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“
Eh
!
No
!
Not
them
—
not
all
of
’
em
!
”
he
answered
.
“
Look
here
!
”
He
stepped
over
to
the
nearest
tree
—
an
old
,
old
one
with
gray
lichen
all
over
its
bark
,
but
upholding
a
curtain
of
tangled
sprays
and
branches
.
He
took
a
thick
knife
out
of
his
pocket
and
opened
one
of
its
blades
.
“
There
’
s
lots
o
’
dead
wood
as
ought
to
be
cut
out
,
”
he
said
.
“
An
’
there
’
s
a
lot
o
’
old
wood
,
but
it
made
some
new
last
year
.
This
here
’
s
a
new
bit
,
”
and
he
touched
a
shoot
which
looked
brownish
green
instead
of
hard
,
dry
gray
.
Mary
touched
it
herself
in
an
eager
,
reverent
way
.
“
That
one
?
”
she
said
.
“
Is
that
one
quite
alive
quite
?
”
Dickon
curved
his
wide
smiling
mouth
.
“
It
’
s
as
wick
as
you
or
me
,
”
he
said
;
and
Mary
remembered
that
Martha
had
told
her
that
“
wick
”
meant
“
alive
”
or
“
lively
.
”
“
I
’
m
glad
it
’
s
wick
!
”
she
cried
out
in
her
whisper
.
“
I
want
them
all
to
be
wick
.
Let
us
go
round
the
garden
and
count
how
many
wick
ones
there
are
.
”
She
quite
panted
with
eagerness
,
and
Dickon
was
as
eager
as
she
was
.
They
went
from
tree
to
tree
and
from
bush
to
bush
.
Dickon
carried
his
knife
in
his
hand
and
showed
her
things
which
she
thought
wonderful
.
