Sleep Story: The Secret Garden Ch 10 & 11

Enjoy this sleep story to help you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Tonight we read Chapters 10 and 11 of the timeless classic, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. These chapters focus on Mary exploring the gardens of the large English country house and making a new friend. This audio is perfect for children or adults who want to relax or find adventure into a great night's sleep.

Transcript

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett Chapter 10 Dickon 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 and 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 missile weight.

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 astonished.

Such nice,

Clear places were made around 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 it 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 bulbs 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 look like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.

During that week of sunshine,

She became more intimate with Ben Weatherstaff.

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 commanding by them to do things.

"'Thou like 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 womanfolk just for vanity and flightiness.

There's nothing he wouldn't do for the sake of showing off and flirting 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 with a grunt.

But this morning he 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 has the been here?

' he jerked out.

"'I think it's about a month,

' she answered.

"'That's beginning to do missile weight credit,

' he said.

"'That's a bit fatter than there was and you're not so yeller.

' That looked like a young plucked crow when the first came into this garden.

Things I said 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 look she was not greatly disturbed.

"'I know I'm fatter,

' she says.

"'My stockings are getting tighter.

They used to make wrinkles.

There's the Robin Ben Weatherstaff.

' 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 there,

The art,

' he said.

"'That can put up with me for a bit sometimes when there's got no one better.

That's been reddening up the waistcoats and polishing the feathers this two weeks.

I know what there's up to.

There's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere telling the lies to her about being the finest cock Robin on Missal Moore and ready to fight all the rest of them.

' "'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 current 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 his face up 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 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 as softly as if he were saying something quite different.

"'The does know how to get at the chap,

The does,

The's fair unearthly,

That's 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 bachelor in 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-smelling 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 by a young lady.

I was a gardener,

Too.

She had a lot in place she was fond of,

And she loved them like they were her children,

Or Robin's.

I've seen her bend over and kiss them.

' He dragged out another weed and scowled at it.

That were as much as ten years ago.

"'Where is she now?

' asked Mary,

Much interested.

"'Heaven,

' he answered,

And drove his spade deep into the oil.

"'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're left to themselves?

' she ventured.

"'Well,

I got to like them,

And I liked her,

And she liked them,

' Ben Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly.

"'Once or twice a year,

I'd go and work at them a bit,

Prune them and dig them around the roots.

They ran wild,

But they was in rich soil,

So some of them lived.

When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry,

How can you tell whether they're dead or alive?

' inquired Mary.

"'Wait till the spring gets at them.

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 they see 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 the sudden he demanded.

Mistress Mary felt her face grow red.

She was almost afraid to answer.

"'I want to play that I have a garden of my own,

' she stammered.

"'There's nothing for me to do.

I have nothing and no one.

' "'Well,

' said Ben Weatherstaff slowly as he watched her,

"'that is true.

That 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'd 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 fond of.

"'Do you go and see the other roses now?

' she asked.

"'Not been there 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 wench for asking questions I've ever come across.

Get thee gone and play thee.

I'm done talking for today.

' 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,

Queer as it is,

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 and 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 curbed round the secret garden and ended at the gate which opened into a wood in the park.

She thought she would slip 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 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 red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such round and such blue eyes and 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 cock pheasant 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 listen to this 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 him.

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 Dickon,

The boy said.

I know that,

Miss Mary.

Then Mary realized that somehow she'd had known at first that he was Dickon.

Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India?

He had a wide,

Red,

Curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face.

I got up slowly,

Explained,

Because if it makes a quick move it startles him.

A body has to move gently and speak low when wild things is about.

He did not speak to her as if they'd 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.

He nodded his curly,

Rust-colored head.

That's why I come.

He stooped to pick up something 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.

Ay,

They are good ones.

There's a trowel,

Too.

And the woman in the shop threw in a packet a white poppy and a blue larksbark when I bought the other seeds.

Will you show the seeds to me,

Mary said?

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 warboy in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough,

Rusty 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 poppies,

Mignonettes.

Those are the sweetest smelling things as grows,

And it'll grow wherever you cast it,

Same as poppies will.

Them must come up and bloom if you just whistle to them.

Them's the nicest of all.

He stopped and turned his head quickly,

His poppy-cheeked face lighting up.

Where's that robin,

As is calling us,

He said?

The chirp came from a thick holly bush bright with scarlet berries,

And Mary thought she knew whose it was.

Is it really calling us,

She asked.

I said,

Dickon,

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He's calling someone his friends with.

That's same as saying,

Here I am,

Look at me,

I want a bit of a chat.

There he is in the bush.

Whose is he?

His Ben Weatherstab'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.

He's 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 quiet,

As if he were replying to a question.

Aye,

He's a friend of yours,

Chuckled Dickon.

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 Dickon.

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 see a chap,

He's saying?

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.

Dickon's 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 up and fledge and learn to fly,

And began 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 them,

And water them.

See here,

He said suddenly,

Turning round to look at her.

I'll plant them for thee myself.

Where is the garden?

Mary's 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.

This got a bit of garden,

Hasn't it?

Dickon asked.

It was true that she had turned red and pale.

Dickon 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 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,

There'd be not safe on the moor.

I,

I can keep secrets.

Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clench his sleeve,

But that's what she did.

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 is dead in it.

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.

Dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.

Eh,

He said,

Drawing his exclamation out slowly,

And the way he did 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,

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 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 slowly open,

And they passed in together,

And then Mary stood and waved her hand around defiantly.

It's this,

She said,

It's the 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.

Just like as of a body was in a dream.

Chapter 11,

The Nest of the Missal Thrush.

For two or three minutes he looked,

Looking around him while Mary watched him,

And then he began to walk about softly,

Even more lightly than Mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls.

His eyes seemed to be taking in everything,

The gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging over their branches,

The tangle on the walls and among the grass,

The evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them.

I never thought I'd see this place,

He said at last in a whisper.

Do you know about it,

Asked Mary.

She had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her.

We must talk low,

He said,

Or someone will hear us and wonder what's to do in here.

Oh,

I forgot,

Said Mary,

Feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth.

Do you know about the garden,

She asked again when she had recovered herself.

Dickon nodded.

Martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside,

He answered.

Us used to wonder what it was like.

He stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him,

And his round eyes looked queerly happy.

Hey,

The nest,

As'll be here come springtime,

He said.

It'll be the safest nesting place in England.

No one never come in near and tangles a trees and roses to build in.

I wonder all the birds on the moor don't build here.

Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it.

Will there be roses,

She whispered.

Can you tell?

I thought perhaps they were all dead.

Hey,

No,

Not them,

Not all of them,

He answered,

Look here.

He stepped over to the nearest tree,

An old,

Old one with gray lichen all over its bark,

But upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches.

He took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades.

There's lots of dead wood as ought to be cut out,

He said,

And there's a lot of old wood,

But it made some new last year.

This here's a bit new,

And he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard,

Dry gray.

Mary touched it herself in an eager,

Reverent way.

That one,

She said,

Is that one quite alive?

Ticken curved his wide,

Smiley mouth.

It's as wick as you or me,

He said.

And Mary remembered that Martha had told her that wick meant alive or lively.

I'm glad it's wick,

She cried out in a whisper.

I want them all here to be wick.

Let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are.

She quite panted with eagerness,

And Ticken was as eager as she was.

They went from tree to tree and from bush to bush.

Ticken carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful.

They've run wild,

He said,

But the strongest ones has fared and thrived on it.

The delicate ones has died out,

But the others has grown and grown and spread and spread,

Till they's a wonder.

See here?

And he pulled down a thick gray,

Dry-looking branch.

A body might think this was dead wood,

But I don't believe it is.

Down to the root.

I'll cut it low,

Down and see.

He knelt with his knife,

Cut the lifeless-looking branches through,

Not far above the earth.

There,

He said exultantly.

I told thee so.

There's green in that wood yet.

Look at that.

Ticken was down on her knees before he spoke,

Gazing with all her might.

When it looks a bit greenish and juicy like that,

It's wick,

He explained.

When the inside is dry and breaks easy,

Like this here piece I've cut off,

It's done for.

There's a big root here,

As all this live wood sprung out of it,

And the old woods cut off,

And if it's dug round and taken care of,

They'll be.

He stopped and lifted his face to look at the climbing and hanging sprays above him.

There'll be a fountain of roses here by this summer.

They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree.

He was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away and could tell when an unpromising bow or twig still has life in it.

In the course of half an hour,

Mary thought she could tell too,

And when he cut through a lifeless looking branch,

She would cry out joyfully under his breath when she caught sight of the least a shade of green,

Moist green.

The spade,

The hoe,

The fork were very useful.

He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in.

They were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise.

Why,

He cried,

Pointing to the grass a few feet away,

Who did that there?

It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the pale green points.

I did it,

Said Mary.

Why,

I thought they didn't know nothing about gardening,

He exclaimed.

I don't,

She said,

But they were so little and the grass was so thick and strong and I looked as if they had no room to breathe,

So I made a place for them.

I don't even know what they are.

Dickon went and knelt down by them,

Smiling his wide smile.

Thou was right,

He said.

A gardener couldn't have told thee better.

They'll grow now like Jack's beanstalk.

There crocuses and snowdrops and these here as narcissus,

Turning to another patch.

And here's daffodilies.

Ay,

They will be a sight.

He ran from one clearing to another.

Thou has done a lot of work for such a little wench,

He said,

Looking over.

I'm growing fatter,

Said Mary,

And I'm growing stronger.

I used always to be tired,

But when I dig I'm not tired at all.

I like to smell the earth when it's turned up.

It's rare good for thee,

He said,

Nodding his head wisely.

There's not as nice as the smell of good clean earth,

Except the smell of fresh growing things when the rain falls on them.

I get out to the moor many a day when it's raining and I lie under a bush and listen to the soft swish of drops on the heather,

And I just sniff and sniff.

My nose and fair quivers like a rabbit's,

Mother says.

Do you ever catch cold?

Inquired Mary,

Gazing at him wonderingly.

She had never seen such a funny boy or such a nice one.

Not me,

He said,

Grinning.

I've never catch cold since I was born.

I wasn't brought up nesh enough.

I've chased about the moor in all weather,

Same as the rabbit's does.

Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh air for a twelve-year-old to ever go sniffing with cold.

I'm as tough as a white thorn knobstick.

He was working all the time he was talking,

And Mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel.

There's a lot of work to do here,

He said once,

Looking about quite exultantly.

Will you come again and help me do it,

Mary pegged?

I'm sure I can help too.

I can dig and pull up weeds and do whatever you tell me.

Oh,

Oh,

Do come,

Dickon.

I'll come every day if the wants me rain or shine,

He answered stoutly.

It's the best fun I've ever had in my life,

Shut up here and awakening up a guarding.

If you will come,

Said Mary,

If you will help me make it alive,

I'll—I don't know what I'll do,

She said helplessly.

What could you do for a boy like that?

I'll tell you what thee can do,

Said Dickon with his happy grin.

They'll get fat and they'll get as hungry as a young fox,

And then they'll learn how to talk to the robin,

Same as I do.

Eh,

We'll have a lot of fun.

He began to walk about,

Looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression.

I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden,

All clipped in spic and span,

Would you,

He said.

It's nicer like this when things are running wild and swinging and catching hold of each other.

Don't let us make it tidy,

Said Mary anxiously.

It wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy.

Dickon stood rubbing his rusty head with a rather puzzled look.

It's a secret garden for sure,

He said,

But seems like someone besides the robin must have been in since it was shut up ten years ago.

But the back door was locked and the key was buried,

Said Mary.

No one could get in.

That's true,

He answered.

It's a queer place.

Seems to me as if there'd been a bit of pruning done here and there later than ten years ago.

But how could it have been done,

Said Mary?

He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head.

Ay,

How could it,

He murmured,

With the door locked and the key buried?

Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived,

She would never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow.

Of course,

It did seem to begin to grow for her that morning when Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds.

He remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her.

Are there any flowers that look like bells,

She inquired?

Lilies of the valley does,

He answered,

Digging away with the trowel.

And there's Canterbury bells and Campanulas.

Let's plant some,

Said Mary.

There's lilies of the valley over here already.

I saw them.

They'll have grown too close and we'll have to separate them,

But there's plenty.

The other ones take two years to bloom from seed,

But I can bring you some bits of plants from our garden.

Why does the oneum?

Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India and how she had hated them and of her calling her Mistress Mary quite contrary.

They used to dance around and sing at me.

They sang,

Mistress Mary quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

There's silver bells and cockle shells and marigolds all in a row.

I just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells.

She frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth.

I wasn't as contrary as they were,

But Dickon laughed.

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 and such.

And such lots of friendly wild things running about,

Making homes for themselves or building nests and singing and whistling,

Does there?

Mary kneeled by him holding the seeds,

Looked at him and stopped frowning.

Dickon,

She said,

You are as nice as Martha said you were.

I like you and you make the fifth person.

I never thought I should like five people.

Dickon sat up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the grate.

He did look funny and delightful,

Mary thought,

And with those round blue eyes and his red cheeks and happy looking turned up nose.

Only five folks as the likes,

He said,

And who's the other four?

Her mother and Martha.

Mary checked them off with her fingers and the robin and Ben Weatherstaff.

Dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth.

I know that thinks I'm a queer lad,

He said,

But I think the art,

The queerest little laugh I ever saw.

Then Mary did a strange thing.

She leaned forward and asked him a question she'd never dreamed of asking anyone before.

And she tried to ask it in Yorkshire because that was his language.

And in India,

A native was always pleased if you knew the speech.

Does the like me,

She said.

Ay,

He said heartily,

That I does.

I likes thee wonderful and so does the robin,

I do believe.

That's two then,

Said Mary.

That's two for me.

And they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully.

Mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner.

I shall have to go,

She said mournfully,

And you'll have to go too,

Won't you?

Dickon grinned.

My dinner's easy to carry about with me,

He said.

Mother always lets me put a bit of something in my pocket.

He picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of his pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in quite clean,

Coarse,

Blue and white handkerchief.

It held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between it.

It's often as not but bread,

He said,

But I've got a fine slice of fat bacon with it today.

Mary thought it looked like a queer dinner,

But he seemed ready to enjoy it.

Come on and get thy victuals,

He said,

I'll be done with mine first.

I'll get some work done before I start back home.

He sat down with his back against the tree.

I'll call the robin up and give him the rind of the bacon to peck at.

They likes a bit of fat.

Wonderful.

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.

She went slowly halfway to the door and the wall,

And then she stopped and went back.

Whatever happens,

You,

You would never tell,

She asked.

His poppy colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon,

But he managed to smile encouragingly.

If thou was a missile thrush and showed me where the nest was,

Does the think I'd tell anyone?

Not me,

He said,

The art as safe as a missile thrush.

And she was quite sure she was.

And that is the end of our sleep story this evening.

Thank you so much for allowing me the precious gift of your time.

Until next time,

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

So happy i found you. Love your voice and your way of reading.

I just love how your voice is! It is perfect! I fell asleep and had to listen to it again because I didn't want to miss anything. 🌚❤️❤️

Great thank you 🙏🏼

I love your reading of this, so sweet and gentle. I look forward to the next chapter.

I am enjoying this story throughly, your voice is amazing, soft and perfect for a story to calm my mind for the evening.
I look forward to the rest of it as it comes 💕