11 A “Wick” Garden

CHAPTER 11 A "Wick" Garden For several minutes, Dickon just looked around. Then he started walking about the gray trees and twisting vines, the over grown grass, and the stone seats and urns. "We used to wonder about this place," he said softly. "Just look at the tangle—this must be the safest nesting place in England! No one could bother the birds up there." "Will there be any roses?" Mary whispered. Dickon stepped over to the nearest tree.

He took a knife from his pocket and cut into a branch. "There's lots of deadwood, but it's as wick as you and me," he told her. Grinning widely, he showed Mary a little brownish green shoot. "Wick?" she asked. "That's Yorkshire for 'alive,'" Dickon said. "Oh, I'm glad it's wick!" Mary exclaimed. Dickon put a finger up to his lips. Mary whispered happily, "I want everything here to be wick!" One shrub at a time, Dickon showed her how to cut away the deadwood to find the living wood. "When it looks greenish and juicy, it's wick. When it's dry and breaks off easy, you cut it away." Then he showed her how to dig around the roots to let the plants breathe. There was so much to do that Mary asked

if Dickon could come again and help. "I'll come every day if you want," he offered. "We'll wake up this garden. You'll get stronger, and I'll teach you to talk to the robin. We'll have loads of fun!" He looked around again and said, "But I don't think the garden should be too neat. It will look nicer with things running a bit wild." Mary agreed that it wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was too tidy. "Hmm. It looks like someone did some pruning and digging not too long ago," he noted. "But the door was locked, and the key was buried. How could anyone get in?" Mary said. Dickon scratched his head. "Aye, how could it be?" he murmured. They kept working in the warm sunshine.

Mary was startled when the clock in the courtyard chimed twelve, time for lunch. Dickon had brought a sandwich to eat in the garden and work some more before going home. Mary hated to leave. She was afraid Dickon would disappear like a wood fairy. Walking to the door, she turned and said, "Whatever happens, you—you would never tell about the garden?" Dickon smiled. "If you were a thrush and you showed me your nest, do you think I'd tell? Not me. Your secret is safe."