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 leaf-buds
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 flight him."

[[198]]

p197 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p198w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p199

v?