It baffles me how ALL of Maycomb knows about the legend, yet very few people in this lousy, sleepy town even know my actual name. I can't help but wonder how on Earth anybody in their right or left mind can even manage to come up with such a ridiculous nickname. I mean, just how the hell can someone find a way to turn Arthur into a name like Boo? The two names aren't even remotely similar in any way, at least that I could think of.

There I was again, lost in my own thoughts, I hadn't even been paying attention to my damn wood carving of my old neighbor, Miss Maudie. Her eyes were now lopsided, and her nose looked like Pinocchio's. This irked me, I knew I would have start over on her carving; I hated not accurately representing a person. If the carving was terrible, then so be it, as long as they were what I wanted them to be.

I threw my dull carving knife into the figure then continued whittling away the walls of my room, so that I could get Miss Maudie right. I always close the blinds so that nobody can take a peep through the windows. One might think that it would be dark in here with the curtains drawn. It isn't really all that dark in there really, although, that is just my eyes having gotten adjusted to the dim light I suppose.

Since I was a young teenager, I have been torturing my poor walls. On an almost hourly basis, they would be forced to bleed piles of sawdust. Quite honestly, those damned walls look a lot better with those crude carvings of the people I used to know, it made the place a little less dull. The carvings are almost always horrible only because I carve them from memory, which is quite terrible, but I am occasionally awarded with the pleasure of getting the face of a memory just right. Though my one regret about developing this habit of mine are those eyes. Those puny eyes haunt me at night, they watch me in my sleep, they remind me of what I did those many years ago.

I dug my knife into the wall with difficulty, the blade was getting very dull, beyond sharpening it to its original state. Sighing in defeat, I surrendered my artwork, I'd been at it for nearly an hour now, and my hand was cramping from holding onto the handle of my carving knife for so long.

I sat on my bed, staring off into no where. When I am just about to doze off, there is a light pat on the sagging house. I could feel it in my bones. Chills go up my spine. I didn't want anyone on my property, let alone, touching my house. When I am sure whoever touched my house is gone, I take a peep out the window from under the curtains. And what do I spy with my little eye? Not one, not two, but THREE children running up the street away from my house, two boys and a girl. I swear one of the boys could have been a toddler, and had it not been for the hair, I would have probably mistaken the girl for a boy. I drew back from the window, and resisted my instinct to get my gun and shoot in their direction to scare them off. Negroes, dogs, cats, and white men alike are all dangerous, but children are fatal. I didn't want to have to deal with all the commotion, or all the people that would be drawn to the house if I shot at them. I did my best to disregard the incident and went back to working on my carving of Miss Maudie, though my hand was shaking from slight terror.

One might ask me- Arthur, why should you fear them? They are only children.

I fear children for the same reason I fear everyone else.