Mrs. Dubose lived two doors down from us. She was a mean lady. She lived alone except for a Negro girl who took care of her. Mrs. Dubose was very old. She spent most of her day in bed and the rest of it in a wheelchair. There was a rumor that she kept a small gun hidden in her dress.
Jem and I hated her. Whenever we passed her house, she would glare at us and ask us questions about what we were doing. She would say we were up to no good. She said we wouldn’t grow up to be anything good. Even if I tried to be nice and say, “Hey, Mrs. Dubose,” she would yell at me, “Don’t you say hey to me, you ugly girl! You say good afternoon, Mrs. Dubose!” She called us sassy , disrespectful and that it was horrible that Atticus let us run wild.
When Jem complained once to Atticus about the way she treated us, he said, “Easy does it, Son. She’s an old lady and she’s ill. You just hold your head high and be a gentleman. Whatever she says to you, it’s your job not to let her make you mad.” And when Atticus passed her place, he would sweep off his hat, wave to her and say, “Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like a picture this evening.” It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived.
