“Jem Finch, Scout Finch, Charles Baker Harris, come here!” Our promptness was always rewarded.
In summertime, twilights are long and peaceful. Often as not, Miss Maudie and I would sit silently on her porch,
watching the sky go from yellow to pink as the sun went down,
watching flights of martins sweep low over the neighborhood and disappear behind the schoolhouse rooftops.
“Miss Maudie,” I said one evening, “do you think Boo Radley’s still alive?”
“His name’s Arthur and he’s alive,” she said. She was rocking slowly in her big oak chair.
“Do you smell my mimosa? It’s like angels’ breath this evening.”
“Yessum. How do you know?” “Know what, child?” “That B—Mr. Arthur’s still alive?”
“What a morbid question. But I suppose it’s a morbid subject.
I know he’s alive, Jean Louise, because I haven’t seen him carried out yet.
Maybe he died and they stuffed him up the chimney.“Where did you get such a notion?”
“That’s what Jem said he thought they did.” “S-ss-ss. He gets more like Jack Finch every day.”
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