Saptarshi B

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.

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.