put ’em over on the school side of the fence. Jem seemed to have little fear of Boo Radley that Walter and I walked beside him. Indeed, Jem grew boastful: I went 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 runnin‘, Miss Priss? You are, when ain’t anybody with you. By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. Jem ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to set an plate, we had company. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I could follow. Reason I can’t pass the first grade, Mr. Finch, is I’ve had to stay out ever‘ spring an’ help Papa with the choppin‘, but t’s another’n at the house 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 toher like two men, to the derment of Jem and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems when Walter interrupted to ask if t 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 veables 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 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. T’s some folks who don’t eat like us, she whispered fiercely, but you ain’t ced on to contradict ‘em at the table when they don’t. That boy’s yo’ comp’ny and if he wants to eat up the table cloth 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’s yo‘ comp’ny, and don’t you let me catch you remarkin’ on their ways like you was so high and mighty! Yo‘ folks might be better’n the Cunninghams but it don’t count for nothin’ the way you’re disgracin‘ ’em—if you can’t fit to eat at the table you can just set and eat in the kitchen! Calpurnia sent me through the swinging door to the diningroom 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 and drown myself in Barker’s Eddy and then she’d be sorry. Besides, I added, she’d already gotten me in trouble once : she had taught me to write and it was her fault. Hush your fussin‘, she said. Jem 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 Jem better’n she likes me, anyway, I concluded, and suggested that Atticus no time in packing her . Have you ever considered that Jem doesn’t worry her half as much? Atticus’s voice was flinty. I’ve no intention of ting rid of her, or ever. We couldn’t operate a single day without Cal, have you ever thought of that? You think about how much Cal does , 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 living things was phenomenal, said, Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us w he went, quick! D.C.- he turned to a boy behind him—D.C., shut the door and we’ll catch him. Quick, ma’am, w’d he go? Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger not at the floor nor at a desk, but to a hulking individual unkn to me. Little Chuck’s face contred and he said gently, You mean him, ma’am? Yessum, 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. T ain’t no need to fear a cootie, ma’am. Ain’t you ever seen one? don’t you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and teach us some more. Little Chuck Little was another of the population who didn’t k w 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. don’t you fret, ma’am, he said. T ain’t no need to fear a 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. Finy she found her voice. What is your , son? she asked softly. The boy blinked. Who, me? Miss Caroline nodded. Burris Ewell. Miss Caroline inspected her roll-book. I have a Ewell , but I don’t have a first … would you spell your first for me? Don’t k how. They c me Burris’t . Well, Burris, said Miss Caroline, I think we’d better excuse you for the rest of the afternoon. I want you to go and wash your hair. From her desk she produced a thick volume, leafed through its pages and read for a moment. A good remedy for—Burris, I want you to go and wash your hair with lye soap. When you’ve done that, treat your scalp with kerosene. What fer, missus? To 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 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, bathe yourself before you come back tomorrow. The boy laughed rudely. You ain’t sendin‘ me , missus. I was on the verge of leavin’—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 s of the class answered her: He’s one of the Ewells, ma’am, and I dered if this explanation would be as unsuccessful as my attempt. But Miss Caroline seemed willing to listen. Whole school’s full of ‘em. They come first day every year and then . The truant lady s ’em ‘cause she threatens ’em with the sheriff, but she’s give up tryin‘ to hold ’em. She reckons she’s carried out the law just tin‘ their s on the roll and runnin’ ‘em the first day. You’re supposed to mark ’em absent the rest of the year… But what about their parents? asked Miss Caroline, in genuine concern. Ain’t got no mother, was the answer, and their paw’s right contentious. Burris Ewell was flattered by the recital. Been comin‘ to the first day o’ the first grade fer three year , he said expansively. Reckon if I’m smart this year they’ll promote me to the second… Miss Caroline said, Sit back down, , Burris, and the moment she said it I k she had made a mistake. The boy’s condescension flashed to anger. You try and make me, missus. Little Chuck Little got to his feet. Let him go, ma’am, he said. He’s a mean one, a hard-down mean one. He’s liable to start somethin‘, and t’s some little folks . He was among the most diminutive of men, but when Burris Ewell turned toward him, Little Chuck’s right hand went to his pocket. Watch your step, Burris, he said. I’d ’s kill you as look at you. go . Burris seemed to be afraid of a child half his height, and Miss Caroline took advantage of his indecision: Burris, go . If you don’t I’ll c the principal, she said. I’ll have to report this, anyway. The boy snorted and slouched leisurely to the door. Safely out of range, he turned and shouted: Report and be damned to ye! Ain’t no snot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c’n make me do nothin‘! You ain’t makin’ me go , missus. You just re that, you ain’t makin‘ me go ! He waited until he was sure she was crying, then he shuffled out of the building. we were clustered around her desk, trying in our various ways to comfort her. He was a real mean one… below the belt… you ain’t ced on to teach folks like that… them ain’t Maycomb’s ways, Miss Caroline, not rey… don’t you fret, ma’am. Miss Caroline, why don’t you read us a story? That cat thing was real fine this mornin‘… Miss Caroline smiled, blew her nose, said, Thank you, darlings, dispersed us, ed a book and mystified the first grade with a long narrative about a toadfrog that lived in a h. When I passed the Radley Place for the fourth time that day—twice at a full gop —my gloom had deepened to match the house. If the remainder of the school year were as fraught with drama as the first day, perhaps it would be mildly entertaining, but the prospect of spending nine months refraining from reading and writing made me think of running away. By late afternoon most of my traveling plans were complete; when Jem and I raced each other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming from work, I didn’t give him much of a race. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him round the post ice corner in the distance. Atticus seemed to have forgotten my noontime f from grace; he was full of questions about school. My replies were monosyllabic and he did not press me. Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fix supper. Shut your eyes and your mouth and I’ll give you a surprise, she said. [Learn how to protect yourself Hеrе ›››]( Yeah, that’s , said Dill. He’ll probably come out after you when he sees you in the yard, then Scout’n‘ 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 ped at the gate. Well go on, said Dill, Scout and me’s right behind you. I’m going, said Jem, 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. Jem threw 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. Dill left us early in September, to return to Meridian. We saw him 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 looked forward more to anything in my . Hours of wintertime had found me in the treehouse, looking over at the schoolyard, spying on multitudes of children through a two-power telescope Jem had given me, learning their games, following Jem’s red jacket through wriggling circles of blind man’s buff, secretly sharing their misfortunes and minor victories. I longed to join them. Jem condescended to take me to school the first day, a job usuy done by one’s parents, but Atticus had said Jem would be delighted to show me w my room was. I think some changed hands in this transion, for as we trotted around the corner past the Radley Place I heard an unfamiliar jingle in Jem’s pockets. When we slowed to a walk at the edge of the schoolyard, Jem was careful to explain that during school hours I was not to bother him, I was not to approach him with requests to en a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass him with references to his private , 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 him alone. You mean we can’t play any more? I asked. We’ll do like we always do at , 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 twenty-one. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks, and wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heeled 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 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 11, 1861, Winston County seceded from Alabama, and every child in Maycomb County k 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 ced the drugstore for an of chocolate malted mice the class was wriggling like a bucketful of catawba worms. Miss Caroline seemed unaware that the ragged, denim-shirted and floursack-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 anybody k what these are? Everybody did; most of the first grade had failed it last year. I suppose she chose me because she k my ; 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 any more, it would interfere with my reading. Teach me? I said in surprise. He hasn’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 livingroom 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. Jem says I was. He read in a book w I was a Bullfinch instead of a Finch. Jem says my ’s rey Jean Louise Bullfinch, that I got swapped when I was born and I’m rey a- Miss Caroline apparently thought I was lying. Let’s not let our imaginations run away with us, dear, she said. you tell your father not to teach you any more. It’s best to begin reading with a fresh mind. You tell him I’ll take over from and try to undo the damage- Ma’am? Your father does not k how to teach. You can have a seat . I mumbled that I was sorry and retired meditating upon my crime. I deliberately learned to read, but somehow I had been wowing illicitly in the daily papers. In the long hours of church—was it then I learned? I could not re not being able to read hymns. 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 re when the lines above Atticus’s moving finger separated into words, but I had stared at them the evenings in my memory, listening to the s of the day, Bills to Be Ened 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 it, I loved to read. One does not love breathing. I k 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 ting along. I told him. If I didn’t have to stay I’d . Jem, that damn lady says Atticus’s been teaching me to read and for him to it- Don’t worry, Scout, Jem comforted me. Our teacher says Miss Caroline’s introducing a way of teaching. She learned about it in college. It’ll be in the grades . 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- Sure you do. You hafta k about cows, they’re a big part of in Maycomb County. I contented myself with asking Jem if he’d lost his mind. I’m just trying to tell you the way they’re teachin‘ the first grade, stubborn. It’s the Dewey Decimal System. Having questioned Jem’s pronouncements, I saw no reason to begin . 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 teaching me. Besides, she said. We don’t write in the first grade, we print. You ’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 beneath. If I reproduced her penmanship satisforily, she rewarded me with an -faced sandwich of bread and butter and sugar. In Calpurnia’s teaching, t was no sentimentality: I seldom d her and she seldom rewarded me. Everybody who goes to lunch hold up your hands, said Miss Caroline, breaking into my 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 , and the ceiling danced with metic light. Miss Caroline walked up and down the rows peering and poking into lunch containers, nodding if the contents d her, frowning a little at others. She ped at Walter Cunningham’s desk. W’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 wows. 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 overs. Did you r lunch this morning? asked Miss Caroline. Walter looked straight ahead. I saw a muscle jump in his skinny jaw. Did you for it this morning? asked Miss Caroline. Walter’s jaw twitched again. Yeb’m, he finy mumbled. Miss Caroline went to her desk and ed her purse. ’s a quarter, she said to Walter. Go and eat downtown . You can pay me back tomorrow. Walter shook his head. Nome thank you ma’am, he drawled softly. Impatience crept into Miss Caroline’s voice: Walter, come 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: Ah—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 t lying his head . He didn’t for his lunch, he didn’t have any. He had none nor would he have any tomorrow or the next day. He had probably seen three quarters toher at the same time in his . I tried again: Walter’s one of the Cunninghams, Miss Caroline. I beg your pardon, Jean Louise? That’s okay, ma’am, you’ll to k the county folks after a while. The Cunninghams took anything they can’t pay back—no church baskets and no scrip stamps. They took anything of anybody, they along on what they have. They don’t have much, but they along on it. My special kledge 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 livingroom one night about his entailment, before Mr. Cunningham left he said, Mr. Finch, I don’t k 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 , 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 back yard. 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 crokersack 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 way he can pay me. He has no . Are we poor, Atticus? Atticus nodded. We are indeed. Jem’s nose wrinkled. Are we as poor as the Cunninghams? Not exly. 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 a part of Mr. Cunningham’s vexations. The acres not entailed were mortgaged to the hilt, and the little he made went to interest. If he held his mouth right, Mr. Cunningham could 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 d. Mr. Cunningham, said Atticus, came from a set breed of men. As the Cunninghams had no to pay a lawyer, they simply paid us with what they had. Did you k, 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 subsequent mortification, but it was beyond my ability to explain things as well as Atticus, so I said, You’re shamin‘ him, Miss Caroline. Walter hasn’t got a quarter at to bring you, and you can’t use any vewood. 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 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 reason anybody in Maycomb held out his hand: it was a time-honored method of sealing oral contrs. dering what 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 finy 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 when the shadow of Miss Blount fell over them. Miss Blount, 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 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 , I saw her sink down into her chair and bury her head in her arms. Had her conduct been more ly toward me, I would have felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. 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 . You’re bigger’n he is, he said. He’s as old as you, nearly, I said. He made me start 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 ped 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 had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris’s, were red-rimmed and watery. T was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overs, nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. Come on to dinner with us, Walter, he said. We’d be glad to have you. Walter’s face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, Our daddy’s a of your daddy’s. Scout , she’s crazy—she ’t fight you any more. I wouldn’t be too certain of that, I said. Jem’s dispensation of my pledge irked me, but precious noontime minutes were ticking away. Yeah Walter, I ’t jump on you again. Don’t you like butterbeans? Our Cal’s a real good cook. [image in footer dar devider] [small logotype footer Expert Modern Advice]( Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide individualized fіnancіal advіse. This email is not financial advice and any іnvestment decіsіon you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. [Unsubscrіbe]( to stop receiving marketing communication from us. 600 N Broad St Ste 5 PMB 1 Middletown, DE 19709 2023 Inception Media, LLC. AII rights reserved [Unsubscribe](