there were sit-down strikes in Birmingham; bread lines in the cities grew longer, people in the country grew poorer.
But these were events remote from the world of Jem and me.
We were surprised one morning to see a cartoon in the Montgomery Advertiser above the caption, “Maycomb’s Finch.”
It showed Atticus barefooted and in short pants, chained to a desk:
he was diligently writing on a slate while some frivolous-looking girls yelled, “Yoo-hoo!” at him.
“That’s a compliment,” explained Jem. “He spends his time doin‘ things that wouldn’t get done if nobody did ’em.”
“Huh?” In addition to Jem’s newly developed characteristics, he had acquired a maddening air of wisdom.
“Oh, Scout, it’s like reorganizing the tax systems of the counties and things. That kind of thing’s pretty dry to most men.”
“How do you know?” “Oh, go on and leave me alone. I’m readin‘ the paper.”
Jem got his wish. I departed for the kitchen. While she was shelling peas, Calpurnia suddenly said,
What am I gonna do about you all’s church this Sunday?
Nothing, I reckon. Atticus left us collection.Calpurnia’s eyes narrowed and I could tell what was going through her mind.
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