Mrs. Merriweather, stationed behind her lectern beside the band, said: “Maycomb County Ad Astra Per Aspera.”
The bass drum boomed again. “That means,” said Mrs. Merriweather, translating for the rustic elements, “from the mud to the stars.”
She added, unnecessarily, it seemed to me, “A pageant.” “Reckon they wouldn’t know what it was if she didn’t tell ‘em,” whispered Cecil.
“The whole town knows it,” I breathed. “But the country folks’ve come in,” Cecil said.
“Be quiet back there,” a man’s voice ordered, and we were silent.
The bass drum went boom with every sentence Mrs. Merriweather uttered.
She chanted mournfully about Maycomb County being older than the state, that it was a part of the Mississippi and Alabama Territories,
that the first white man in the virgin forests was the Probate Judge’s great-grandfather five times removed, who was never heard of again.
Then came the fearless Colonel Maycomb, for whom the county was named.
Andrew Jackson appointed him to a position of authority, and Colonel Maycomb’s misplaced self-confidence and slender sense of direction
brought disaster to all who rode with him in the Creek Indian Wars.
Colonel Maycomb persevered in his efforts to make the region safe for democracy, but his first campaign was his last.
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