11
The Nest of the Missel Thrush
For two or three minutes he stood looking
round 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 from 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.
“Did you know about it?” asked Mary.
She had spoken aloud and he made a sign to
her.
“We must talk low,” he said, “or some one’ll hear
us an’ wonder what’s to do in here.”
“Oh! I forgot!” said Mary, feeling frightened and
putting her hand quickly against her mouth. “Did 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.
“Eh! the nests as’ll be here come springtime,” he
said. “It’d be th’ safest nestin’ place in England. No one never
comin’ near’ an’ tangles o’ trees an’ roses to build in. I wonder
all th’ birds on th’ 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.”
“Eh! No! Not them—not all of ’em!” 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 o’ dead wood as ought to be cut out,”
he said. “An’ there’s a lot o’ old wood, but it made some new last
year. This here’s a new bit,” 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—quite?”
Dickon curved his wide smiling 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 her whisper.
“I want them all to be wick. Let us go round the garden and count
how many wick ones there are.”
She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as
eager as she was. They went from tree to tree and from bush to
bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things
which she thought wonderful.
“They’ve run wild,” he said, “but th’ strongest
ones has fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones has died out, but
th’ others has growed an’ growed, an’ spread an’ 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 th’ root. I’ll cut it low down an’
see.”
He knelt and with his knife cut the
lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth.
“There!” he said exultantly. “I told thee so.
There’s green in that wood yet. Look at it.”
Mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing
with all her might.
“When it looks a bit greenish an’ juicy like that,
it’s wick,” he explained. “When th’ inside is dry an’ 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, an’ if th’ old
wood’s cut off an’ it’s dug round, and took care of there’ll be—”
he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and
hanging sprays above him—“there’ll be a fountain o’ roses here 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
bough or twig had still green 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 her breath
when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green. 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
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 tha’ didn’t know nothin’ about
gardenin’,” he exclaimed.
“I don’t,” she answered, “but they were so little,
and the grass was so thick and strong, and they 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.
“Tha’ was right,” he said. “A gardener couldn’t
have told thee better. They’ll grow now like Jack’s bean-stalk.
They’re crocuses an’ snowdrops, an’ these here is narcissuses,”
turning to another patch, “an here’s daffydowndillys. Eh! they will
be a sight.”
He ran from one clearing to another.
“Tha’ has done a lot o’ work for such a little
wench,” he said, looking her over.
“I’m growing fatter,” said Mary, “and I’m growing
stronger. I used always to be tired. 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 naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean
earth, except th’ smell o’ fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls
on ‘em. I get out on th’ moor many a day when it’s rainin’ an’ I
lie under a bush an’ listen to th’ soft swish o’ drops on th’
heather an’ I just sniff an’ sniff. My nose end fair quivers like a
rabbit’s, mother says.”
“Do you never catch cold?” inquired Mary, gazing at
him. She had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one.
“Not me,” he said, grinning. “I never ketched cold
since I was born. I wasn’t brought up neshv
enough. I’ve chased about th’ moor in all weathers same as th’
rabbits does. Mother says I’ve sniffed up too much fresh air for
twelve year’ to ever get to sniffin’ 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 to do it?” Mary
begged. “I’m sure I can help, too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and
do whatever you tell me. Oh! do come, Dickon! ”
“I’ll come every day if tha’ wants me, rain or
shine,” he answered stoutly. “It’s the best fun I ever had in my
life—shut in here an’ wakenin’ up a garden.”
“If you will come,” said Mary, “if you will help me
to make it alive I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do,” she ended
helplessly. What could you do for a boy like that?
“I’ll tell thee what tha’ll do,” said Dickon, with
his happy grin. “Tha’ll get fat an’ tha’ll get as hungry as a young
fox an’ tha’ll learn how to talk to th’ robin same as I do. Eh!
we’ll have a lot o’ 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 an’ spick an’ span, would you?” he said. “It’s
nicer like this with things runnin’ wild, an’ swingin’ an’ catchin’
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-red head with a
rather puzzled look.
“It’s a secret garden sure enough,” he said, “but
seems like some one besides th’ robin must have been in it since it
was shut up ten year’ ago.”
“But the 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 o’ prunin’ done here an’
there, later than ten year’ ago.”
“But how could it have been done?” said Mary.
He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he
shook his head.
“Aye! how could it!” he murmured.“With th’ door
locked an th’ key buried.”
Mistress Mary always felt that however many years
she lived she should 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,
she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease
her.
“Are there any flowers that look like bells?” she
inquired.
“Lilies o’ th’ valley does,” he answered, digging
away with the trowel, “an’ there’s Canterbury bells, an’
campanulas.”
“Let’s plant some,” said Mary.
“There’s lilies o’ th’ valley here already; I saw
‘em. They’ll have growed too close an’ we’ll have to separate ’em,
but there’s plenty. Th’ other ones takes two years to bloom from
seed, but I can bring you some bits o’ plants from our cottage
garden. Why does tha’ want ’em?”
Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and
sisters in India and of how she had hated them and of their calling
her “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary.”
“They used to dance round and sing at me. They
sang—
‘Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.’
How does your garden grow?
With 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
an’ such like, an’ such lots o’ friendly wild things runnin’ about
makin’ homes for themselves, or buildin’ nests an’ singin’ an’
whistlin’, does there?”
Mary, kneeling 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, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking
turned-up nose.
“Only five folk as tha’ likes?” he said. “Who is
th’ other four?”
“Your mother and Martha,” Mary checked them off on
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 tha’ thinks I’m a queer lad,” he said, “but
I think tha’ art th’ queerest little lass I ever saw.”
Then Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forward
and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking any one
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 his
speech.
“Does tha’ like me?” she said.
“Eh!” he answered heartily, “that I does. I likes
thee wonderful, an’ so does th’ robin, I do believe!”
“That’s two, then,” said Mary. “That’s two for
me.”
And then 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
will 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 o’ somethin’ in my pocket.”
He picked up his coat from the grass and brought
out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quite clean,
coarse, blue and white handkerchief It held two thick pieces of
bread with a slice of something laid between them.
“It’s oftenest naught but bread,” he said, “but
I’ve got a fine slice o’ fat bacon with it today.”
Mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he
seemed ready to enjoy it.
“Run on an’ get thy victuals,” he said. “I’ll be
done with mine first. I’ll get some more work done before I start
back home.”
He sat down with his back against a tree.
“I’ll call th’ robin up,” he said, “and give him
th’ rind o’ th’ bacon to peck at. They likes a bit o’ 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 half-way to the door in the wall and then she
stopped and went back.
“Whatever happens, you—you never would tell?” she
said.
His poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his
first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile
encouragingly.
“If tha’ was a missel thrushw
an’ showed me where thy nest was, does tha’ think I’d tell any one?
Not me,” he said. “Tha’ art as safe as a missel thrush.”
And she was quite sure she was.