Having never questioned Jem’s pronouncements, I saw no reason to begin now.
The Dewey Decimal System consisted, in part, of Miss Caroline waving cards at us on which were printed “the,” “cat,” “rat,” “man,” and “you.”
No comment seemed to be expected of us, and the class received these impressionistic revelations in silence.
I was bored, so I began a letter to Dill. Miss Caroline caught me writing and told me to tell my father to stop teaching me.
“Besides,” she said. “We don’t write in the first grade, we print. You won’t learn to write until you’re in the third grade.”
Calpurnia was to blame for this. It kept me from driving her crazy on rainy days, I guess.
She would set me a writing task by scrawling the alphabet firmly across the top of a tablet, then copying out a chapter of the Bible beneath.
If I reproduced her penmanship satisfactorily, she rewarded me with an open-faced sandwich of bread and butter and sugar.
In Calpurnia’s teaching, there was no sentimentality: I seldom pleased her and she seldom rewarded me.
“Everybody who goes home to lunch hold up your hands,” said Miss Caroline, breaking into my new grudge against Calpurnia.
The town children did so, and she looked us over. “Everybody who brings his lunch put it on top of his desk.”
Molasses buckets appeared from nowhere, and the ceiling danced with metallic light.
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