Таємничий сад
X. Dickon
Itwasaverystrangethingindeed.Shequitecaughtherbreathasshestoppedtolookatit.Aboywassittingunderatree,withhisbackagainstit,playingonaroughwoodenpipe.Hewasafunnylookingboyabouttwelve.HelookedverycleanandhisnoseturnedupandhischeekswereasredaspoppiesandneverhadMistressMaryseensuchroundandsuchblueeyesinanyboy’sface.Andonthetrunkofthetreeheleanedagainst,abrownsquirrelwasclingingandwatchinghim,andfrombehindabushnearbyacockpheasantwasdelicatelystretchinghisnecktopeepout,andquitenearhimweretworabbitssittingupandsniffingwithtremulousnoses—andactuallyitappearedasiftheywerealldrawingneartowatchhimandlistentothestrangelowlittlecallhispipeseemedtomake.
WhenhesawMaryhehelduphishandandspoketoherinavoicealmostaslowasandratherlikehispiping.
“Don’ttha’move,”hesaid.“It’dflight’em.”
Maryremainedmotionless.Hestoppedplayinghispipeandbegantorisefromtheground.Hemovedsoslowlythatitscarcelyseemedasthoughheweremovingatall,butatlasthestoodonhisfeetandthenthesquirrelscamperedbackupintothebranchesofhistree,thepheasantwithdrewhisheadandtherabbitsdroppedonallfoursandbegantohopaway,thoughnotatallasiftheywerefrightened.
“I’mDickon,”theboysaid.“Iknowtha’rtMissMary.”
ThenMaryrealizedthatsomehowshehadknownatfirstthathewasDickon.
