In the beginning its buildings were solid, its courthouse proud, its streets graciously wide.
Maycomb’s proportion of professional people ran high: one went there to have his teeth pulled,
his wagon fixed, his heart listened to, his money deposited, his soul saved, his mules vetted.
But the ultimate wisdom of Sinkfield’s maneuver is open to question.
He placed the young town too far away from the only kind of public transportation in those days—river-boat—
and it took a man from the north end of the county two days to travel to Maycomb for store-bought goods.
As a result the town remained the same size for a hundred years, an island in a patchwork sea of cottonfields and timberland.
Although Maycomb was ignored during the War Between the States, Reconstruction rule and economic ruin forced the town to grow. It grew inward.
New people so rarely settled there, the same families married the same families until the members of the community looked faintly alike.
Occasionally someone would return from Montgomery or Mobile with an outsider,
but the result caused only a ripple in the quiet stream of family resemblance.
Things were more or less the same during my early years.
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