me if he hasn t took a fancy to thee.
To me? said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and
looked up.
Would you make friends with me? she said to the robin just as if she
was speaking to a person. Would you? And she did not say it either in
her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone
so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as
she had been when she heard him whistle.
Why, he cried out, tha said that as nice an human as if tha was a
real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha said it almost like
Dickon talks to his wild things on th moor.
Do you know Dickon? Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.
Everybody knows him. Dickon s wanderin about everywhere. Th very
blackberries an heather-bells knows him. I warrant th foxes shows him
where their cubs lies an th skylarks doesn t hide their nests from
him.
Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as
curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just
that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of
his wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had
other things to do.
He has flown over the wall! Mary cried out, watching him. He has
flown into the orchard he has flown across the other wall into the
garden where there is no door!
He lives there, said old Ben. He came out o th egg there. If he s
courtin , he s makin up to some young madam of a robin that lives
among th old rose-trees there.
Rose-trees, said Mary. Are there rose-trees?
Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.
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