When Uncle Jack jumped down from the train Christmas Eve day, we had to wait for the porter to hand him two long packages . . . Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high, but not high enough: Uncle Jack was a head shorter than Atticus; the baby of the family, he was younger than Aunt Alexandra. He and Aunty looked alike, but Uncle Jack made better use of his face: we were never wary of his sharp nose and chin.
He was one of the few men of science who never terrified me, probably because he never behaved like a doctor. Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem and me, as removing a splinter from a foot, he would tell us exactly what he was going to do, give us an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain the use of any tongs he employed. One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted splinter in my foot, permitting no one to come near me. When Uncle Jack caught me, he kept me laughing about a preacher who hated going to church so much that every day he stood at his gate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah and delivering five-minute sermons to any passers-by who desired spiritual comfort. I interrupted to make Uncle Jack let me know when he would pull it out, but he held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and said he yanked it while I was laughing, that was what was known as relativity.
"What's in those packages?" I asked him, pointing to the long thin parcels the porter had given him.
"None of your business," he said.
Jem said, "How's Rose Aylmer?"
Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack's cat. She was a beautiful yellow female Uncle Jack said was one fot he few women he could stand permanently. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out some snapshots. We admired them.
"She's gettin' fat," I said.
"I should think so. She eats all the leftover fingers and ears from the hospital."
-from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee