"This is it," breathed Mary. "this is where I used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder."
  "Is it?" cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. "But I can see nothing," he whispered. "There is no door."
  "That's what I thought," said Mary.
  Then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on.
  "That is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works," said Mary.
  "Is it?" said Colin.
  A few yards more and Mary whispered again.
  "This is where the robin flew over the wall," she said.
  "Is it?" cried Colin. "Oh! I wish he'd come again!"
  "And that," said Mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key." 
  Then Colin sat up.
  "Where? Where? There?" he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf's in Red Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt called upon to remark on them. Dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped.
  "And this," said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, "is where I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. And this is the ivy the wind blew back," and she took hold of the hanging green curtain.
  "Oh! is it--is it!" gasped Colin.
  "And here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon push him in--push him in quickly!"
  And Dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push.
  But Colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held hem there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed. Not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as Dickon and Mary had done. And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. And the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him--ivory face and neck and hands and all.
  "I shall get well! I shall get well! he cried out. "Mary! Dickon! I shall get well! And I shall live forever and ever and ever!"

The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett

Reading this today gave me goosebumps. When was the last time you experienced a life-giving moment like that? Almost makes you wish you were a bed-ridden hypochondriac just so you could experience that bursting satisfaction of curiosity fulfilled. Alright, not quite... but I'd love for my life to be freckled with more moments like this.

1 comment:

  1. Inspired to read it again. I can barely remember it and it's one of my most treasured posessions. I'm starting it tonight...