The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) š
- Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett
Book online Ā«The Secret Garden Frances Hodgson Burnett (recommended reading .TXT) šĀ». Author Frances Hodgson Burnett
āThereās a lot oā mignonette anā poppies,ā he said. āMignonetteās thā sweetest smellinā thing as grows, anā itāll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. Them asāll come up anā bloom if you just whistle to āem, themās thā nicest of all.ā
He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up.
āWhereās that robin as is callinā us?ā he said.
The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and Mary thought she knew whose it was.
āIs it really calling us?ā she asked.
āAye,ā said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, āheās callinā someone heās friends with. Thatās same as sayinā āHere I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.ā There he is in the bush. Whose is he?ā
āHeās Ben Weatherstaffās, but I think he knows me a little,ā answered Mary.
āAye, he knows thee,ā said Dickon in his low voice again. āAnā he likes thee. Heās took thee on. Heāll tell me all about thee in a minute.ā
He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robinās own twitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question.
āAye, heās a friend oā yours,ā chuckled Dickon.
āDo you think he is?ā cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. āDo you think he really likes me?ā
āHe wouldnāt come near thee if he didnāt,ā answered Dickon. āBirds is rare choosers anā a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, heās making up to thee now. āCannot thaā see a chap?ā heās sayinā.ā
And it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush.
āDo you understand everything birds say?ā said Mary.
Dickonās grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head.
āI think I do, and they think I do,ā he said. āIāve lived on thā moor with āem so long. Iāve watched āem break shell anā come out anā fledge anā learn to fly anā begin to sing, till I think Iām one of āem. Sometimes I think pāraps Iām a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, anā I donāt know it.ā
He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.
āSee here,ā he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. āIāll plant them for thee myself. Where is thaā garden?ā
Maryās thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had never thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went red and then pale.
āThaās got a bit oā garden, hasnāt thaā?ā Dickon said.
It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.
āWouldnāt they give thee a bit?ā he asked. āHasnāt thaā got any yet?ā
She held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him.
āI donāt know anything about boys,ā she said slowly. āCould you keep a secret, if I told you one? Itās a great secret. I donāt know what I should do if anyone found it out. I believe I should die!ā She said the last sentence quite fiercely.
Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly.
āIām keepinā secrets all thā time,ā he said. āIf I couldnāt keep secrets from thā other lads, secrets about foxesā cubs, anā birdsā nests, anā wild thingsā holes, thereād be naught safe on thā moor. Aye, I can keep secrets.ā
Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it.
āIāve stolen a garden,ā she said very fast. āIt isnāt mine. It isnāt anybodyās. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already; I donāt know.ā
She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.
āI donāt care, I donāt care! Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they donāt. Theyāre letting it die, all shut in by itself,ā she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out cryingā āpoor little Mistress Mary.
Dickonās curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.
āEh-h-h!ā he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy.
āIāve nothing to do,ā said Mary. āNothing belongs to me. I found it myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and they wouldnāt take it from the robin.ā
āWhere is it?ā asked Dickon in a dropped voice.
Mistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious and Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.
āCome with me and Iāll show you,ā she said.
She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange birdās nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly.
āItās this,ā she said.
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