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           "Nowhere.Let’sseenow,whotaughtmemyletters?ItwasMissMaudieAtkinson’saunt,oldMissBuford—"

           "Areyouthatold?"

           "I’molderthanMr.Finch,even."Calpurniagrinned."Notsurehowmuch,though.Westartedrememberin’onetime,tryingtofigureouthowoldIwas—Icanrememberbackjustafewyearsmore’nhecan,soI’mnotmucholder,whenyoutakeoffthefactthatmencan’trememberaswellaswomen."

           "What’syourbirthday,Cal?"

           "IjusthaveitonChristmas,it’seasiertorememberthatway—Idon’thavearealbirthday."

           "ButCal,"Jemprotested,"youdon’tlookevennearasoldasAtticus."

           "Coloredfolksdon’tshowtheiragessofast,"shesaid.

           "Maybebecausetheycan’tread.Cal,didyouteachZeebo?"

           "Yeah,MisterJem.Therewasn’taschoolevenwhenhewasaboy.Imadehimlearn,though."

           ZeebowasCalpurnia’seldestson.IfIhadeverthoughtaboutit,IwouldhaveknownthatCalpurniawasofmatureyears—Zeebohadhalf-grownchildren—butthenIhadneverthoughtaboutit.

           "Didyouteachhimoutofaprimer,likeus?"Iasked.

           "No,ImadehimgetapageoftheBibleeveryday,andtherewasabookMissBufordtaughtmeoutof—betyoudon’tknowwhereIgotit,"shesaid.