Таинственный сад / The secret garden

Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine it with thousands of flowers.

“How long have you been here?” Ben Weatherstaff asked her one day.

“I think it’s about a month,” she answered.

“That’s just the beginning,” he said.

“Have you a garden of your own?” she asked.

“No. I’m a bachelor and lodge with Martin.”

“If you have one,” said Mary, “what will you plant?”

“Cabbages and potatoes an onions.”

“But what about a flower garden?” persisted Mary.

“Mostly roses.”

“Do you like roses?” she said.

“Well, yes, I do. The young lady was fond of them. She loved them like they were children-or robins. She kissed them. Ten years ago.”

“Where is she now?” asked Mary.

“Heaven,” he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil.

“What happened to the roses?” Mary asked again.

“They were left to themselves[20 - They were left to themselves. – Р?С… забросили.

Mary was almost afraid to answer.

“I–I want to play that-that I have a garden of my own,” she stammered. “I-there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing-and no one.”

“Well,” said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, “that’s true.”

Mary went skipping slowly down the outside walk. The walk curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. Suddenly she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound.

It was a very strange thing indeed. A boy was sitting under a tree, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies. And on the trunk of the tree, 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.

When he saw Mary he spoke to her,

“Don’t move. They are afraid.”

Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and rose from the ground. The squirrel scampered back up into the branches of the tree, the pheasant withdrew its head and the rabbits began to hop away.

“I’m Dickon,” the boy said. “I know you’re Miss Mary.”

“Did you get Martha’s letter?” she asked.

He nodded his head.

“That’s why I’m here.