In the Secret Garden by Gustave Doyen (1837-?)
Wouldn’t it be nice to provide each of my children with a secret garden? They could retreat there, keep it a secret from whomever they pleased, or share the secret with whomever. They could cultivate it or let it grow wild. It wouldn’t matter which. They could skip rope through it. They could practice talking like their father (I’ll give the flurs a shur) or their mother (Fly, I’ve had enough! If you buzz once more I’m going to count) or just like themselves. They could get away from me when I’m cleaning and won’t read the next chapter of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett (which they really want to hear!). They could do their math work there, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. They could learn some independence in a secret garden.
Really, though, I’m the one who wants a secret garden. It is just a dream right now. It wouldn’t work out in reality. But someday, in another phase of my life, perhaps I’ll have something quiet, natural, and lovely where I can go and improve my temperament. Or maybe it will always be in my dreams. Maybe it will be on paper, in a book or a poem. Maybe my secret garden will be a garden of pictures on the wall. Maybe it is anything that is restful. Maybe the point is that I don’t write about it, because then it wouldn’t be secret.