“It’s right hard to say,” she said. “Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks’ talk at home it’d be out of place, wouldn’t it?
Now what if I talked white-folks’ talk at church, and with my neighbors? They’d think I was putting on airs to beat Moses.”
“But Cal, you know better,” I said. “It’s not necessary to tell all you know.
It’s not ladylike—in the second place, folks don’t like to have somebody around knowing more than they do. It aggravates ’em.
You’re not gonna change any of them by talking right, they’ve got to want to learn themselves,
and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk their language.”
“Cal, can I come to see you sometimes?” She looked down at me. “See me, honey? You see me every day.”
“Out to your house,” I said. “Sometimes after work? Atticus can get me.”
“Any time you want to,” she said. “We’d be glad to have you.”
We were on the sidewalk by the Radley Place. “Look on the porch yonder,” Jem said.
I looked over to the Radley Place, expecting to see its phantom occupant sunning himself in the swing. The swing was empty.
“I mean our porch,” said Jem. I looked down the street.
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