He went to school now - he
walked all the way there by himself and all the way back every day. It
was very hard at first, because the other boys laughed at and plagued
him. Then they hit him, but he hit them back as hard as he could. After
that they hurt him, but they couldn't make him cry. He never cried, and
always hit them back, and now they were beginning to leave him alone.
His father was named Mr. Job, and he worked at the farm, but he
couldn't do so much work now because he was such an old man. Sometimes
when he came home in the evening he sat in his chair and groaned as if
it hurt him. And he had two sisters; one was Susan; she was married and
had three big girls; and Jane was married too, but had no children.
They lived a great way off. So did his brother. His name was Jim, and
he was a great fat man and sometimes came from London, where he lived,
to see them. He didn't know much about Jim; he was very silent, but not
with mother. Those two would shut themselves up together and talk and
talk, but no one knew what they were talking about. He would write to
mother too; but she would always hide the letters and say to father:
"It's only from Jim; he says he's very well - that's all." But they were
very long letters, so he must have said more than that.
Thus he prattled, while I, to pay him for the southernwood, drew
figures of the birds he knew best on the leaves I tore from my note-
book and gave them to him. He thanked me very prettily and put them in
his pocket.
"And what is your name?" I asked.
He drew himself up before me and in a clear voice, pronouncing the
words in a slow measured manner, as if repeating a lesson, he answered:
"Edmund Jasper Donisthorpe Stanley Overington."
The name so astonished me that I remained silent for quite two minutes
during which I repeated it to myself many times to fix it in my memory.
"But why," said I at length, "do you call yourself Overington when your
father's name is Job?"
"Oh, that is because I have two fathers - Mr. Job, my very old father,
and Mr. Overington, who lives away from here. He comes to see me
sometimes, and he is my father too; but I have only one mother - there
she is out again looking at us."
I questioned him no further, and no further did I seek those mysteries
to disclose, and so we parted; but I never see a plant or sprig of
southernwood, nor inhale its cedarwood smell, which one does not know
whether to like or dislike, without recalling the memory of that
miraculous cottage child with a queer history and numerous names.
