The Secret Garden HTML version

"I Am Colin"
Mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to
"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew our Dickon was as clever as that. That
there's a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an' twice as natural."
Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message. He had meant that she
might be sure he would keep her secret. Her garden was her nest and she was like a
missel thrush. Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!
She hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to
the morning.
But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly in the springtime.
She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her
window. It was pouring down in torrents and the wind was "wuthering" round the corners
and in the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and
"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said. "It came because it knew I did not want
She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face. She did not cry, but she lay and
hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering." She
could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt
mournful herself. If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep. How it
"wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the pane!
"It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying," she said.
She had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly
something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening. She
listened and she listened.
"It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper. "That isn't the wind. It is different. It is
that crying I heard before."
The door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint
sound of fretful crying. She listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more
and more sure. She felt as if she must find out what it was. It seemed even stranger than
the secret garden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood
made her bold. She put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor.
"I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody is in bed and I don't care about
Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!"