The Secret Garden

You can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season

One of the new things peo­ple be­gan to find out in the last cen­tury was that thoughts—just mere thoughts—are as pow­er­ful as elec­tric bat­ter­ies—as good for one as sun­light is, or as bad for one as poi­son.

while those whom Mary saw slunk or hur­ried about with ashy and scared faces

you may never get over it as long as you live.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row."

. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone

It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds all in a row."

One of the strange things about liv­ing in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is go­ing to live for­ever and ever and ever. One knows it some­times when one gets up at the ten­der solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one’s head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly chang­ing and flush­ing and mar­velous un­known things hap­pen­ing un­til the East al­most makes one cry out and one’s heart stands still at the strange un­chang­ing majesty of the ris­ing of the sun—which has been hap­pen­ing ev­ery morn­ing for thou­sands and thou­sands and thou­sands of years. One knows it then for a mo­ment or so.

“I shall get well! I shall get well!” he cried out. “Mary! Dickon! I shall get well! And I shall live for­ever and ever and ever!”