Atticus was feeble;
he was nearly fifty.
There was nothing Jem and I
Could say about him.
He worked in an office, not
A drugstore, he did not drive a
Truck, he was not the sheriff.
He did not do anything that
Could arouse admiration.
The school buzzed with talk about
him defending Tom Robinson,
none of which was complimentary.
“He’s the best chequer player ”Miss Maudie said,
“he can play a Jew’s Harp”
Those accomplishments made me even more ashamed.
One Saturday, Jem and I went exploring.
We were beyond the Radley Place.
“That’s Tim Johnson, ain’t it?”
We raced to the kitchen.
“Gimme Mr Finch’s office!” Calpurnia shouted.
“Mad dog’s coming!” Her message was received by the neighborhood.
A Black Ford sprinted into the driveway.
Atticus and the sheriff got out.
“He’s within range, Heck”
“Take him, Mr Finch”
Jem and I nearly fainted.
Our father took the gun and walked quickly.
Time slowed to a nauseating crawl.
With quick movements, the rifle cracked.
Tim Johnson flopped over.
Miss Maudie said that people in their right minds never take pride in their talents.
One Shot Atticus.
No comments:
Post a Comment