It is here now! It has come, the Spring! Dickon says so!

Writer in the garden, pah! Bricklayer in the garden more like… or at least for three bricks!


Inevitably having a wall built round my garden has sent me back to one of my favourite childhood books, The Secret Garden.

secret garden

And then it was even more of a joy when I saw how beautifully Frances Hodgson Burnett writes about spring. So as my garden’s a building site, these quotes are illustrated by pictures from my allotment…


On that first morning when the sky was blue again, Mary wakened very early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She drew up the blinds and opened the window itself, and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her.


The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something Magic had happened to it. There were tender little fluting sounds here and there everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert. Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun. ‘It’s warm – warm!’ she said. ‘It will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth.’


“Things are crowding up out of the earth,’ she (Mary) ran on in a hurry. ‘And there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the grey and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late, that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. And the rosebushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb.’


‘I can’t wait! I am going to see the garden!’


She unchained and unbolted and unlocked, and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm, sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.


She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky, and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt she must flute and sing alound herself, and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it.



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