“Yeah, an‘ I reckon you’s comp’ny at the Finch house durin’ the week.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. “Don’t you fret,” Calpurnia whispered to me, but the roses on her hat trembled indignantly.
When Lula came up the pathway toward us Calpurnia said, “Stop right there, nigger.”
Lula stopped, but she said, “You ain’t got no business bringin‘ white chillun here —they got their church, we got our’n.
It is our church, ain’t it, Miss Cal?” Calpurnia said, “It’s the same God, ain’t it?”
Jem said, “Let’s go home, Cal, they don’t want us here—” I agreed: they did not want us here.
I sensed, rather than saw, that we were being advanced upon.
They seemed to be drawing closer to us, but when I looked up at Calpurnia there was amusement in her eyes.
When I looked down the pathway again, Lula was gone. In her place was a solid mass of colored people.
One of them stepped from the crowd. It was Zeebo, the garbage collector.
“Mister Jem,” he said, “we’re mighty glad to have you all here.
Don’t pay no ‘tention to Lula, she’s contentious because Reverend Sykes threatened to church her.
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