To kill a mockingbird pdf download

To kill a mockingbird pdf download

FREE To Kill a Mockingbird PDF Book by Harper Lee Download or Read Online Free,To Kill a Mockingbird PDF Details

WebPage 2 of DEDICATION PART ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8Missing: download WebFREE To Kill a Mockingbird PDF Book by Harper Lee Download or Read Online Free. Author: Harper Lee | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | Views | Request a Book | WebDownload. To Kill A Mockingbird - Full Text blogger.com To Kill A Mockingbird - Full Text blogger.com Sign In WebKill A Mockingbird PDF Free Download: To Kill a Mockingbird pdf by American novelist Harper Lee was published in When it was published in , it immediately gained Web · to-kill-a-mockingbird_ Identifier-ark ark://ts Ocr tesseract alphag PDF download. download 1 file. SINGLE ... read more

About The Author The novel To Kill a Mockingbird pdf by American novelist Nelle Harper Lee, who was born on April 28, , and died on February 19, , is her best-known work. It became a modern American literature classic after winning the Pulitzer Prize. In , Lee was given the Presidential Medal of Freedom for her contributions to writing, among other honors and honorary degrees. She helped Truman Capote, a friend of hers, with his research for the book In Cold Blood Capote served as the inspiration for To Kill a Mockingbird pdf by Dill Harris. To Kill a Mockingbird's plot and characters are partially based on Lee's observations of her family and neighbors, as well as an incident that happened in when she was ten years old, close to her hometown. Through the viewpoint of two children, the story explores the irrationality of adult attitudes regarding race and class in the Deep South of the s.

Racist sentiments in her Alabama birthplace of Monroeville served as inspiration. It was later discovered that Go Set a Watchman, written in the middle of the s and first published in July as a sequel to Mockingbird, was an earlier version of that book. Summary of To Kill A Mockingbird PDF. Atticus is given the job of representing Tom Robinson, a black man, later on in the narrative. Bob decides to carry out his threat promise as the story comes close and things calm down. Download NOW! Disclaimer Books Guidance does not own books pdf, neither created nor scanned. We just provide the link that is already available on the internet and in Google Drive. 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. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the eaves of the veranda; oak trees kept the sun away. 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. Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were his work. 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. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a mid-morning coffee break with her neighbors, and certainly never joined a missionary circle. 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 and his wife had lived there with their two sons as long as anybody could remember. Of all days Sunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets, men wore coats, children wore shoes.

The Radley house had no screen doors. I once asked 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. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tell Mr. Radley that his boy was in with the wrong crowd. Conner, and locked him in the courthouse outhouse. The town decided something had to be done; Mr. 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 disgrace.

Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would see to it that Arthur gave no further trouble. Knowing that Mr. 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. 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 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.

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. Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town council told Mr. 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. 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. 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. He never spoke to us. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died. 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. 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. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarely commented on the ways of white people. The neighborhood thought when Mr. The only difference between him and his father was their ages. Jem said 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. 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. In all his life, Jem had never declined a dare. Jem thought about it for three days. 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. You started it, remember. When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, and his sense of responsibility left him until confronted by the Radley Place.

Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful. 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. A tiny, almost invisible movement, and the house was still. I never looked forward more to anything in my life.

I longed to join them. When we slowed to a walk at the edge of the schoolyard, Jem was careful to explain that during school hours I was not to bother him, I was not to approach him with requests to enact a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass him with references to his private life, or tag along behind him at recess and noon. I was to stick with the first grade and he would stick with the fifth. In short, I was to leave him alone. Before the first morning was over, Miss Caroline Fisher, our teacher, hauled me up to the front of the room and patted the palm of my hand with a ruler, then made me stand in the corner until noon. Miss Caroline was no more than twenty-one. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks, and wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heeled pumps and a red-and-white-striped dress. She looked and smelled like a peppermint drop. I am from North Alabama, from Winston County.

When Alabama seceded from the Union on January 11, , Winston County seceded from Alabama, and every child in Maycomb County knew it. North Alabama was full of Liquor Interests, Big Mules, steel companies, Republicans, professors, and other persons of no background. Miss Caroline began the day by reading us a story about cats. The cats had long conversations with one another, they wore cunning little clothes and lived in a warm house beneath a kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Cat called the drugstore for an order of chocolate malted mice the class was wriggling like a bucketful of catawba worms. 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. 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 mid- winter. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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 half- Duncecap 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. With one exception. Microscopic grains oozed out. Look here. When it comes fall this dries up and the wind blows it all over Maycomb County! Her speech was crisp for a Maycomb County inhabitant. She called us by all our names, and when she grinned she revealed two minute gold prongs clipped to her eyeteeth. Top Kodi Archive and Support File Vintage Software APK MS-DOS CD-ROM Software CD-ROM Software Library Software Sites Tucows Software Library Shareware CD-ROMs Software Capsules Compilation CD-ROM Images ZX Spectrum DOOM Level CD.

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Web · to-kill-a-mockingbird_ Identifier-ark ark://ts Ocr tesseract alphag PDF download. download 1 file. SINGLE WebDownload To Kill A Mockingbird [EPUB] Type: EPUB. Size: KB. Download as PDF Download as DOCX Download as PPTX. Download Original PDF. This document was WebPage 2 of DEDICATION PART ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8Missing: download WebDownload. To Kill A Mockingbird - Full Text blogger.com To Kill A Mockingbird - Full Text blogger.com Sign In WebTo Kill a Mockingbird PDF Free Download. To Kill a Mockingbird PDF: When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, WebFREE To Kill a Mockingbird PDF Book by Harper Lee Download or Read Online Free. Author: Harper Lee | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | Views | Request a Book | ... read more

Tate and stood looking down at Tim Johnson. After a dreary conversation in our livingroom one night about his entailment, before Mr. Jem said Mr. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye. I followed him.

Read More Atticus was right. He said he often woke up during the night, checked on us, and read himself back to sleep. He did have on a clean shirt and neatly mended overalls. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I could follow.