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Ladies in bunches always filled me with vague apprehension and a firm desire to be elsewhere,
“His food doesn’t stick going down, does it?”
“Why couldn’t I mash him?” I asked. “Because they don’t bother you,” Jem answered in the darkness. He had turned out his reading light.
He likened Tom’s death to the senseless slaughter of songbirds by hunters and children,
High above us in the darkness a solitary mocker poured out his repertoire in blissful unawareness of whose tree he sat in, plunging from the shrill kee, kee of the sunflower bird to the irascible qua-ack of a bluejay, to the sad lament of Poor Will, Poor Will, Poor Will.
taking the one man who’s done you and this town a great service an’ draggin’ him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that’s a sin. It’s a sin and I’m not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man it’d be different. But not this man, Mr. Finch.”
“Well, it’d be sort of like shootin’ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it?”
“Thank you for my children, Arthur,” he said.
Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him.
