As usual, we met Atticus coming home from work that evening. When we were at our steps Jem said,
Atticus, look down yonder at that tree, please sir.”
What tree, son?” “The one on the corner of the Radley lot comin’ from school.
“Yes?” “Is that tree dyin’?” “Why no, son, I don’t think so. Look at the leaves, they’re all green and full, no brown patches anywhere—”
“It ain’t even sick?” “That tree’s as healthy as you are, Jem. Why?”
“Mr. Nathan Radley said it was dyin’.” “Well maybe it is. I’m sure Mr. Radley knows more about his trees than we do.”
Atticus left us on the porch. Jem leaned on a pillar, rubbing his shoulders against it.
“Do you itch, Jem?” I asked as politely as I could. He did not answer.
“Come on in, Jem,” I said. “After while.” He stood there until nightfall, and I waited for him.
When we went in the house I saw he had been crying; his face was dirty in the right places, but I thought it odd that I had not heard him.
Chapter 8
For reasons unfathomable to the most experienced prophets in Maycomb County, autumn turned to winter that year.
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