The Secret Garden: Introducing Dickon 🦔 | Relaxing Bedtime Story by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Welcome to Chapter & Pillow. In tonight's ad-free episode, unwind with my soothing voice as we continue Frances Hodgson Burnett's beloved classic, The Secret Garden. This slow-spoken narration is crafted to help you quiet an overactive mind and ease into a deep, restful sleep.

In Part 5 of our reading, Mary spends more time exploring the grounds of Misselthwaite Manor and begins to notice some changes in herself. The fresh air, the gardens, and the company of a friendly robin awaken feelings she has never experienced before. When a conversation with the gardener, Ben Weatherstaff, leads to an unexpected discovery buried in the garden, Mary finds herself one step closer to uncovering the mysteries hidden behind the stone walls.

     • The Author’s Story: Frances Hodgson Burnett was a passionate gardener herself and actually did most of her writing outdoors in a private, walled rose garden at her home in England. She firmly believed that digging in the dirt and being out in nature was the best medicine for a heavy heart. More on that in the next episode.

     • Special Thanks: Gratitude to composer Viacheslav Starostin for the beautiful piano music featured in this episode (via Pixabay).

⏱️ Episode Timestamps:
      • 00:15 – Relaxation & Settling In
      • 02:40 – Story Begins

Transcript

Intro and Relaxation

SPEAKER_00 0:17

Good evening and welcome to Chapter in Pillow. Tonight we continue The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett with chapters 9 and 10. As spring slowly awakens across the Yorkshire Moor, Mary finds herself spending more time outdoors and growing increasingly curious about the hidden garden she has heard so much about. A chance discovery brings her one step closer to a long-kept secret, while new friendships begin to change the way she sees both herself and the world around her. Originally published in 1911, the Secret Garden remains one of the most beloved classics in children's literature. In these chapters, the story's quiet mysteries deepen as the first signs of growth and transformation begin to appear. Before we begin, let's take just a moment to settle in. Take one long deep breath in. Hold it for a moment and let it out slowly through your mouth. Let's do that again. One long, slow, deep breath in. And let it go slowly through your mouth. Focus on places you might be holding tension. Relax your forehead. Soften your eyes. Unclench your jaw. Then get comfortable. Settle in and let this gentle bedtime reading carry you peacefully into sleep.

Story Begins

SPEAKER_00 2:41

Chapter nine The Strangest House Anyone Ever Lived In. It was the sweetest, most mysterious looking place anyone could imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses, which were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown, and out of it grew clumps of bushes, which were surely rose bushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses, which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains. And here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch, and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves. There were neither leaves nor roses on them now, and Mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin grey or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long. And indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. How still it is, she whispered. How still. Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin who had flown to his treetop was still as all the rest. He did not even flutter his wings. He sat without stirring and looked at Mary. No wonder it is still, she whispered again. I am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years. She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening someone. She was glad that there was grass under her feet, and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the fairy like grey arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. I wonder if they are all quite dead, she said. Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it wasn't. If she had been Ben Weatherstaff, she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it. But she could only see that there were only grey or brown sprays and branches, and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf bud anywhere. 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. The sun was shining inside the four walls, and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of mistlethwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down from his treetop and hopped about, or flew after her from one bush to another. He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent, and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from anyone. But somehow she did not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side. Her skipping rope had hung over her arm when she came in, and after she had walked about for a while, she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. There seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen, with stone seeds or tall moss-covered flower urns in them. As she came near the second of these alcoves, she stopped skipping. There had once been a flower bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth. Some sharp little pale green points. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said, and she knelt down to look at them. Yes, they are tiny growing things, and they might be crocases or snow drops or daffodils, she whispered. She bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. She liked it very much. Perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places, she said. I will go all over the garden and look. She did not skip but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. It isn't a quite dead garden, she cried out softly to herself. Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive. She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood, and knelt down, and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made a nice clear little place around them. Now they look as if they could breathe, she said, after she had finished with the first ones. I am going to do ever so many more. I'll do all I can see. If I haven't time today, I can come tomorrow. She went from place to place and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. The exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off and then her hat, and without knowing it, she was smiling down onto the grass and the pale green points all the time. The Robin was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff, where gardening is done, all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil. Now here was this new kind of creature who was not half Ben size, and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat and picked up her skipping rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours. She had been actually happy all the time, and dozens and dozens of the tiny pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. I shall come back this afternoon, she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose bushes as if they heard her. Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door, and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted. Two pieces of meat and two helps o' rice puddin', she said. Eh, mother will be pleased when I tell her what the skippin' rope's done for thee. In the course of her digging with her pointed stick, Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion. She had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it. And just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was. Martha, she said, what are those white roots that look like onions? They're bulbs, said Martha. Lots of spring flowers grow from them. The very little ones are snow drops and crocases, and the big ones are narcissus and jonquels and daffy down dilies. The biggest of all is lilies and purple flags. Eh, they are nice. Dickens got a whole lot of them planted in our bit of garden. Does Dickin know all about them? asked Mary, a new idea taking possession of her. Our Dicken can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he just whispers things out of the ground. Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one helped them? inquired Mary anxiously. They're things as helps themselves, said Martha. That's why poor folk can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em will work away underground for a lifetime, and spread out, and have little ones. There's a place in the park woods here where there's snow drops by thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when the spring comes. No one knows when they was first planted. Oh, I wish the spring was here now, said Mary. I want to see all the things that grow in England. She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth rug. I wish I wish I had a little spade, she said. Whatever does the one a spade for? asked Martha, laughing. Art the gonna take to digging? I must tell Mother that too. Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out about the open door, he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear that. This is such a big, lonely place, she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never did many things in India, but there were more people to look at, natives and soldiers marching by, and sometimes bands playing. And my Aya told me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff, and you have to do your work, and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade, I could dig somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds. Martha's face quite lighted up. There now, she exclaimed, if that wasn't one of the things Mother said, she says there's such a lot of room in that big place, why don't they give her a bit for herself? Even if she doesn't plant nothing but parsley and radishes. She dig and rake away, and be right down happy over it. Then was the very word she said. Were they? said Mary. How many things she knows, doesn't she? Eh, said Martha. It's like she says, a woman as brings up twelve children, learn something besides her ABC. Children's as good as arithmetic to set you findin' out things. How much would a spade cost? A little one? Mary asked. Well, was Martha's reflective answer. At Thwaite Village there's a shop or so, and I saw little garden sets with a spade and a rake and a fork all tied together for two shillings. And they was stout enough to work with, too. I've got more than that in my purse, said Mary. Mrs. Morrison gave me five shillings, and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven. Did he remember thee that much? exclaimed Martha. Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend. She gives me one every Saturday. I didn't know what to spend it on. My word, that's riches, said Martha. The can buy anything in the world the once. The rent of our college is only one and three pence, and it's like pullin' eye teeth to get it. Now I've just thought of something, putting her hands on her hips. What? said Mary eagerly. In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages of flower seeds for a penny each. And our Dicken, he knows which is the prettiest ones and how to make 'em grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for the fun of it. Does the know how to print letters? Suddenly. I know how to write, Mary answered. Martha shook her head. Our Dicken can only read printin'. If the could print, we could write a letter to him and ask him to go and buy the garden tools and the seeds at the same time. Oh, you're a good girl, Mary cried. You are really. I didn't know you were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper. I've got some of my own, said Martha. I bought 'em so I could print a bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get it. She ran out of the room and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. If I have a spade, she whispered, I can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow, the garden won't be dead at all. It will come alive. She did not go out again that afternoon, because when Martha returned with her pen and ink and the paper, she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes downstairs. And when she got into the kitchen, Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something. So Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dicken. Mary had been taught very little because her governess had disliked her too much to stay with her. She could not spell particularly well, but she found that she could print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated to her. My dear Dicken, this comes hoping to find you well, as it leaves me at present. Miss Mary has plenty of money, and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower bed? Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow, because she has never done it before, and lived in India which is different. Give my love to mother and every one of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers. Your loving sister Martha Phoebe Sowerby We'll put the money in the envelope and I'll get the butcher's boy to take it in his cart. He's a great friend of Dicken, said Martha. How shall I get the things when Dicken buys them? asked Mary. He'll bring them to you himself. He'll like to walk over this way. Oh, exclaimed Mary. Then I shall see him. I never thought I should see Dicken. Does the want to see him? asked Martha suddenly. She looked so pleased. Yes I do. I never saw a boy foxes and crows love. I want to see him very much. Martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something. Now to think, she broke out, to think of me for getting that there. And I thought I was gonna tell you first thing this morning. I asked Mother, and she said she'd asked Mrs. Medlock her own self. Do you mean, Mary began, what I said Tuesday? Ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage someday, and have a bit of mother's hot oat cake and butter and a glass of milk. It seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. To think of going over the moor in the daylight, and when the sky was blue, to think of going into the cottage which had twelve children. Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let me go? she asked quite anxiously aye, she thinks she would she knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage. If I went, I should see your mother as well as Dickens, said Mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. She doesn't seem to be like the mothers in India. Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until tea time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went downstairs for the tea tray, Mary asked a question. Martha, she said, has the scholary maid had a toothache again today? Martha certainly started slightly What makes thee ask that she said because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming and I heard that far off crying again, just as we heard it the other night There isn't a wind today, so you see it couldn't have been the wind. Eh, said Martha restlessly the mustn't go walkin' about in corridors and listenin'. Mr Craven would be that there angry that there's no knowin' what he'd do. I wasn't listening, said Mary I was just waiting for you and I heard it That's three times My word there's Mrs. Medlock's bell, said Martha, and she almost ran out of the room It's the strangest house anyone ever lived in, said Mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. Fresh air and digging and skipping rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. Chapter ten Dicken The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The secret garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and in fact she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misslethwaite She was beginning to like to be out of doors. She no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it she could run faster and longer and she could skip up to a hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted and really if Mistress Mary had known it they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun could get at them and warm them and when the rain came down could reach them at once so they began to feel very much alive Mary was an odd determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about she was very much absorbed indeed. She worked and dug and pulled up weed steadily only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find they seemed to be starting up everywhere, and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth. There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the snowdrops by the thousands and about bulb spreading and making new ones these had been left to themselves for ten years, and perhaps they had spread like the snowdrops into thousands. She wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and tried to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom. During that week of sunshine she became more intimate with Benweterstaff. She surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming. So she always walked toward him as silently as possible, but in fact he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company. Then also she was more civil than she had been he did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native and had not known that a cross sturdy old Yorkshire man was not accustomed to salam to his masters and be merely commanded by them to do things Dart like the Robin he said to her one morning, when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him I never knows when I shall see thee or which side thou come from He's friends with me now, said Mary. That's like him, snapped Ben Weatherstaff, making up to the women folk just for vanity and flightiness. There's nothing he wouldn't do for the sake of showin' off and flirtin' his tail feathers He's as full of pride as an egg's full of meat He very seldom talked much, and sometimes did not even answer Mary's questions, except by a grunt. But this morning he had said more than usual He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over How long is the bin here? he jerked out I think it's been about a month, she answered Th's beginning to do missile quite credit, he said. Thus a bit fatter than the was and not quite so yeller. The look like a young plucked crow when the first came into this garden. Bing sighed to myself I never set eyes on an uglier, sour faced youngin' Mary was not vain, and as she had never thought much of her looks, she was not greatly disturbed. I know I'm fatter, she said. My stockings are getting tighter they used to make wrinkles. There's the Robin Benweterstaff There indeed was the Robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin, and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him, but Ben was sarcastic. Aye, they're the art, he said. The can put up with me for a bit sometimes when thas got no one better Thu's been reddening up thy waistcoat and polishin' thy feathers this two weeks I know what the's up to The Courtin'T's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere, tellin' thy lies to her about being the finest cockrobin on missile moor, and ready to fight all the rest of 'em Oh look at him exclaimed Mary. The Robin was evidently in a fascinating bold mood. He hopped closer and closer, and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly He flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him The thinks they'll get over me by doing that, said Ben, wrinkling up his face in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased. The thinks no one can stand out against thee that's what the thinks The Robin spread his wings. Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe, as if he would not have stirred for the world lest his robin should start away. He spoke quite in a whisper Well I'm danged, he said softly, as if he were saying something quite different. The does know how to get at it chap, the does Thus fair unearthly thus so knowing and he stood without stirring, almost without drawing his breath until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be magic in it and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes. But because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then Mary was not afraid to talk to him Have you a garden of your own? she asked No I'm a batch elder and lodge with Martin at the gate If you had one, said Mary, what would you plant? Cabbages and taters and onions But if you wanted to make a flower garden, persisted Mary, what would you plant? Bulbs and sweet smellin' things, but mostly roses Mary's face lighted up Do you like roses? she said Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered Well yes I do I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener to She had a lot in a place she was fond of, and she loved 'em like they was children, or robins. I've seen her bend over and kiss 'em. He dragged out another weed and scowled at it. That were as much as ten year ago. Where is she now? asked Mary, much interested. Heaven, he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, according to what Parson says. What happened to the roses? Mary asked again, more interested than ever They was left to themselves Mary was becoming quite excited. Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to themselves? she ventured Well I'd got to like 'em, and I liked her, and she liked 'em. Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. Once or twice a year I'd go and work at 'em a bit, prune 'em and dig about the roots. They run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived. When they have no leaves and look grey and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive? inquired Mary. Wait till the spring gets at 'em. Wait till the sun shines on the rain, and the rain falls on the sunshine, and then they'll find out. How, how? cried Mary, forgetting to be careful. Look along the twigs and branches, and if the seas a bit of brown lump swelling here and there. Watch it after the warm rain, and see what happens. He stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. Why does the care so much about roses and such all of a sudden? he demanded. Mistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer. I I want to play that that I have a garden of my own, she stammered. I there's nothing else for me to do. I have nothing and no one Well, said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, that's true the hasn't. He said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself. She had only felt tired and cross because she disliked people and things so much. But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always she stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared. He answered every one of them in his queer grunting way, and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was going away, and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been so fond of Do you go and see those other roses now? she asked Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in the joints he said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should Now look here, he said sharply, don't ask so many questions Thart the worst winch for asking questions I've ever come across. Get thee gone and play thee I've done talkin' for today And he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute She went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over, and saying to herself that queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She liked old Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted to try to make him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers. There was a laurel hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood in the park. She thought she would skip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about she enjoyed the skipping very much, and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was. It was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy about twelve he looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face and on the trunk of the tree he leaned against a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him and from behind a bush nearby a cockpheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out. And quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listened to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low and rather like his piping Don't the move he said it'll flight em Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all. But at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree. The pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away though not at all as if they were frightened I'm Dicken the boy said. I know thart Miss Mary Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was Dicken. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the native charm snakes in India he had a wide red curvy mouth and his smile spread all over his face I got up slow he explained because if the makes a quick move it startles em a body asked to move gentle and speak low when wild things is about he did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well Mary knew nothing about boys, and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy did you get Martha's letter she asked she asked. He nodded his curly rust colored head. That's why I come. He stooped to pick something up which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. I've got the garden tools. There's a little spade and rake and a fork and hoe. Eh there good uns there's a trowel too. And the woman in the shop threw in a packet of white poppy and one a blue lark spur when I bought the other seeds. Will you show the seeds to me? Mary asked. She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes with a funny face and a rough rusty red head. As she came closer to him, she noticed there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very much, and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes, she forgot that she had felt shy. Let us sit down on this log and look at them, she said. They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one. There's a lot of mignettes and poppies he said mignettes the sweetest smelling thing as grows and it'll grow wherever you cast it same as poppies will. Thim's the nicest of all he stopped and turned his head quickly his poppy cheeked face lighting up where's that robin as is callin' us he said. The chirp came from a thick holly bush bright with scarlet berries and Mary thought she knew whose it was he really calling us she asked aye said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He's callin' someone he's friends with that same as saying here I am, look at me I wants a bit of a chat. There he is in the bush whose is he? He's been Weatherstaff's, but I think he knows me a little, answered Mary. Aye, he knows thee, said Dickon in his low voice again. And he likes thee. Please took thee on he'll tell me all about thee in a minute. He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own twitter. The Robin listened a few seconds intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question. Aye, he's a friend of yours, chuckled Dickin. Do you think he is? cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. Do you think he really likes me? He wouldn't come near thee if he didn't, answered Dicken. Birds is rare choosers, and a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he's making up to thee now cannot the sea a chap, he's sayin' and it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush. Do you understand everything birds say? said Mary. Dickens' grin spread until he seemed all wide, red curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head. I think I do and they think I do, he said. I've lived on the moor with them so long. I've watched them break shell and come out and fledge and learn to fly and begin to sing, till I think I'm one of them. Sometimes I think perhaps I'm a bird or a fox or a rabbit or a squirrel or even a beetle and I don't know it. 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. See here, he said suddenly turning round to look at her I'll plant them for thee myself. Where's the garden? Mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay in 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 felt as if she went red and then pale's got a bit of garden hasn't the Dickens said. It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickens saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled. Wouldn't they give thee a bit? he asked hasn't the got any yet? She held her hands even tighter and turned her eyes toward him I don't know anything about boys, she said slowly. Could you keep a secret if I told you one? It's a great secret I don't know what I should do if anyone found it out. I believe I should die 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 I'm keeping secrets all the time he said if I couldn't keep secrets from the other lads secrets about foxes, cubs and birds' nests and wild things holes, they'd be not safe on the moor aye I can keep secrets Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve, but she did it. I've stolen a garden, she said very fast. It isn't mine, it isn't anybody's nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything in it is dead already I don't know she began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life I don't care I don't care nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they don't. They're letting it die all shut in by itself she ended passionately and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying Poor little Mistress Mary Dickens' curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder Eh he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy. I've nothing to do said Mary nothing belongs to me. I found it myself and I got into it myself I was only just like the Robin and they wouldn't take it from the Robin Where is it? 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. Come with me and I'll show you she said. She led him round the laurel path into 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 bird's 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 open slowly and they passed in together and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly It's this she said it's a secret garden and I'm the only one in the world who wants it to be alive. Dickon looked round and round about it and round and round again. Eh, he almost whispered it is a queer pretty place. It's like as if a body was in a dream