The Secret Garden

If you had met Mary Lennox when she was nine years old, you would have thought her the most disagreeable child you had ever seen. She had a sour, thin little face, a sour, thin little body, hair that hung like limp straw, and a constant bitter scowl. Mary had been born in India, a land of brilliant sunshine, heavy heat, and deep ancient stories. But Mary knew nothing of the beauty of that country. Her mother, who was beautiful and loved only parties, had not wanted a little girl at all. And so Mary had been handed over to Indian servants, who were ordered to keep the child out of sight. To keep her quiet, they let her have her own way in everything. By the time she was nine, Mary was as tyrannical, selfish, and lonely a child as ever drew breath. She did not know how to love anyone, because no one had ever loved her. Then a terrible sickness swept through the bungalow. In the confusion and panic, Mary was forgotten. She hid in her nursery, playing with her toys in the heavy, hot silence, until the house grew perfectly still. When British soldiers finally walked through the empty rooms, they found only Mary, sitting on the floor, sour and alive in a house of the dead. Both her parents were gone, and Mary was entirely alone in the world. This story, which comes to us from the green, rainy traditions of England, is a classic tale about how the world can change when we least expect it. It was first written down over a hundred years ago by a storyteller named Francis Hodgson Burnett, who knew that sometimes the coldest hearts are simply waiting for the right soil in which to grow. Because Mary had no one else, she was put on a great ship and sent across the wide gray ocean to England to live with her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven. He was a man she had never met, a man who lived in a massive ancient house called Misselthwaite Manor, set on the edge of the wild Yorkshire Moors. The journey was long, and when Mary finally arrived in Yorkshire, the sky was dark and a cold rain was falling. She was met by Mrs. Medlock, the housekeeper of Misselthwaite, a stout woman with red cheeks and a stern voice. As they drove in a horse-drawn carriage through the night, Mary stared out into the blackness. "What is that?" Mary asked, pointing a thin finger at the window. Outside, there seemed to be nothing but a vast empty space, roaring with a sound like the sea. "That's the moor," Mrs. Medlock said, wrapping her shawl tighter around herself. "It's just miles and miles of wild land, where nothing grows but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives but wild ponies and sheep. It's a wild, dreary place, to my mind, though some love it." "I don't like it," Mary said, her mouth twisting into her familiar scowl. "It looks dark and dreary." "Well, you'll have to get used to it," Mrs. Medlock replied. "And you'll have to get used to keeping to yourself, too. Your uncle isn't one to be bothered with children. He has a crooked back, and he spent his life in grief since his wife died 10 years ago. He travels most of the time, and when he's at home, he shuts himself up in his own rooms. The manor has a hundred rooms, Mary Lennox, and most of them are locked. You are to stay in your own nursery and play in the gardens, and you are not to go wandering where you have no business." When they arrived, Misselthwaite Manor loomed out of the darkness like a great gray fortress. Its stone walls were thick and cold, and inside, the corridors were long, dark, and filled with portraits of people who had died hundreds of years ago. Mary was led to a small suite of rooms, given a simple supper, and left alone. As she lay in her large, strange bed, listening to the wind howling across the empty moor like a crying animal, Mary felt smaller…

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