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Maycomb
’
s
Ewells
lived
behind
the
town
garbage
dump
in
what
was
once
a
Negro
cabin
.
The
cabin
’
s
plank
walls
were
supplemented
with
sheets
of
corrugated
iron
,
its
roof
shingled
with
tin
cans
hammered
flat
,
so
only
its
general
shape
suggested
its
original
design
:
square
,
with
four
tiny
rooms
opening
onto
a
shotgun
hall
,
the
cabin
rested
uneasily
upon
four
irregular
lumps
of
limestone
.
Its
windows
were
merely
open
spaces
in
the
walls
,
which
in
the
summertime
were
covered
with
greasy
strips
of
cheesecloth
to
keep
out
the
varmints
that
feasted
on
Maycomb
’
s
refuse
.
The
varmints
had
a
lean
time
of
it
,
for
the
Ewells
gave
the
dump
a
thorough
gleaning
every
day
,
and
the
fruits
of
their
industry
(
those
that
were
not
eaten
)
made
the
plot
of
ground
around
the
cabin
look
like
the
playhouse
of
an
insane
child
:
what
passed
for
a
fence
was
bits
of
tree
-
limbs
,
broomsticks
and
tool
shafts
,
all
tipped
with
rusty
hammer
-
heads
,
snaggle
-
toothed
rake
heads
,
shovels
,
axes
and
grubbing
hoes
,
held
on
with
pieces
of
barbed
wire
.
Enclosed
by
this
barricade
was
a
dirty
yard
containing
the
remains
of
a
Model
-
T
Ford
(
on
blocks
)
,
a
discarded
dentist
’
s
chair
,
an
ancient
icebox
,
plus
lesser
items
:
old
shoes
,
worn
-
out
table
radios
,
picture
frames
,
and
fruit
jars
,
under
which
scrawny
orange
chickens
pecked
hopefully
.
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
Ewell
’
s
.
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
mayor
’
s
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
.
"
That
’
s
m
’
name
,
cap
’
n
,
"
said
the
witness
.
Mr
.
Gilmer
’
s
back
stiffened
a
little
,
and
I
felt
sorry
for
him
.
Perhaps
I
’
d
better
explain
something
now
.
I
’
ve
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
.
