SEPTIMUS SEPTIMUSSONTHE wind was screaming over the marsh. It shook the shutters and rattled the windows, and the little boy lay awake in the bare attic. His mother came softly up the ladder stairs shading the flame of the tallow candle with her hand.
'I'm not asleep, mother,' said he. And she heard the tears in his voice.
'Why, silly lad,' she said, sitting down on the straw-bed beside him and putting the candle on the floor, 'what are you crying for?'
'It's the wind keeps calling me, mother,' he said. 'It won't let me alone. It never has since I put up the little weather-c**k for it to play with. It keeps saying, "Wake up, Septimus Septimusson, wake up, you're the seventh son of a seventh son. You can see the fairies and hear the beasts speak, and you must go out and seek your fortune
