One corner of the yard, though, bewildered Maycomb. Against the fence, in a line, were six chipped-enamel slop jars holding brilliant red geraniums, cared for as tenderly as if they belonged to Miss Maudie Atkinson, had Miss Maudie deigned to permit a geranium on her premises. People said they were Mayella Ewells.

Nobody was quite sure how many children were on the place. Some people said six, others said nine; there were always several dirty-faced ones at the windows when anyone passed by. Nobody had occasion to pass by except at Christmas, when the churches delivered baskets, and when the mayor of Maycomb asked us to please help the garbage collector by dumping our own trees and trash.

Atticus took us with him last Christmas when he complied with the mayors request. A dirt road ran from the highway past the dump, down to a small Negro settlement some five hundred yards beyond the Ewells. It was necessary either to back out to the highway or go the full length of the road and turn around; most people turned around in the Negroes front yards. In the frosty December dusk, their cabins looked neat and snug with pale blue smoke rising from the chimneys and doorways glowing amber from the fires inside. There were delicious smells about: chicken, bacon frying crisp as the twilight air. Jem and I detected squirrel cooking, but it took an old countryman like Atticus to identify possum and rabbit, aromas that vanished when we rode back past the Ewell residence.

All the little man on the witness stand had that made him any better than his nearest neighbors was, that if scrubbed with lye soap in very hot water, his skin was white.

Mr. Robert Ewell? asked Mr. Gilmer.

Thats mname, capn, said the witness.

Mr. Gilmers back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps Id better explain something now. Ive heard that lawyers children, on seeing their parents in court in the heat of argument, get the wrong idea: they think opposing counsel to be the personal enemies of their parents, they suffer agonies, and are surprised to see them often go out arm-in-arm with their tormenters during the first recess. This was not true of Jem and me. We acquired no traumas from watching our father win or lose. Im sorry that I cant provide any drama in this respect; if I did, it would not be true. We could tell, however, when debate became more acrimonious than professional, but this was from watching lawyers other than our father. I never heard Atticus raise his voice in my life, except to a deaf witness. Mr. Gilmer was doing his job, as Atticus was doing his. Besides, Mr. Ewell was Mr. Gilmers witness, and he had no business being rude to him of all people.

Are you the father of Mayella Ewell? was the next question.

Well, if I aint I cant do nothing about it now, her mas dead, was the answer.

Judge Taylor stirred. He turned slowly in his swivel chair and looked benignly at the witness. Are you the father of Mayella Ewell? he asked, in a way that made the laughter below us stop suddenly.

Yes, sir, Mr. Ewell said meekly.

Judge Taylor went on in tones of good will: This the first time youve ever been in court? I dont recall ever seeing you here. At the witnesss affirmative nod he continued, Well, lets get something straight. There will be no more audibly obscene speculations on any subject from anybody in this courtroom as long as Im sitting here. Do you understand?

Mr. Ewell nodded, but I dont think he did. Judge Taylor sighed and said, All right, Mr. Gilmer?

Thank you, sir. Mr. Ewell, would you tell us in your own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first, please?

Jem grinned and pushed his hair back. Just-in-your-own words was Mr. Gilmers trademark. We often wondered who elses words Mr. Gilmer was afraid his witness might employ.

Well, the night of November twenty-one I was comin in from the woods with a load okindlin and just as I got to the fence I heard Mayella screamin like a stuck hog inside the house

Here Judge Taylor glanced sharply at the witness and must have decided his speculations devoid of evil intent, for he subsided sleepily.

What time was it, Mr. Ewell?

Just fore sundown. Well, I was sayin Mayella was screamin fit to beat Jesus another glance from the bench silenced Mr. Ewell.

Yes? She was screaming? said Mr. Gilmer.

Mr. Ewell looked confusedly at the judge. Well, Mayella was raisin this holy racket so I dropped mload and run as fast as I could but I run into th fence, but when I got distangled I run up to th window and I seen Mr. Ewells face grew scarlet. He stood up and pointed his finger at Tom Robinson. I seen that black nigger yonder ruttin on my Mayella!