Таинственный сад / The secret garden

The spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth. They were working industriously.

“Why!” he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away. “Who did that there?”

It was one of Mary’s own little clearings.

“I did it,” said Mary.

“I thought that you didn’t know anything about gardening,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t,” she answered, “but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong.

Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling.

“That was right,” he said. “They will grow now. They’re crocuses and snowdrops, and these here are narcissuses. A lot of work for such a little wench!”

“I’m growing stronger,” said Mary, “And when I dig I’m not tired at all. I like to smell the earth.”

“It’s good for you,” he said, nodding his head wisely. “When it’s raining I lie under a bush and listen to the soft swish of drops.

“Do you never catch cold?” inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly.

“Not me,” he said, grinning. “I have never caught cold since I was born.”

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.

“Will you come again and help me to do it?” Mary begged. “I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me.

“I’ll come every day if you want, rain or shine,” he answered stoutly. “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.

“It’s a secret garden,” he said, “right?”

“The door was locked and the key was buried,” said Mary. “No one could get in.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a queer place.

Dickon laughed. Mary looked at him.

“Dickon,” she said. “You are as nice as Martha said you were. I like you. I never thought I could like five people.”

Dickon looked funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks.

“Only five people?” he said. “Who are the other four?”

“Your mother and Martha,” Mary said, “and the robin and Ben Weatherstaff.”

Dickon laughed again.