Chapter XV. Nest Building

The Secret Garden

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

After another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared
again and the sun which poured down was quite hot. Though there had
been no chance to see either the secret garden or Dickon, Mistress
Mary had enjoyed herself very much. The week had not seemed long.
She had spent hours of every day with Colin in his room, talking
about Rajahs or gardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor. They
had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes Mary had
read things to Colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her.
When he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like
an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was
always on the sofa.

"You are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go
following things up like you did that night," Mrs. Medlock said once.
"But there's no saying it's not been a sort of blessing to the lot
of us. He's not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made
friends. The nurse was just going to give up the case because she was
so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind staying now you've gone
on duty with her," laughing a little.

In her talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautious
about the secret garden. There were certain things she wanted to
find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without
asking him direct questions. In the first place, as she began to like
to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy
you could tell a secret to. He was not in the least like Dickon, but
he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew
anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted. But she
had not known him long enough to be sure. The second thing she
wanted to find out was this: If he could be trusted--if he really
could--wouldn't it be possible to take him to the garden without
having any one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he must
have fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in
a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and
knew Dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think
so much about dying. Mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes
lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different
creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from India.
This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a change in her.

"Th' air from th' moor has done thee good already," she had
said. "Tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so scrawny.
Even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha' head so flat. It's got
some life in it so as it sticks out a bit."

"It's like me," said Mary. "It's growing stronger and fatter.
I'm sure there's more of it."

"It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it up a little
round her face. "Tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that way an'
there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks."

If gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they
would be good for Colin. But then, if he hated people to look at
him, perhaps he would not like to see Dickon.

"Why does it make you angry when you are looked at?" she
inquired one day.

"I always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little.
Then when they took me to the seaside and I used to lie in my
carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my
nurse and then they would begin to whisper and I knew then they were
saying I shouldn't live to grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would
pat my cheeks and say `Poor child!' Once when a lady did that I
screamed out loud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she ran
away."

"She thought you had gone mad like a dog," said Mary, not at all
admiringly.

"I don't care what she thought," said Colin, frowning.

"I wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when I came into
your room?" said Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.

"I thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said. "You can't
bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don't care."

"Would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?" Mary asked
uncertainly.

He lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.

"There's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking
over every word, "there's one boy I believe I shouldn't mind. It's
that boy who knows where the foxes live--Dickon."

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said Mary.

"The birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinking it
over, "perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sort of animal charmer
and I am a boy animal."

Then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their
both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal
hiding in his hole very funny indeed.

What Mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about
Dickon.

On that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakened
very early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds
and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped
out of bed and ran to the window. She drew up the blinds and opened
the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon
her. The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something
Magic had happened to it. There were tender little fluting sounds
here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning
to tune up for a concert. Mary put her hand out of the window and
held it in the sun.

"It's warm--warm!" she said. "It will make the green points
push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and
struggle with all their might under the earth."

She kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she
could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed
because she remembered what Dickon's mother had said about the end of
his nose quivering like a rabbit's. "It must be very early," she
said. "The little clouds are all pink and I've never seen the sky
look like this. No one is up. I don't even hear the stable
boys."

A sudden thought made her scramble to her feet.

"I can't wait! I am going to see the garden!"

She had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her
clothes in five minutes. She knew a small side door which she could
unbolt herself and she flew downstairs in her stocking feet and put
on her shoes in the hall. She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and
when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and
there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned
green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts
about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from
every bush and tree. She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up
in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and
flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and
sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks
could not possibly help it. She ran around the shrubs and paths
towards the secret garden.

"It is all different already," she said. "The grass is greener
and things are sticking up every- where and things are uncurling and
green buds of leaves are showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon
will come."

The long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous
beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall. There were things
sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and
there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and
yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses. Six months before
Mistress Mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but
now she missed nothing.

When she had reached the place where the door hid itself under
the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound. It was the
caw--caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she
looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking
down at her very wisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so close
before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he
spread his wings and flapped away across the garden. She hoped he was
not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he
would. When she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably
did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and
under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a Bushy
tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red
head of Dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard.

Mary flew across the grass to him.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out. "How could you get here so
early! How could you! The sun has only just got up!"

He got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes
like a bit of the sky.

"Eh!" he said. "I was up long before him. How could I have
stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again this mornin', it has.
An' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an'
nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents, till you've got to be out on
it 'stead o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did jump up, th' moor
went mad for joy, an' I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run
like mad myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here. I
couldn't have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin' here
waitin'!"

Mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been
running herself.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I can scarcely
breathe!"

Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal
rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook,
cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his
shoulder.

"This is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the little
reddish animal's head. "It's named Captain. An' this here's Soot.
Soot he flew across th' moor with me an' Captain he run same as if
th' hounds had been after him. They both felt same as I did."

Neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid
of Mary. When Dickon began to walk about, Soot stayed on his
shoulder and Captain trotted quietly close to his side.

"See here!" said Dickon. "See how these has pushed up, an'
these an' these! An' Eh! Look at these here!"

He threw himself upon his knees and Mary went down beside him.
They had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and
orange and gold. Mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed
them.

"You never kiss a person in that way," she said when she lifted
her head. "Flowers are so different."

He looked puzzled but smiled.

"Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that way when I
come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood there at
th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an' comfortable." They ran from
one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they
were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak
low. He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches which had
seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new green points pushing
through the mould. They put their eager young noses close to the
earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and
pulled and laughed low with rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as
tumbled as Dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as
his.

There was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning,
and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all,
because it was more wonderful. Swiftly something flew across the wall
and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare
of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak. Dickon
stood quite still and put his hand on Mary almost as if they had
suddenly found themselves laughing in a church.

"We munnot stir," he whispered in broad Yorkshire. "We munnot
scarce breathe. I knowed he was mate-huntin' when I seed him last.
It's Ben Weatherstaff's robin. He's buildin' his nest. He'll stay
here if us don't fight him." They settled down softly upon the grass
and sat there without moving.

"Us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close," said
Dickon. "He'd be out with us for good if he got th' notion us was
interferin' now. He'll be a good bit different till all this is
over. He's settin' up housekeepin'. He'll be shyer an' readier to
take things ill. He's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. Us must
keep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an' trees an'
bushes. Then when he's got used to seein' us I'll chirp a bit an'
he'll know us'll not be in his way."

Mistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickon
seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes. But he
had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural
thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and
indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it
was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and
leaves. But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped
his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear
him, but she could.

"It's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin' is," he said.
"I warrant it's been goin' on in th' same way every year since th'
world was begun. They've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things
an' a body had better not meddle. You can lose a friend in
springtime easier than any other season if you're too curious."

"If we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary said as
softly as possible. "We must talk of something else. There is
something I want to tell you."

"He'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said
Dickon. "What is it tha's got to tell me?"

"Well--do you know about Colin?" she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her.

"What does tha' know about him?" he asked.

"I've seen him. I have been to talk to him every day this week.
He wants me to come. He says I'm making him forget about being ill
and dying," answered Mary.

Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died
away from his round face.

"I am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm right down glad. It
makes me easier. I knowed I must say nothin' about him an' I don't
like havin' to hide things."

"Don't you like hiding the garden?" said Mary.

"I'll never tell about it," he answered. "But I says to mother,
`Mother,' I says, `I got a secret to keep. It's not a bad 'un, tha'
knows that. It's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. Tha'
doesn't mind it, does tha'?'"

Mary always wanted to hear about mother.

"What did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear.

Dickon grinned sweet-temperedly.

"It was just like her, what she said," he answered. "She give my
head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'Eh, lad, tha' can have
all th' secrets tha' likes. I've knowed thee twelve year'.'"

"How did you know about Colin?" asked Mary.

"Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a
little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed Mester Craven
didn't like him to be talked about. Folks is sorry for Mester Craven
because Mrs. Craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond
of each other. Mrs. Medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes
to Thwaite an' she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children,
because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty. How did tha'
find out about him? Martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came
home. She said tha'd heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin'
questions an' she didn't know what to say."

Mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind
which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the
complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her
candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly
lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner. When she
described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed
eyes Dickon shook his head.

"Them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers was always
laughin', they say," he said. "They say as Mr. Craven can't bear to
see him when he's awake an' it's because his eyes is so like his
mother's an' yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a
face."

"Do you think he wants to die?" whispered Mary.

"No, but he wishes he'd never been born. Mother she says that's
th' worst thing on earth for a child. Them as is not wanted scarce
ever thrives. Mester Craven he'd buy anythin' as money could buy for
th' poor lad but he'd like to forget as he's on earth. For one
thing, he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he's growed
hunchback."

"Colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up," said
Mary. "He says he's always thinking that if he should feel a lump
coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death."

"Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that," said
Dickon. "No lad could get well as thought them sort o' things."

The fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up to ask
for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck
softly and thought a few minutes in silence. Presently he lifted his
head and looked round the garden.

"When first we got in here," he said, "it seemed like everything
was gray. Look round now and tell me if tha' doesn't see a
difference."

Mary looked and caught her breath a little.

"Why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing. It is as if a
green mist were creeping over it. It's almost like a green gauze
veil."

"Aye," said Dickon. "An' it'll be greener and greener till th'
gray's all gone. Can tha' guess what I was thinkin'?"

"I know it was something nice," said Mary eagerly. "I believe it
was something about Colin."

"I was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin'
for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for buds to break on
th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier," explained Dickon. "I
was wonderin' if us could ever get him in th' humor to come out here
an' lie under th' trees in his carriage."

"I've been wondering that myself. I've thought of it almost
every time I've talked to him," said Mary. "I've wondered if he could
keep a secret and I've wondered if we could bring him here without
any one seeing us. I thought perhaps you could push his carriage.
The doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him
out no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for other people and
perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us. He could order
the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn't find out."

Dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched Captain's back.

"It'd be good for him, I'll warrant," he said. "Us'd not be
thinkin' he'd better never been born. Us'd be just two children
watchin' a garden grow, an' he'd be another. Two lads an' a little
lass just lookin' on at th' springtime. I warrant it'd be better
than doctor's stuff."

"He's been lying in his room so long and he's always been so
afraid of his back that it has made him queer," said Mary. "He knows
a good many things out of books but he doesn't know anything else.
He says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out
of doors and hates gardens and gardeners. But he likes to hear about
this garden because it is a secret. I daren't tell him much but he
said he wanted to see it."

"Us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said Dickon. "I
could push his carriage well enough. Has tha' noticed how th' robin
an' his mate has been workin' while we've been sittin' here? Look at
him perched on that branch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that
twig he's got in his beak."

He made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his
head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig. Dickon
spoke to him as Ben Weatherstaff did, but Dickon's tone was one of
friendly advice.

"Wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll be all right. Tha'
knew how to build tha' nest before tha' came out o' th' egg. Get on
with thee, lad. Tha'st got no time to lose."

"Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!" Mary said, laughing
delightedly. "Ben Weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and
he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and I know he
likes it. Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather
have stones thrown at him than not be noticed."

Dickon laughed too and went on talking.

"Tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin. "Us is
near bein' wild things ourselves. Us is nest-buildin' too, bless
thee. Look out tha' doesn't tell on us."

And though the robin did not answer, because his beak was
occupied, Mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own
corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he
would not tell their secret for the world.