10 Dickon

CHAPTER 10 Dickon Mary called her special place the "secret garden." In it she felt like part of a fairy story. She had read about people who went to sleep in secret gardens for a hundred years. But instead, Mary was becoming wider awake. She could run faster and longer now and skip to a hundred. Every day she worked in the garden to give the bulbs breathing room. Mary was oddly stubborn when something

interested her, and the garden interested her more than anything she had ever known. She learned more about gardening from Ben. And he usually welcomed her company. In fact, he was flattered that she wanted to talk to an old man. Also, Mary no longer spoke to him as if he were a mere servant. One day he paid her a gruff compliment. "You're starting to be a credit to Misselthwaite," he said. "You're not so thin and pale. You looked like a plucked crow when you first came here." Mary liked old Ben and even his homespun honesty. One day he told her why he especially liked roses. "I was gardener to a young lady who had a rose garden, and she loved her roses like they were children. That was ten years ago," he sighed. "But the lady's in heaven now, and the roses are over grown. I tried tending them—pruning them a bit

and digging around the roots—but my stiff old body makes it too hard." Thinking of the secret garden, Mary asked, "When roses have no leaves, and they look grayish brown and dry, how can you tell if they're still alive?" "In the spring, look for little bumps on the twigs and branches. Watch 'em after a warm rain and see what happens." He stopped digging suddenly and stared at Mary. "Why do you ask?" he said crossly. "Girls shouldn't ask so many questions. Go off and play—I've got work to do." She wasn't mad at being sent away. She liked Ben even when he was cross with her. Mary walked away from Ben and found the path that curved around the secret garden. It was lined with laurel hedges and ended at a gate opening into the woods. She hoped to see rabbits there, but instead she heard a

whistling sound coming from the other side. Curious, she followed it into the woods. What she saw took her breath away: a boy sitting under a tree with rust-colored hair, cheeks as red as poppies, and the roundest, bluest eyes Mary had ever seen. He was playing a pipe, and a squirrel was clinging to the tree just over his shoulder. A pheasant behind a small bush stretched its neck to peek out at him. Nearby sat two rabbits twitching their noses as if they had come to a concert. When the boy saw Mary, he raised his hand. In a low voice he said, "Don't move! It would frighten them." He stopped playing and stood up very slowly—almost like he wasn't moving at all. When he finally got to his feet, the animals scampered away. They didn't seem afraid. "I'm Dickon," the boy said, "and you're

Miss Mary." He talked in a friendly way. But Mary felt shy around boys. "Did you get our letter?" she asked rather stiffly. Dickon nodded his head yes. "I've brought the garden tools." He showed her a package wrapped in brown paper. "There's a spade, a rake, a fork, and a hoe. A trowel, too, and some extra seeds. The woman at the store threw in a packet of white poppy and blue larkspur for free."

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