𝕋𝕠 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕒 𝕞𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕 - 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚎

𝚃𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍

' 𝚃𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍' 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 Novel from 1960's but the problem is the cost of its chapter 1 is 1000$ usd but now this book is free. 
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- By Harper Lee

                                        - Summarized by
                                                     Sam

                   

                 C҈h҈a҈p҈t҈e҈r҈ 1

When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the
elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were
assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was
somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was
at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared
less, so long as he could pass and punt.
When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we
sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells
started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before
that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea
of making Boo Radley come out.
I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with Andrew
Jackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch
would never have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn’t?
We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted
Atticus. Our father said we were both right.
Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the
Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from
Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was
irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands
of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked
his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile,
and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many
words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this
pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the
glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having
forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three
slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama
River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only
once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters.
Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich.
It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s homestead,
Finch’s Landing, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient:
modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless
produced everything required to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of
clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile.
Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North
and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet
the tradition of living on the land remained unbroken
until well into the twentieth century, when my father, Atticus Finch, went to
Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went to Boston to study
medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at the Landing: she
married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river
wondering if his trot-lines were full.
When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began his
practice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county
seat of Maycomb County. Atticus’s office in the courthouse contained little more
than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His
first two clients were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail.
Atticus had urged them to accept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead
Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were
Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with jackass. The
Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leading blacksmith in a misunderstanding
arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare, were imprudent enough to
do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-itcoming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in
pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus
could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion that was
probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the practice of criminal
law.
During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than
anything; for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s
education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than
my father, and chose to study medicine at a time when cotton was not worth
growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticus derived a reasonable
income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was Maycomb County born and
bred; he knew his people, they knew him, and because of Simon Finch’s
industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in the
town.
Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In
rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the
courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog
suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in
the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by
nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps,
and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.
People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of
the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four
hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go,
nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries
of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people:
Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself.
We lived on the main residential street in town— Atticus, Jem and I, plus
Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us,
read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment.
Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she was
nearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She was always ordering me out of
the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jem when she knew he
was older, and calling me home when I wasn’t ready to come. Our battles were
epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always took her
side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt her tyrannical
presence as long as I could remember.
Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was a Graham
from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state
legislature. He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was
the product of their first year of marriage; four years later I was born, and two
years later our mother died from a sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her
family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did. He remembered her clearly, and
sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh at length, then go off and play
by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, I knew better than to
bother him.
When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries
(within calling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house
two doors to the north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We
were never tempted to break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an
unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for
days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell.
That was the summer Dill came to us.
Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and
I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to
the wire fence to see if there was a puppy— Miss
Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting— instead we found someone sitting
looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higher than the collards. We
stared at him until he spoke:
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” said Jem pleasantly.
“I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.”
“So what?” I said.
“I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘
I can do it…”
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?”
“Goin‘ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s
been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You
look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said.
Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come
over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.”
“‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”
Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n
you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.”
“Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.
“Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt,
Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on.
His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a
photographer in Meridian, had entered his
picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave the money to
Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.
“Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse
sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”
Dill had seen
Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning
of respect. “Tell it to us,” he said.
Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt, his hair
was snow white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I
towered over him. As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and
darken; his laugh was sudden and happy; he habitually pulled at a cowlick in the
center of his forehead.
When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than the
book, I asked Dill where his father was: “You ain’t said anything about him.”
“I haven’t got one.”
“Is he dead?”
“No…”
“Then if he’s not dead you’ve got one, haven’t you?”
Dill blushed and Jem told me to hush, a sure sign that Dill had been studied and
found acceptable. Thereafter the summer passed in routine contentment. Routine
contentment was: improving our treehouse that rested between giant twin
chinaberry trees in the back yard, fussing, running through our list of dramas based
on the works of Oliver Optic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this
matter we were lucky to have Dill. He played the character parts formerly thrust
upon me— the ape in Tarzan, Mr. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus we came to know Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head
teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies.
But by the end of August our repertoire was vapid from countless reproductions,
and it was then that Dill gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out.
The Radley Place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations it drew
him as the moon draws water, but drew him no nearer than the light-pole on the
corner, a safe distance from the Radley gate. There he would stand, his arm around
the fat pole, staring and wondering.
The Radley Place jutted into a sharp curve beyond our house. Walking south, one
faced its porch; the sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot. The house was low,
was once white with a deep front porch and green shutters, but had long ago
darkened to the color of the slate-gray yard around it. Rain-rotted shingles
drooped over the eaves of the veranda; oak trees kept the sun away. The remains
of a picket drunkenly guarded the front yard— a “swept” yard that was never
swept— where johnson grass and rabbit-tobacco grew in abundance.
Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and I
had never seen him. People said he went out at night when the moon was down,
and peeped in windows. When people’s azaleas froze in a cold snap, it was
because he had breathed on them. Any stealthy small crimes committed in
Maycomb were his work. Once the town was terrorized by a series of morbid
nocturnal events: people’s chickens and household pets were found mutilated;
although the culprit was Crazy Addie, who eventually drowned himself in Barker’s
Eddy, people still looked at the Radley Place, unwill-ing to discard their initial suspicions. A Negro would not pass the Radley Place at
night, he would cut across to the sidewalk opposite and whistle as he walked. The
Maycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot; from the Radley
chickenyard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard, but the nuts lay
untouched by the children: Radley pecans would kill you. A baseball hit into the
Radley yard was a lost ball and no questions asked.
The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born. The
Radleys, welcome anywhere in town, kept to themselves, a predilection
unforgivable in Maycomb. They did not go to church, Maycomb’s principal
recreation, but worshiped at home; Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street
for a mid-morning coffee break with her neighbors, and certainly never joined a
missionary circle. Mr. Radley walked to town at eleven-thirty every morning and
came back promptly at twelve, sometimes carrying a brown paper bag that the
neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries. I never knew how old Mr.
Radley made his living— Jem said he “bought cotton,” a polite term for doing
nothing—but Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there with their two sons as long
as anybody could remember.
The shutters and doors of the Radley house were closed on Sundays, another thing
alien to Maycomb’s ways: closed doors meant illness and cold weather only. Of
all days Sunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets,
men wore coats, children wore shoes. But to climb the Radley front steps
and call, “He-y,” of a Sunday afternoon was something their neighbors never did.
The Radley house had no screen doors. I onceasked Atticus if it ever had any; Atticus said yes, but before I was born.
According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens
he became acquainted with some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, an
enormous and confusing tribe domiciled in the northern part of the county, and
they formed the nearest thing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb. They did little, but
enough to be discussed by the town and publicly warned from three pulpits: they
hung around the barbershop; they rode the bus to Abbottsville on Sundays and
went to the picture show; they attended dances at the county’s riverside gambling
hell, the Dew-Drop Inn & Fishing Camp; they experimented with stumphole
whiskey. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tell Mr. Radley that his boy
was in with the wrong crowd.
One night, in an excessive spurt of high spirits, the boys backed around the square
in a borrowed flivver, resisted arrest by Maycomb’s ancient beadle, Mr. Conner,
and locked him in the courthouse outhouse. The town decided something had to be
done; Mr. Conner said he knew who each and every one of them was, and he was
bound and determined they wouldn’t get away with it, so the boys came before the
probate judge on charges of disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, assault and
battery, and using abusive and profane language in the presence and hearing of a
female. The judge asked Mr. Conner why he included the last charge; Mr. Conner
said they cussed so loud he was sure every lady in Maycomb heard them. The
judge decided to send the boys to the state industrial school, where boys were
sometimes sent for no other reason than to provide them with food and decent
shelter: it was no prison and it was no dis-grace. Mr. Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would
see to it that Arthur gave no further trouble. Knowing that Mr. Radley’s word was
his bond, the judge was glad to do so.
The other boys attended the industrial school and received the best secondary
education to be had in the state; one of them eventually worked his way through
engineering school at Auburn. The doors of the Radley house were closed on
weekdays as well as Sundays, and Mr. Radley’s boy was not seen again for
fifteen years.
But there came a day, barely within Jem’s memory, when Boo Radley was heard
from and was seen by several people, but not by Jem. He said Atticus never talked
much about the Radleys: when Jem would question him Atticus’s only answer was
for him to mind his own business and let the Radleys mind theirs, they had a right
to; but when it happened Jem said Atticus shook his head and said, “Mm, mm,
mm.”
So Jem received most of his information from Miss Stephanie Crawford, a
neighborhood scold, who said she knew the whole thing. According to Miss
Stephanie, Boo was sitting in the livingroom cutting some items from The
Maycomb Tribune to paste in his scrapbook. His father entered the room. As Mr.
Radley passed by, Boo drove the scissors into his parent’s leg, pulled them out,
wiped them on his pants, and resumed his activities.
Mrs. Radley ran screaming into the street that Arthur was killing them all, but
when the sheriff arrived he found Boo still sitting in the livingroom, cutting up the
Tribune. He was thirty-three years old then.
Miss Stephanie said old Mr. Radley said no Radley was going to any asylum,
when it was suggested that a season in Tuscaloosa might be helpful to Boo. Boowasn’t crazy, he was high-strung at times. It was all right to shut him up, Mr.
Radley conceded, but insisted that Boo not be charged with anything: he was not
a criminal. The sheriff hadn’t the heart to put him in jail alongside Negroes, so
Boo was locked in the courthouse basement.
Boo’s transition from the basement to back home was nebulous in Jem’s memory.
Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town council told Mr. Radley that if he
didn’t take Boo back, Boo would die of mold from the damp. Besides, Boo could
not live forever on the bounty of the county.
Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of
sight, but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the
time. Atticus said no, it wasn’t that sort of thing, that there were other ways of
making people into ghosts.
My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, walk
to the edge of the porch, and pour water on her cannas. But every day Jem and I
would see Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin leathery man with
colorless eyes, so colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp
and his mouth was wide, with a thin upper lip and a full lower lip. Miss Stephanie
Crawford said he was so upright he took the word of God as his only law, and we
believed her, because Mr. Radley’s posture was ramrod straight.
He never spoke to us. When he passed we would look at the ground and say,
“Good morning, sir,” and he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley’s elder son lived
in Pensacola; he came home at Christmas, and he was one of the few persons we
ever saw enter or leave the place.

From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died.
But there came a day when Atticus told us he’d wear us out if we made any noise
in the yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in his absence if she heard a
sound out of us. Mr. Radley was dying.
He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of the
Radley lot, straw was put down on the sidewalk, traffic was diverted to the back
street. Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our house and walked to the
Radley’s every time he called. Jem and I crept around the yard for days. At last
the sawhorses were taken away, and we stood watching from the front porch
when Mr. Radley made his final journey past our house.
“There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into,” murmured Calpurnia,
and she spat meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for
Calpurnia rarely commented on the ways of white people.
The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under Boo would come out, but
it had another think coming: Boo’s elder brother returned from Pensacola and took
Mr. Radley’s place. The only difference between him and his father was their
ages. Jem said Mr. Nathan Radley “bought cotton,” too. Mr. Nathan would speak
to us, however, when we said good morning, and sometimes we saw him coming
from town with a magazine in his hand.
The more we told Dill about the Radleys, the more he wanted to know, the longer
he would stand hugging the light-pole on the corner, the more he would wonder.
“Wonder what he does in there,” he would murmur. “Looks like he’d just stick his
head out the door.” Jem said, “He goes out, all right, when it’s pitch dark.Miss Stephanie Crawford said she woke up in the middle of the night one time and
saw him looking straight through the window at her… said his head was like a
skull lookin‘ at her. Ain’t you ever waked up at night and heard him, Dill? He
walks like this-” Jem slid his feet through the gravel. “Why do you think Miss
Rachel locks up so tight at night? I’ve seen his tracks in our back yard many a
mornin’, and one night I heard him scratching on the back screen, but he was gone
time Atticus got there.”
“Wonder what he looks like?” said Dill.
Jem gave a reasonable description of Boo: Boo was about six-and-a-half feet tall,
judging from his tracks; he dined on raw squirrels and any cats he could catch,
that’s why his hands were bloodstained—if you ate an animal raw, you could
never wash the blood off. There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face;
what teeth he had were yellow and rotten; his eyes popped, and he drooled most
of the time.
“Let’s try to make him come out,” said Dill. “I’d like to see what he looks like.”
Jem said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, all he had to do was go up and knock
on the front door.
Our first raid came to pass only because Dill bet Jem
The Gray Ghost against two
Tom Swifts that Jem wouldn’t get any farther than the Radley gate. In all his life,
Jem had never declined a dare.
Jem thought about it for three days. I suppose he loved honor more than his head,
for Dill wore him down easily: “You’re scared,” Dill said, the first day. “Ain’t
scared, just respectful,” Jem said. The next day Dill said, “You’re too scared even
to put your big toe in the front yard.” Jem said he reckoned he wasn’t, he’d passed
the Radley Place every school day of his life. Always runnin‘,” I said.
But Dill got him the third day, when he told Jem that folks in Meridian certainly
weren’t as afraid as the folks in Maycomb, that he’d never seen such scary folks
as the ones in Maycomb.
This was enough to make Jem march to the corner, where he stopped and leaned
against the light-pole, watching the gate hanging crazily on its homemade hinge.
“I hope you’ve got it through your head that he’ll kill us each and every one, Dill
Harris,” said Jem, when we joined him. “Don’t blame me when he gouges your
eyes out. You started it, remember.”
“You’re still scared,” murmured Dill patiently.
Jem wanted Dill to know once and for all that he wasn’t scared of anything: “It’s
just that I can’t think of a way to make him come out without him gettin‘ us.”
Besides, Jem had his little sister to think of.
When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Jem had his little sister to think of the
time I dared him to jump off the top of the house: “If I got killed, what’d become
of you?” he asked. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, and his sense of responsibility
left him until confronted by the Radley Place.
“You gonna run out on a dare?” asked Dill. “If you are, then-”
“Dill, you have to think about these things,” Jem said. “Lemme think a minute…
it’s sort of like making a turtle come out…”
“How’s that?” asked Dill.
“Strike a match under him.”
I told Jem if he set fire to the Radley house I was going to tell Atticus on him.
Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful.
“Ain’t hateful, just persuades him—‘s not like you’d chunk him in the fire,”
Jem growled.
“How do you know a match don’t hurt him?”
“Turtles can’t feel, stupid,” said Jem.
“Were you ever a turtle, huh?”
“My stars, Dill! Now lemme think… reckon we can rock him…”
Jem stood in thought so long that Dill made a mild concession: “I won’t say you
ran out on a dare an‘ I’ll swap you
The Gray Ghost
if you just go up and touch the
house.”
Jem brightened. “Touch the house, that all?”
Dill nodded.
“Sure that’s all, now? I don’t want you hollerin‘ something different the
minute I
get back.”
“Yeah, that’s all,” said Dill. “He’ll probably come out after you when he
sees you in the yard, then Scout’n‘ me’ll jump on him and hold him down
till we can tell him we ain’t gonna hurt him.”
We left the corner, crossed the side street that ran in front of the Radley house,
and stopped at the gate.
“Well go on,” said Dill, “Scout and me’s right behind you.”
“I’m going,” said Jem, “don’t hurry me.”
He walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain as
if deciding how best to effect an entry, frowning and scratching his head.
Then I sneered at him.
Jem threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house, slapped it with his palm
and ran back past us, not waiting to see if his foray was successful. Dill and I followed on his heels. Safely on our porch, panting and out of breath, we looked
back.
The old house was the same, droopy and sick, but as we stared down the street we
thought we saw an inside shutter move. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement,
and the house was still.