The Secret Garden

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived.

The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies.

Every one was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of.

“Poor little kid!” he said. “There is nobody left to come.” It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left;

“Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row.”

She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive.

She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.

“Well,” said Mrs. Medlock. “What do you think of it?” “Nothing,” she answered. “I know nothing about such places.” That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh. “Eh!” she said, “but you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?” “It doesn’t matter,” said Mary, “whether I care or not.”

She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl’s simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her,

Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.

“Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden. He won’t let no one go inside. It was her garden. He locked th’ door an’ dug a hole and buried th’ key.

How could a garden be shut up? You could always walk into a garden.

she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song — almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.

If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?

A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different. It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.

“Doesn’t tha’ know? He’s a robin redbreast an’ they’re th’ friendliest, curiousest birds alive. They’re almost as friendly as dogs

He looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.

This one was a knowin’ one an’ he knew he was lonely.” Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard. “I’m lonely,” she said. She had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross. She seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin.

“What is your name?” Mary inquired. He stood up to answer her. “Ben Weatherstaff,” he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, “I’m lonely mysel’ except when he’s with me,” and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. “He’s th’ only friend I’ve got.”

“We was wove out of th’ same cloth. We’re neither of us good lookin’ an’ we’re both of us as sour as we look. We’ve got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I’ll warrant.”

“He’s made up his mind to make friends with thee,” replied Ben. “Dang me if he hasn’t took a fancy to thee.” “To me?” said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. “Would you make friends with me?”

“Why,” he cried out, “tha’ said that as nice an’ human as if tha’ was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha’ said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th’ moor.”

Mary did not know what “wutherin’” meant until she listened, and then she understood.

At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for some one. She was getting on.

He says he sees things on rainy days as doesn’t show when it’s fair weather.

There was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look. “Where do you live now?” said Mary aloud to her. “I wish you were here.”

If there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all.

I wonder,” staring at her reflectively, “what Dickon would think of thee?” “He wouldn’t like me,” said Mary in her stiff, cold little way. “No one does.”

“How does tha’ like thysel’?” she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know. Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over. “Not at all — really,” she answered. “But I never thought of that before.”

That seemed a good many people to like — when you were not used to liking.

“You do remember me!” she cried out. “You do! You are prettier than anything else in the world!”

Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.

He knew it because he was a real person — only nicer than any other person in the world. She was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.

Thank you.” She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her.

Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off — and they are nearly always doing it.

She was standing inside the secret garden.

But she was inside the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own.

“I got up slow,” he explained, “because if tha’ makes a quick move it startles ’em. A body ‘as to move gentle an’ speak low when wild things is about.”

“I’ve lived on th’ moor with ’em so long. I’ve watched ’em break shell an’ come out an’ fledge an’ learn to fly an’ begin to sing, till I think I’m one of ’em. Sometimes I think p’raps I’m a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an’ I don’t know it.”

“Eh!” he almost whispered, “it is a queer, pretty place! It’s like as if a body was in a dream.”

“Will you come again and help me to do it?” Mary begged. “I’m sure I can help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon!” “I’ll come every day if tha’ wants me, rain or shine,” he answered stoutly. “It’s th’ best fun I ever had in my life — shut in here an’ wakenin’ up a garden.”

“Don’t let us make it tidy,” said Mary anxiously. “It wouldn’t seem like a secret garden if it was tidy.”

“Eh!” he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it, “there doesn’t seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there’s flowers an’ such like, an’ such lots o’ friendly wild things runnin’ about makin’ homes for themselves, or buildin’ nests an’ singin’ an’ whistlin’, does there?”

“Does tha’ like me?” she said. “Eh!” he answered heartily, “that I does. I likes thee wonderful, an’ so does th’ robin, I do believe!”

Mary could scarcely bear to leave him. Suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. He seemed too good to be true.

“I’ve seen Dickon!” said Mary. “I’ve seen Dickon!” “I knew he’d come,” said Martha exultantly. “How does tha’ like him?” “I think — I think he’s beautiful!” said Mary in a determined voice.

“I like them round,” said Mary. “And they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor.”

If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least.

He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable.

I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happy and comfortable.