"Is it wick, Dickon? Is it quite wick?"

[steepholm]

"Aye, miss, it's as wick as thee or me, I warrant. In a week or two this garden'll be fair bursting wi' life - wi' things growing an' swelling an' budding an' flowering an' - ee, won't it look a picture! It mun be wick! It mun!"

Mary looked at Dickon then, and to her mind - now quite invigorated by the Yorkshire climate, and having shaken off its sickly, enfeebled orientalism - he no longer looked to her like a sturdy moorland cottage boy with eyes as big as gobstoppers, but rather as a very god...

We gave the lawn its first mow this afternoon.