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 and sourer than ever.
She did not know that outside, beneath the cold, wet earth, millions of sleeping things were waiting for the spring. She only knew that she was in a vast, locked house, in a land she did not know, and that there was no one in the world who wanted her.
Farewell.
The next morning, Mary woke to find a fire burning in her grate, and a young maid servant with round red cheeks sweeping the hearth. This was Martha, a cheerful country girl who lived in a cottage on the moor with her mother and 11 brothers and sisters.
Martha was unlike any servant Mary had known in India. In India, the servants bowed and did whatever Mary ordered without a word. But Martha talked. She talked in a broad, warm Yorkshire accent that sounded like rolling stones, and she did not seem the least bit afraid of Mary's scowls.
"Why don't you dress me?" Mary demanded, sitting up in bed and sticking out her feet. Martha stared at her in astonishment, her broom paused in midair. "Are Mary," she said. "Can't you dress yourself?"
"Of course not," Mary said angrily. "My servants always dressed me."
"Well," Martha said, turning back to the hearth with a chuckle. "It's time you learned then. You've got two arms and two legs, haven't you? In our cottage, my mother has 12 of us to look after, and none of us has a servant to put our stockings on.
You'll find the fresh air on the moor will do you good anyway. It'll put some color in those yellow cheeks of yours."
Though Mary was furious, she had nothing else to do, so she dressed herself and went outside.
The gardens of Misselthwaite Manor were enormous. There were wide lawns, kitchen gardens filled with winter vegetables, and long gravel paths bordered by high stone walls.
As Mary walked, her hands stuffed deep into her pockets, she noticed that some of the walls had doors in them, leading from one garden to another. But there was one wall, covered in thick, tangled ivy, that seemed to have no door at all.
As she stood staring at this wall, she heard a soft whistling sound. She turned and saw a tiny bird with a bright, brilliant red breast sitting on the branch of a nearby apple tree. It was a robin. The little bird tilted its head, looked at Mary with its bright black eyes, and let out a tiny, cheerful chirp.
For the first time in her life, Mary felt a strange, warm sensation in her chest. It was not anger, and it was not boredom. It was curiosity, and perhaps a tiny bit of pleasure.
"Does he live here?" Mary asked a man who was digging in a nearby vegetable patch. This was Ben Weatherstaff, an old, crusty gardener who looked almost as sour as Mary. He paused, leaning on his spade, and looked at the robin.
"Aye," Ben said in his gruff voice. "He's a cheeky little beggar. He's the only friend I've got in this garden, 'cause there's no one else here. He was born in the garden next door, the one with the high walls."
"Which garden is that?" Mary asked.
"The one behind that wall," Ben said, pointing his spade toward the ivy-covered stone. "But you can't go in there. It's been locked up these 10 years."
"Why?" Mary asked.
Ben's face grew darker, and he looked away. "It was Mrs. Craven's garden, the master's wife. She loved it, and she and the master used to spend all their time there, sitting under the rose trees. But 10 years ago, she was sitting on a branch of an old tree, and the branch broke. She was hurt so badly that she died the next day.
The master went nearly mad with grief. He locked the door, buried the key, and swore that no one should ever set foot in it again. Since then, the ivy has grown over the door, and no one knows where the key is."
When Ben went back to his digging, Mary walked over to the ivy-covered wall. She looked closely, but the ivy was so thick and matted that she could see nothing but green leaves and gray stone.
That night, Mary asked Martha about the locked garden. "It's true," Martha said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Mr. Craven won't have it spoken of. It was her favorite place. She had roses growing everywhere, climbing up the walls and hanging from the trees. Now, I suppose, they're all dead."
Dead, Mary thought, as she lay in the dark later that night. She pictured the garden, shut away from the sun and the rain for 10 years, with all its beautiful roses, turned to dry brown wood. She wondered what it looked like inside, and she wondered where the key was buried.
For the first time, Mary did not go to sleep thinking about how much she hated everyone. Instead, she fell asleep wondering how to find a door.
The next afternoon, the wind was blowing fiercely across the moor, shaking the bare branches of the trees. Mary went out to walk, and as she neared the secret garden wall, she saw the robin hopping along the turned-up earth where Ben Weatherstaff had been digging.
The robin seemed to be waiting for her. He hopped ahead, chirping and tilting his head, as if he were playing a game. Mary followed him, her heart beating a little faster. Suddenly, the robin stopped near a small pile of freshly turned soil. He began to peck at the dirt.
Mary walked over and knelt down. As she looked at the earth, she saw something metallic glinting in the gray light. She reached out and pulled at it. It was an old, rusty brass key.
Mary stood up, holding the key in her palm. Her breath came in short, excited puffs. "It's the key to the garden," she whispered to the robin. "It must be."
But finding the key was only half the mystery. There was still no door. The next day, Mary walked along the wall, searching through the heavy ivy. The wind was blowing harder than ever, lifting the long, trailing branches of the ivy and tossing them aside.
As Mary watched, a particularly strong gust of wind caught a thick curtain of ivy and lifted it completely off the wall. Beneath it, Mary saw something. It was a round iron doorknob.
She stepped closer, her hands shaking. She reached under the ivy, found the keyhole, and pushed the rusty key inside. It was stiff, and for a moment, she thought it would not turn. But she put all her strength into it, and suddenly, with a loud, scraping clack, the lock gave way.
Mary looked around. The gardens were empty. Ben Weatherstaff was on the other side of the estate, and no one was watching. She took a deep breath, pushed the heavy wooden door, and slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
Mary stood still, holding her breath, looking at the secret garden. It was the strangest, most beautiful, and saddest place she had ever seen. The high stone walls were covered in the leafless, gray stems of climbing roses, so thick and tangled that they looked like a misty web.
Tall, dead grass lay flat upon the ground, and from the branches of the old fruit trees, long, gray tendrils of dead rose vines hung down like curtains. Everything was silent, gray, and still.
"Is it all dead?" Mary whispered to herself. She walked slowly through the grass, careful not to trip over the tangled vines. As she looked down, she noticed something small and green pushing its way up through the dark soil. It was a tiny, sharp spike, no bigger than her fingernail.
She knelt down to look closer. Nearby, she saw another green spike, and another. They were bulbs, buried deep in the earth years ago, trying to find the light of the spring sun. But the grass around them was so thick and matted, and the soil so hard, that the poor little things could hardly breathe.
Mary did not know anything about gardening, but she knew that if you are being choked, you need air. She found a sharp piece of wood and began to dig away the dead grass and weeds around the tiny green shoots. She worked until her hands were cold and dirty, and her cheeks were warm and red.
When she finished, the little green spikes stood clear, with plenty of room to breathe. "There," Mary said, feeling a strange, proud warmth in her chest. "Now you can grow."
For the next few days, Mary went to the secret garden every single afternoon. She did not tell Martha, and she did not tell Ben Weatherstaff. It was her secret, her private kingdom, and she worked tirelessly, clearing the earth around every tiny green shoot she could find.
The work was hard, but a wonderful thing was happening. Mary's sour, yellow face was beginning to turn healthy and pink. Her hair was growing shiny, and she was so hungry at mealtimes that Martha's mother sent her a giant loaf of crusty bread and a jar of sweet, fresh butter.
One morning, Martha said to her, "My mother says you need some tools of your own, Mary, and some seeds to plant. My brother Dicken, he's the one to help you. He can get you some flower seeds and a little spade. He's always out on the moor, Dicken is. He knows every wild thing that grows and every beast that breathes."
A few days later, Mary was walking through a small wood near the manor when she heard a low, sweet sound, like a wooden pipe playing a soft tune. She stepped quietly through the trees and stopped.
Sitting under a great oak tree was a boy of about 12. He had a round, freckled face, bright blue eyes, and a nose that turned up at the end. Around his feet sat two wild rabbits. A little red fox cub was curled up against his leg, and a glossy black crow sat on his shoulder.
The boy was playing a small wooden pipe, and the animals were listening to him as if they were enchanted.
This was Dicken. When he saw Mary, he did not run away, and his animals did not move. He simply smiled, a wide, friendly smile that made Mary feel instantly safe.
"I've got your seeds," Dicken said in his warm Yorkshire voice, as if they were old friends. "And the spade and fork, too." He stood up, and the rabbits hopped gently back into the brush, while the fox cub trotted at his heels.
Dicken showed Mary the packets of seeds he had brought: poppies, sweet peas, mignonette, and columbine. He spoke of the seeds as if they were living people, sleeping in their paper beds, waiting to be woken up.
Mary looked at him. She had never trusted anyone before, but she knew looking at Dicken's kind blue eyes that he would never betray a secret. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked in a low whisper.
"Aye," Dicken said, his eyes shining. "I can keep secrets that would fly away if they were told to anyone else. The wild things on the moor trust me with their nests, and I never tell a soul."
"I have found a garden," Mary said, her heart pounding. "It is a secret garden. No one has been inside it for 10 years. They think it is dead, but I think some of it is alive. Will you come and look at it with me?"
Dicken's face lit up with wonder. "Aye, I'll come," he said. Mary led him through the shrubbery to the ivy-covered wall. She slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and they stepped inside.
Dicken walked through the tangled gray paths, his eyes moving over the gray rose branches and the dead grass. He did not speak for a long time, and Mary's heart sank. She was afraid he would say it was all dead.
But then, Dicken knelt down beside an old, gnarled rosebush. He took out a small pocket knife and gently shaved away a tiny sliver of the gray bark on one of the branches. Beneath the gray, dry skin, the wood was bright, moist green.
"Look at that!" Dicken whispered, his voice full of awe. "She's alive! The old girl's alive! The roots are deep, Mary. They've been sleeping, but they're ready to wake up. With a bit of clearing and some fresh air, this place will be a path of gold and purple by the summer."
From that day on, the secret garden was no longer Mary's alone. It belonged to her and Dicken. Dicken brought his spade, and he showed Mary how to prune the dead wood from the roses, leaving the green living parts to grow. He showed her how to dig the soil so it was soft and rich, and together they planted the seeds they had brought.
As they worked side by side under the pale blue spring sky, Mary felt her old, sour self slipping away like an old coat. She laughed, she sang, and she learned how to love the smell of the wet earth and the feeling of the sun on her back.
But while the garden was waking up, there was another secret hidden deep within Misselthwaite Manor, a secret that was still locked in the dark.
Finished.
For weeks, Mary had heard strange sounds in the night. Sometimes, when the wind was quiet, she would hear a distant, muffled crying. It did not sound like the wind. It sounded like a child in pain.
Whenever she asked Mrs. Medlock or Martha about it, they looked frightened and told her she was imagining things, or that it was just one of the scullery maids with a toothache. But Mary did not believe them.
One night, a great storm raged across the moor. The wind rattled the heavy glass windows of the manor, and the rain beat against the stone walls. Mary could not sleep. As she lay in the dark, she heard the crying again, louder than before, and closer.
It was a hopeless, angry, desperate sound. "I am going to find out what it is," Mary said to herself. She got out of bed, lit a small candle, and slipped out of her room. The corridors of the manor were pitch black and freezing cold.
The portraits on the walls seemed to watch her as she passed, their painted eyes gleaming in the candlelight. She walked down one long hallway, turned a corner, and then another, following the sound of the weeping.
Finally, she came to a heavy oak door, hidden behind a tapestry. The crying was coming from inside. Mary hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then, she turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.
The room inside was large and luxurious, with a bright fire burning in the hearth, and velvet curtains hanging from the windows. In the center of the room was a grand four-poster bed. And lying in the bed was a boy.
He looked about Mary's age, but he was terribly thin and pale. His skin was almost translucent, and his eyes were huge, dark, and filled with tears. He was weeping into his silk pillows, his shoulders shaking.
When the door creaked, the boy stopped crying and turned his head. He stared at Mary as if she were a ghost, and Mary stared back at him. "Who are you?" the boy asked in a high, trembling voice. "Are you a ghost?"
"No," Mary said, stepping into the room. "I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle. Who are you?"
"I am Colin," the boy said. "I am Mr. Craven's son."
Mary gasped. "I didn't know he had a son."
"No one is allowed to talk about me," Colin said, his voice turning cold and sharp, like a spoiled king. "My father cannot bear to look at me, because I make him remember my mother, who died when I was born. Everyone thinks I am going to have a crooked back like him, and that I am going to die."
"Are you?" Mary asked, with her usual bluntness. Colin frowned, his dark eyes flashing. "They say I am. I've spent my whole life in this bed. I'm not allowed to go outside, because the air might kill me. And if I stand up, my back will break. I hate the sun, and I hate people looking at me.
When I get angry, I have tantrums that make me sick, and then everyone does whatever I want, because they are afraid I will die." Mary walked closer to the bed. She did not feel sorry for him. Indeed, he reminded her so much of her old spoiled self in India, that she felt a little annoyed.
"You have a very bad temper," Mary said.
"I have a right to one!" Colin shouted. "I am going to die!"
"If you stay in this dark room with the curtains drawn, you probably will," Mary said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "But I don't think you have a crooked back. You're just thin because you do nothing but lie there and complain."
Colin had never been spoken to this way in his life. Every servant in the house bowed to him and wept when he cried. He stared at Mary, his mouth open in shock. But as he looked at her, he realized he was not angry. He was fascinated.
"Where do you come from?" he asked.
"From India," Mary said, and she began to tell him stories. She told him about the brilliant sunshine, the elephants, the snake charmers, and the wild, beautiful moor. But she did not tell him about the secret garden, not yet.
For the next week, Mary visited Colin every day. They talked, they laughed, and Mary told him about Dicken, the boy who could charm wild animals with his wooden pipe. Colin listened with his eyes wide, his pale cheeks gaining a tiny hint of color, just from hearing about the outside world.
But one night, a terrible thing happened. Colin had a panic attack. He convinced himself that he felt a lump growing on his back, and that he was going to become a hunchback and die before morning. He began to scream and thrash, throwing his pillows and plates of food at the servants.
The entire house was thrown into a panic, and Mrs. Medlock came running to Mary's room, weeping. "Please, Mary," she begged. "Come and see if you can quiet him. He will scream himself into a fever, and it will kill him."
Mary, who had been woken from a deep sleep, was furious. She marched down the corridors, threw open Colin's door, and stood at the foot of his bed. "Stop it!" she screamed, louder than he was. "Stop it this instant, you selfish, silly boy!"
Colin gasped, his face red with rage and tears. "I have a lump!" he sobbed. "My back is growing crooked! I am going to die!"
"You are not!" Mary yelled. "Turn over and let me see your back."
"No!" Colin screamed.
"Turn over!" Mary commanded. She pulled the covers back and forced him to turn over. She ran her hand down his thin, bony spine. It was as straight as a young tree.
"There is no lump," Mary said, her voice firm and steady. "There is nothing but bones because you are so thin. Your back is as straight as mine. You are just a hysterical boy who is afraid of his own shadow."
Colin grew perfectly quiet. He looked at Mary through his tears. "Is it really straight?" he whispered.
"Yes," Mary said, her voice softening. "It is perfectly straight. But it will never be strong if you don't get out of this bed and breathe some fresh air."
Colin reached out and took her hand. "Will you stay with me until I go to sleep?" he asked.
"Yes," Mary said, sitting down beside him. "And tomorrow, if you are quiet, I will tell you a secret. I will tell you about a garden."
The next morning, the sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a brilliant, clear blue. Mary told Colin the secret. She told him about the locked door, the buried key, the robin, and the green shoots pushing through the earth.
As Colin listened, his eyes shone with a light that had never been there before. "I want to see it," he whispered. "I want to go into the garden."
It was a massive undertaking. The servants were terrified when Colin announced that he wanted to be taken outside in his wheeled carriage. They thought the cold air would kill him. But Colin, using his spoiled king voice, ordered them to do as he said.
With Dicken's help, they prepared a plan. One afternoon, Colin was wrapped in thick wool blankets and placed in his wheeled chair. Dicken pushed the carriage down the long stone ramps of the manor and out into the bright spring sunshine.
When the carriage rolled through the door behind the ivy, Colin gasped. The secret garden was no longer gray and dead. It was a wonderland of green. The climbing roses had put out thousands of tiny, pale green leaves that trembled in the breeze.
The ground was covered in carpets of blue crocuses, yellow daffodils, and white snowdrops. The air smelled of wet earth, sweet grass, and growing things. Colin sat in his chair, his head tilted back, staring up at the blue sky. He took a deep, deep breath of the fresh, sweet air.
"This is magic," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears of joy. "I am going to get well, Mary. I know I am."
For the next month, the three children spent every afternoon in the garden. Dicken showed Colin how the birds built their nests, and how the little squirrels gathered nuts. Colin sat on a soft rug in the grass, his bare feet touching the warm earth for the first time in his life.
As the sun warmed his skin, his legs, which had been weak and useless for 10 years, began to feel different. They did not feel like dead wood anymore. They felt warm, and sometimes they tingled.
One afternoon, old Ben Weatherstaff, who had climbed a ladder to look over the wall, saw them. He was shocked to see the young master, the boy everyone believed was a dying invalid, sitting in the grass.
"What's this?" Ben shouted, his voice trembling with anger and fear. "What are you doing in there, young master? They told me you were a cripple!"
Colin's face turned red. A strange, powerful strength seemed to rush through him. He did not want anyone, even old Ben, to think he was weak. "I am not a cripple!" Colin shouted. He looked at Dicken, and then at Mary. "Help me up," he whispered.
Dicken stepped forward, his strong arms ready. Mary took Colin's hand. Colin drew his feet under him, his thin legs shaking like reeds in the wind. He gritted his teeth, his face pale with effort. And then, he stood.
He stood on his own two feet, upright and straight, beneath the shade of his mother's old plum tree. Ben Weatherstaff's eyes filled with tears. He took off his hat and held it in his hands. "The Lord be praised," the old gardener whispered. "You're as straight as any lad in Yorkshire."
"I am standing," Colin said, his voice full of wonder. "And I am going to walk."
By the middle of the summer, the secret garden was in full, glorious bloom. The roses hung in great, fragrant cascades of pink, white, and crimson, climbing up the walls and swinging from the branches of the trees. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and lilies, and the hum of thousands of bees.
And in the center of the garden, Colin walked. He did not just walk. He ran, he jumped, and he dug in the dirt alongside Mary and Dicken. His cheeks were brown and rosy, his arms were strong, and his eyes were bright with life.
The children had kept his recovery a deep secret from the servants and the doctor, wanting to show his father the miracle when he returned. Far away, in the high, cold mountains of Switzerland, Mr. Archibald Craven was sitting by a blue lake, wrapped in his usual dark cloud of grief.
He had spent 10 years running away from his home, his son, and his memories. But lately, a strange thing had happened to him. He felt as if a heavy weight was slowly lifting from his chest. He began to notice the beauty of the mountains and the warmth of the sun.
One night, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and had a dream. He saw his late wife standing in her garden, laughing and calling to him. "Archibald!" she called, her voice sweet and clear. "In the garden! I am in the garden!"
The next morning, Mr. Craven received a letter. It was from Martha's mother, Susan Sowerby, a wise woman of the moor whom he respected deeply. The letter said simply, "Please, sir, come home. I think you will find that which you have lost."
Mr. Craven packed his bags and began the long journey back to England. When he finally arrived at Misselthwaite Manor, the house was quiet. He walked through the dark corridors, his heart heavy with the old sadness. He went to his study and sent for Mrs. Medlock.
"How is my son, Colin?" he asked, expecting to hear the usual reports of illness and tantrums. Mrs. Medlock looked nervous, her hands fluttering. "Well, sir," she said. "He is different. We don't understand it. He has been spending all his time outside with Mary Lennox and Dicken Sowerby. He, he doesn't seem like the same boy."
Mr. Craven stood up and walked out into the gardens. He walked slowly, his head bowed, until he found himself standing near the old ivy-covered wall. As he stood there, he heard something he had not heard at Misselthwaite Manor in 10 years. He heard the sound of children laughing.
It was a loud, happy, healthy laugh, coming from behind the wall. Mr. Craven stepped closer. He saw that the ivy had been pulled back, and the door was slightly ajar. He reached out a trembling hand, pushed the door open, and stepped into the garden.
The sight that met his eyes took his breath away. The garden was alive, a riot of brilliant summer colors and sweet fragrances. And running down the grass path, his face flushed with health, his dark hair flying in the wind, was a tall, strong boy.
The boy was running so fast that he could not stop, and he ran straight into Mr. Craven's arms.
Mr. Craven caught him, staring down at his face. He saw his wife's beautiful dark eyes looking back at him from a strong, healthy boy's face. "Father!" Colin said, his breath coming in happy gasps. "It's me! It's Colin! I can walk! I can run! The magic in the garden made me well!"
Mr. Craven fell to his knees, his arms wrapping tightly around his son. For 10 years he had been dead inside. But as he held his boy in the middle of his wife's living garden, the ice around his heart melted away. He wept, not with grief, but with a deep, overwhelming joy.
Mary and Dicken stood nearby, watching them, their hands dirty from the soil, their hearts full of peace. The robin sat on a branch of the plum tree, singing his sweetest summer song.
End.
The long, cold winter had passed, and in its place, a new world had been born. Misselthwaite Manor was no longer a house of locked rooms and weeping in the dark. Its doors were open, its gardens were filled with laughter, and a father and son had finally found each other again.
All of this happened because a sour little girl found a rusty key, and because she chose to care for something that everyone else had given up on. As you close your eyes tonight and prepare for sleep, think about the secret garden and the three children who brought it back to life.
Think about how the roses, the little green shoots, Mary and Colin, all woke up together under the warm spring sun. And keep this question with you as you drift off to sleep. Can tending something that seems dead bring it and you back to life?