Таинственный сад
XI. The Nest Of The Missel Thrush
“Lookhere!”
Hesteppedovertothenearesttree—anold,oldonewithgraylichenalloveritsbark,butupholdingacurtainoftangledspraysandbranches.Hetookathickknifeoutofhispocketandopenedoneofitsblades.
“There’slotso’deadwoodasoughttobecutout,”hesaid.“An’there’saloto’oldwood,butitmadesomenewlastyear.Thishere’sanewbit,”andhetouchedashootwhichlookedbrownishgreeninsteadofhard,drygray.
Marytoucheditherselfinaneager,reverentway.
“Thatone?”shesaid.“Isthatonequitealivequite?”
Dickoncurvedhiswidesmilingmouth.
“It’saswickasyouorme,”hesaid;andMaryrememberedthatMarthahadtoldherthat“wick”meant“alive”or“lively.”
“I’mgladit’swick!”shecriedoutinherwhisper.“Iwantthemalltobewick.Letusgoroundthegardenandcounthowmanywickonesthereare.”
Shequitepantedwitheagerness,andDickonwasaseagerasshewas.Theywentfromtreetotreeandfrombushtobush.Dickoncarriedhisknifeinhishandandshowedherthingswhichshethoughtwonderful.
“They’verunwild,”hesaid,“butth’strongestoneshasfairthrivedonit.Thedelicatestoneshasdiedout,butth’othershasgrowedan’growed,an’spreadan’spread,tillthey’sawonder.Seehere!”andhepulleddownathickgray,dry-lookingbranch.“Abodymightthinkthiswasdeadwood,butIdon’tbelieveitis—downtoth’root.I’llcutitlowdownan’see.”
Hekneltandwithhisknifecutthelifeless-lookingbranchthrough,notfarabovetheearth.
