Once the town was terrorized by a series of morbid nocturnal events: people’s chickens and household pets were found mutilated;
although the culprit was Crazy Addie, who eventually drowned himself in Barker’s Eddy,
people still looked at the Radley Place, unwilling to discard their initial suspicions.
A Negro would not pass the Radley Place at night, he would cut across to the sidewalk opposite and whistle as he walked.
The Maycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot; from the Radley chickenyard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard,
but the nuts lay untouched by the children: Radley pecans would kill you.
A baseball hit into the Radley yard was a lost ball and no questions asked.
The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born.
The Radleys, welcome anywhere in town, kept to themselves, a predilection unforgivable in Maycomb.
They did not go to church, Maycomb’s principal recreation, but worshiped at home;
Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a mid-morning coffee break with her neighbors, and certainly never joined a missionary circle.
Mr. Radley walked to town at eleven-thirty every morning and came back promptly at twelve,
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