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.

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