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TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD EPUB BUD

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Deep in the far western mountains, in the late 19 th century, Anna finds that there are worse things tha MORE Bud was drowned in a boating accident, when her daughter, Rosa, was a child.

To kill a mockingbird: To Kill a Mockingbird Series, Book 1

Drood, already a widower, and the bereaved Mr. The guardian of Rosa was a lawyer, Mr. Grewgious, who had been in love with her mother. Manette, a French physician, having been called in to treat a young peasant and his sister, realizes that they have been cruelly abused by the Marquis de St. Miss Caroline seemed unaware that the ragged, denim-shirted and floursack-skirted first grade, most of whom had chopped cotton and fed hogs from the time they were able to walk, were immune to imaginative literature.

I suppose she chose me because she knew my name; as I read the alphabet a faint line appeared between her eyebrows, and after making me read most of My First Reader and the stock-market quotations from The Mobile Register aloud, she discovered that I was literate and looked at me with more than faint distaste. Miss Caroline told me to tell my father not to teach me any more, it would interfere with my reading. He read in a book where I was a Bullfinch instead of a Finch. You can have a seat now.

I never deliberately learned to read, but somehow I had been wallowing illicitly in the daily papers. In the long hours of church—was it then I learned? I could not remember not being able to read hymns. Now that I was compelled to think about it, reading was something that just came to me, as learning to fasten the seat of my union suit without looking around, or achieving two bows from a snarl of shoelaces.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. I knew I had annoyed Miss Caroline, so I let well enough alone and stared out the window until recess when Jem cut me from the covey of first-graders in the schoolyard. He asked how I was getting along.

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I told him. She learned about it in college. 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. 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. The town children did so, and she looked us over. Miss Caroline walked up and down the rows peering and poking into lunch containers, nodding if the contents pleased her, frowning a little at others. His absence of shoes told us how he got them. People caught hookworms going barefooted in barnyards and hog wallows.

If Walter had owned any shoes he would have worn them the first day of school and then discarded them until midwinter. He did have on a clean shirt and neatly mended overalls. Walter looked straight ahead. I saw a muscle jump in his skinny jaw. Miss Caroline went to her desk and opened her purse. You can pay me back tomorrow.

Miss Caroline and I had conferred twice already, and they were looking at me in the innocent assurance that familiarity breeds understanding. It was clear enough to the rest of us: Walter Cunningham was sitting there lying his head off. He had none today nor would he have any tomorrow or the next day. He had probably never seen three quarters together at the same time in his life.

They never took anything off of anybody, they get along on what they have. After a dreary conversation in our livingroom one night about his entailment, before Mr. When I asked Jem what entailment was, and Jem described it as a condition of having your tail in a crack, I asked Atticus if Mr.

Cunningham would ever pay us. You watch. One morning Jem and I found a load of stovewood in the back yard.

Later, a sack of hickory nuts appeared on the back steps. With Christmas came a crate of smilax and holly. That spring when we found a crokersack full of turnip greens, Atticus said Mr.

Cunningham had more than paid him. He has no money. The Cunninghams are country folks, farmers, and the crash hit them hardest. As Maycomb County was farm country, nickels and dimes were hard to come by for doctors and dentists and lawyers.

Entailment was only a part of Mr. The acres not entailed were mortgaged to the hilt, and the little cash he made went to interest. If he held his mouth right, Mr.

Ebook Version Of To Kill A Mockingbird

Cunningham could get a WPA job, but his land would go to ruin if he left it, and he was willing to go hungry to keep his land and vote as he pleased. Cunningham, said Atticus, came from a set breed of men.

As the Cunninghams had no money to pay a lawyer, they simply paid us with what they had. Reynolds works the same way? He charges some folks a bushel of potatoes for delivery of a baby. Hold out your hand. Wondering what bargain we had made, I turned to the class for an answer, but the class looked back at me in puzzlement. Miss Caroline picked up her ruler, gave me half a dozen quick little pats, then told me to stand in the corner.

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A storm of laughter broke loose when it finally occurred to the class that Miss Caroline had whipped me. When Miss Caroline threatened it with a similar fate the first grade exploded again, becoming cold sober only when the shadow of Miss Blount fell over them.

Miss Caroline, the sixth grade cannot concentrate on the pyramids for all this racket! Saved by the bell, Miss Caroline watched the class file out for lunch.

As I was the last to leave, I saw her sink down into her chair and bury her head in her arms. Had her conduct been more friendly toward me, I would have felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. Walter had picked himself up and was standing quietly listening to Jem and me. His fists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him to chase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation.

Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum? There was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. Jem ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to set an extra plate, we had company.

Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I could follow. While Walter piled food on his plate, he and Atticus talked together like two men, to the wonderment of Jem and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems when Walter interrupted to ask if there was any molasses in the house. Atticus summoned Calpurnia, who returned bearing the syrup pitcher. She stood waiting for Walter to help himself.

Walter poured syrup on his vegetables and meat with a generous hand. He would probably have poured it into his milk glass had I not asked what the sam hill he was doing. The silver saucer clattered when he replaced the pitcher, and he quickly put his hands in his lap. Then he ducked his head. Atticus shook his head at me again. Atticus said Calpurnia had more education than most colored folks. When she squinted down at me the tiny lines around her eyes deepened. I retrieved my plate and finished dinner in the kitchen, thankful, though, that I was spared the humiliation of facing them again.

You think about how much Cal does for you, and you mind her, you hear? I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in the middle of the room, sheer horror flooding her face. Apparently she had revived enough to persevere in her profession. The male population of the class rushed as one to her assistance. Tell us where he went, quick! Did he scare you some way? He put his hand under her elbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. He searched the scalp above his forehead, located his guest and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid fascination. Little Chuck brought water in a paper cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally she found her voice. The boy blinked. I want you to go home and wash your hair. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen.

His neck was dark gray, the backs of his hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black deep into the quick.

He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean space on his face. No one had noticed him, probably, because Miss Caroline and I had entertained the class most of the morning. He gave a short contemptuous snort.

But Miss Caroline seemed willing to listen. They come first day every year and then leave. Now go home. Soon we were clustered around her desk, trying in our various ways to comfort her. When I passed the Radley Place for the fourth time that day—twice at a full gallop —my gloom had deepened to match the house. If the remainder of the school year were as fraught with drama as the first day, perhaps it would be mildly entertaining, but the prospect of spending nine months refraining from reading and writing made me think of running away.

It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him round the post office corner in the distance.

Atticus seemed to have forgotten my noontime fall from grace; he was full of questions about school. My replies were monosyllabic and he did not press me.

Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fix supper. It was not often that she made crackling bread, she said she never had time, but with both of us at school today had been an easy one for her. She knew I loved crackling bread. You run along now and let me get supper on the table. I ran along, wondering what had come over her.

She had wanted to make up with me, that was it. She had always been too hard on me, she had at last seen the error of her fractious ways, she was sorry and too stubborn to say so. Atticus followed me. Atticus sat down in the swing and crossed his legs. His fingers wandered to his watchpocket; he said that was the only way he could think. When he completed his examination of the wisteria vine he strolled back to me. He just goes to school the first day.

In your case, the law remains rigid. So to school you must go. He said that some Christmas, when he was getting rid of the tree, he would take me with him and show me where and how they lived.

They were people, but they lived like animals. You must obey the law. Another thing, Mr. In Maycomb County, hunting out of season was a misdemeanor at law, a capital felony in the eyes of the populace.

Are you going to take out your disapproval on his children? Is it a bargain?

Jem sat from after breakfast until sunset and would have remained overnight had not Atticus severed his supply lines. I had spent most of the day climbing up and down, running errands for him, providing him with literature, nourishment and water, and was carrying him blankets for the night when Atticus said if I paid no attention to him, Jem would come down.

Atticus was right. Indeed, they were an endless Project that slowly evolved into a Unit, in which miles of construction paper and wax crayon were expended by the State of Alabama in its well-meaning but fruitless efforts to teach me Group Dynamics. What Jem called the Dewey Decimal System was school-wide by the end of my first year, so I had no chance to compare it with other teaching techniques.

Jem, educated on a half-Decimal halfDuncecap basis, seemed to function effectively alone or in a group, but Jem was a poor example: no tutorial system devised by man could have stopped him from getting at books. As for me, I knew nothing except what I gathered from Time magazine and reading everything I could lay hands on at home, but as I inched sluggishly along the treadmill of the Maycomb County school system, I could not help receiving the impression that I was being cheated out of something.

Out of what I knew not, yet I did not believe that twelve years of unrelieved boredom was exactly what the state had in mind for me. One afternoon as I raced by, something caught my eye and caught it in such a way that I took a deep breath, a long look around, and went back. Two live oaks stood at the edge of the Radley lot; their roots reached out into the side-road and made it bumpy.

Something about one of the trees attracted my attention. Some tinfoil was sticking in a knot-hole just above my eye level, winking at me in the afternoon sun. I stood on tiptoe, hastily looked around once more, reached into the hole, and withdrew two pieces of chewing gum minus their outer wrappers.

My first impulse was to get it into my mouth as quickly as possible, but I remembered where I was. I ran home, and on our front porch I examined my loot. The gum looked fresh. I sniffed it and it smelled all right. I licked it and waited for a while. When Jem came home he asked me where I got such a wad. I told him I found it.

The tang was fading, anyway. You go gargle—right now, you hear me? On my part, I went to much trouble, sometimes, not to provoke her. Summer was on the way; Jem and I awaited it with impatience. Summer was our best season: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in the treehouse; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parched landscape; but most of all, summer was Dill. The authorities released us early the last day of school, and Jem and I walked home together.

We ran home, and on the front porch we looked at a small box patchworked with bits of tinfoil collected from chewing-gum wrappers. It was the kind of box wedding rings came in, purple velvet with a minute catch. Jem flicked open the tiny catch. Inside were two scrubbed and polished pennies, one on top of the other.

Jem examined them. These are real old. Henry Lafayette Dubose. Dubose lived two doors up the street from us; neighborhood opinion was unanimous that Mrs. Dubose was the meanest old woman who ever lived. He seemed to be thinking again. Louis and stuck to his story regardless of threats. He had discarded the abominable blue shorts that were buttoned to his shirts and wore real short pants with a belt; he was somewhat heavier, no taller, and said he had seen his father.

He was clearly tired of being our character man. I was tired of playing Tom Rover, who suddenly lost his memory in the middle of a picture show and was out of the script until the end, when he was found in Alaska.

I wondered what the summer would bring. We had strolled to the front yard, where Dill stood looking down the street at the dreary face of the Radley Place. An old lady taught me how. Jem sighed. I slapped it up to the front yard. Dill said he ought to be first, he just got here. Jem arbitrated, awarded me first push with an extra time for Dill, and I folded myself inside the tire.

Until it happened I did not realize that Jem was offended by my contradicting him on Hot Steams, and that he was patiently awaiting an opportunity to reward me. He did, by pushing the tire down the sidewalk with all the force in his body.

Ground, sky and houses melted into a mad palette, my ears throbbed, I was suffocating. I could not put out my hands to stop, they were wedged between my chest and knees.

I could only hope that Jem would outrun the tire and me, or that I would be stopped by a bump in the sidewalk. I heard him behind me, chasing and shouting.

The tire bumped on gravel, skeetered across the road, crashed into a barrier and popped me like a cork onto pavement. I froze. Jem was silent. Why, you even touched the house once, remember? Calpurnia set a pitcher and three glasses on the porch, then went about her business. Lemonade would restore his good humor. Jem gulped down his second glassful and slapped his chest.

Jem hissed. He died years ago and they stuffed him up the chimney. Jem parceled out our roles: I was Mrs.

Radley, and all I had to do was come out and sweep the porch. Dill was old Mr.

Radley: he walked up and down the sidewalk and coughed when Jem spoke to him. Jem, naturally, was Boo: he went under the front steps and shrieked and howled from time to time. As the summer progressed, so did our game. We polished and perfected it, added dialogue and plot until we had manufactured a small play upon which we rang changes every day. He was as good as his worst performance; his worst performance was Gothic. I reluctantly played assorted ladies who entered the script.

Jem was a born hero. It was a melancholy little drama, woven from bits and scraps of gossip and neighborhood legend: Mrs. Radley had been beautiful until she married Mr. Radley and lost all her money. The three of us were the boys who got into trouble; I was the probate judge, for a change; Dill led Jem away and crammed him beneath the steps, poking him with the brushbroom.

Jem would reappear as needed in the shapes of the sheriff, assorted townsfolk, and Miss Stephanie Crawford, who had more to say about the Radleys than anybody in Maycomb. From where I stood it looked real. When Mr. Nathan Radley passed us on his daily trip to town, we would stand still and silent until he was out of sight, then wonder what he would do to us if he suspected.

Our activities halted when any of the neighbors appeared, and once I saw Miss Maudie Atkinson staring across the street at us, her hedge clippers poised in midair. The sun said twelve noon. Why are you tearing up that newspaper? Does this by any chance have anything to do with the Radleys? The first reason happened the day I rolled into the Radley front yard.

Through all the head- shaking, quelling of nausea and Jem-yelling, I had heard another sound, so low I could not have heard it from the sidewalk. Someone inside the house was laughing. Dill was in hearty agreement with this plan of action. Dill was becoming something of a trial anyway, following Jem about. He had asked me earlier in the summer to marry him, then he promptly forgot about it.

He staked me out, marked as his property, said I was the only girl he would ever love, then he neglected me.

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I beat him up twice but it did no good, he only grew closer to Jem. They spent days together in the treehouse plotting and planning, calling me only when they needed a third party. But I kept aloof from their more foolhardy schemes for a while, and on pain of being called a girl, I spent most of the remaining twilights that summer sitting with Miss Maudie Atkinson on her front porch.

Until Jem and Dill excluded me from their plans, she was only another lady in the neighborhood, but a relatively benign presence.

Miss Maudie hated her house: time spent indoors was time wasted.His absence of shoes told us how he got them. My opinion isn't colored by a poor instruction of this classic by any means really, my Grade 10 English teacher was the best I've never had but rather, I think it was due to the large number of classics I was exposed to during that school year.

He said that some Christmas, when he was getting rid of the tree, he would take me with him and show me where and how they lived. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. As I was the last to leave, I saw her sink down into her chair and bury her head in her arms. She was our friend. One afternoon as I raced by, something caught my eye and caught it in such a way that I took a deep breath, a long look around, and went back. Uncle Jack Finch confined his passion for digging to his window boxes in Nashville and stayed rich.

Jem examined them.

AHMED from Vermont
Also read my other posts. I absolutely love capture the flag. I enjoy studying docunments queerly.