The Secret Garden: Into the Hidden Garden 🌱 | Relaxing Bedtime Story

Welcome to Chapter & Pillow. In tonight's ad-free episode, unwind with a soothing, human voice reading Frances Hodgson Burnett's beloved classic, The Secret Garden. This slow-spoken narration is crafted to help you quiet an overactive mind and ease into a deep, restful sleep.

In part 6 of the story, Mary spends a quiet afternoon with Dickon, a local Yorkshire boy who shows her how he cares for the wild animals on the moor. Later, we follow Mary through the misty grounds of Misselthwaite Manor for a brief, unexpected conversation with Mr. Craven.

• Behind the Story: Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote this book while processing the tragic loss of her 16-year-old son, Lionel, who passed away in her arms from tuberculosis. One of the characters in the story was born out of her deep, maternal heartbreak and her desire to see a child heal. More on that to follow. It may not be who you think! :)
• Listener Spotlight: A special hello to everyone listening on iHeartRadio—you are my top-performing listener group, and I am so incredibly grateful you are tuning in tonight!

⏱️ Episode Timestamps:

• 00:15 – Relaxation & Settling In
• 02:40 – Story Begins

🌙 Thank you for listening to Chapter & Pillow: Where Stories Drift into Sleep. This podcast is always ad-free and read by a real human voice. We are honored to be named one of the top sleep podcasts of 2026 by PodRanker.

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So close your eyes, settle in, and sweet dreams. I'll "see" you next time. Kathleen

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:16

Good evening and welcome to Chapter in Pillow. I'm so happy you're here. Tonight we'll continue our journey through Francis Hodgson Burnett's beloved classic, The Secret Garden, with chapters 11 and 12. First published in 1911, this story has charmed generations of readers with its themes of friendship, healing, and the quiet ways in which both gardens and people can come back to life. In tonight's chapters, Mary finally meets Dickon, the kind-hearted Yorkshire boy she has heard so much about from Martha. With his gentle spirit and remarkable gift for befriending animals, Dickon quickly becomes one of the story's most beloved characters. Later, Mary has an unexpected encounter with Mr. Craven, offering her and us a glimpse into the sorrow that still lingers within the manor. But before we begin, let's take a moment to settle into your favorite comfortable spot. Relax your forehead. Soften the muscles around your eyes. Let your jaw unclench and your shoulders grow heavy. Take a slow deep breath in and gently let it go through your mouth. Another slow breath in through your nose. And let it back out. There's nothing you need to do right now except relax and follow the sound of my voice. Simply listen to the story, breathe deeply, and allow yourself to wander through the gardens and moors of Yorkshire. And now the secret garden. For two or three minutes he stood looking round him while Mary watched him. And then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than Mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls. His eyes seemed to be taking in everything the grey trees with the grey creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urn standing in them. I never thought I'd see this place, he said at last in a whisper. Did you know about it? asked Mary. She had spoken aloud, and he made a sign to her. We must talk low, he said, or someone'll hear us and wonder what's to do in here. Oh, I forgot, said Mary, feeling frightened, and putting her hand quickly against her mouth. Did you know about the garden? she asked again, when she had recovered herself. Dicken nodded. Martha told me there was one, as no one ever went inside, he answered. Us used to wonder what it was like. He stopped and looked round at the lovely grey tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy. Eh, the nest says'll be here come springtime, he said. It'd be the safest nestin' place in England. No one ever comin' near and trees and roses to build in. I wonder all the birds on the moor don't build here. Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it. Will there be roses? she whispered. Can you tell? I thought perhaps they were all dead. Eh no, not them. Not all of 'em, he answered. Look here. He stepped over to the nearest tree, an old old one with grey 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 of dead wood as ought to be cut out, he said, and there's a lot of old wood. But it made some new last year. This here's a new bit, and he touched a chute which looked brownish green instead of hard dry grey. Mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way. That one, she said. Is that one quite alive? Quite? Dicken 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 Dicken was as eager as she was. They went from tree to tree and from bush to bush. Dicken carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful. They've run wild, he said, but the strongest ones has fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones has died out, but the others has grown and growed and spread and spread, till they's a wonder. See here and he pulled down a thick, grey, dried looking branch. A body might think this was dead wood, but I don't believe it is, down to the root. I'll cut it low and see. He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless looking branch through, not far above the earth. There, he said exultantly, I told thee so there's green in that wood yet. Look at it. Mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might. When it looks a bit greenish and juicy like that, it's wick, he explained. When the inside is dry and breaks easy, like this here piece I've cut off, it's done for. There's a big root here, as all this live wood sprung out of it, and if the old wood's cut off and it's dug round and took care of, there'll be He stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him. There'll be a fountain o' roses here this summer. They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree. He was very strong and clever with his knife, and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it. In the course of half an hour, Mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch, she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of a leaf shade of moist green. The spade and hoe and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade, and stirred the earth and let the air in. They were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise. Why, he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away, who did that there? It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the pale green points. I did it, said Mary. Why, I thought they didn't know nothin' about gardening, he exclaimed. I don't, she answered. But they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe, so I made a place for them. I don't even know what they are. Dickin went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile. The was right, he said. A gardener couldn't have told thee better. They'll grow now like Jack's bean stalk. They're crocases and snow drops, and these here is narcissuses, turning to another patch, and here's Daffy Down Dillies. Eh, they will be a sight. He ran from one clearing to another. The has done a lot of work for such a little wench, he said, looking her over. I'm growing fatter, said Mary, and I'm growing stronger. I used always to be tired. When I dig, I'm not tired at all. I like to smell the earth when it's turned up. It's rare good for thee, he said, nodding his head wisely. There's not as nice as the smell of good clean earth, except the smell of fresh growing things when the rain falls on em. I get out on the moor many a day when it's rainin'. I lie under a bush and listen to the soft swish of drops on the heather, and I just sniff and sniff. My nose in fair quivers like a rabbit's, mother says. Do you ever catch cold? inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one. Not me, he said, grinning. I never catched cold since I was born. I wasn't brought up nesh enough. I've chased about the moor in all weathers same as the rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year to ever get to snifflin' with cold. I'm as tough as a white thorn knobstick. He was working all the time he was talking, and Mary was following him, and helping him with her fork or the trowel. There's a lot of work to do here, he said once, looking about quite exultantly. Will you come again and help me to do it? Mary begged. I'm sure I can help too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me. Oh, do come, Dickin. I'll come every day if the wants me, rain or shine, he answered stoutly. It's the best fun I ever had in my life, shutting here and wakin' up a garden. If you will come, said Mary, if you will help me to make it alive, I'll I don't know what I'll do, she ended helplessly. What could you do for a boy like that? I'll tell thee what they'll do, said Dickin with his happy grin. They'll get fat and they'll get as hungry as a young fox, and they'll learn how to talk to the robin same as I do. Eh, we'll have a lot of fun. He began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes, with a thoughtful expression. I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener's garden, all clipped up in spickin' span, would you? he said. It's nicer like this, with things running wild and swinging and catching hold of each other. Don't let us make it tidy, said Mary anxiously. It wouldn't seem like a secret garden if it was tidy. Dickens stood, rubbing his rusty red head with a rather puzzled look. It's a secret garden, sure enough, he said. But seems like someone besides the robin must have been in here since it was shut up ten year ago. But the door was locked, and the key was buried, said Mary. No one could get in. That's true, he answered. It's a queer place. Seems to me as if there'd been a bit of prunin' done here and there, later than ten year ago. But how could it have been done? said Mary. He was examining a branch of standard rose, and he shook his head. Aye, how could it? he murmured, with the door locked and the key buried. Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived, she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her. Are there any flowers that look like bells? she inquired. Lilies of the valleys does, he answered, digging away with the trowel. And there's canterbury tails and companulas. Let us plant some, said Mary. There's Lily of the Valley here already, I saw them. They'll have grown too close, and we'll have to separate them, but there's plenty. The other ones takes two years to bloom from seed. But I can bring you some bits of plants from our cottage garden. Why does the want them? Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothers and sisters in India, and of how she hated them, of their calling her Mistress Mary quite contrary. They used to dance round and sing at me. They sang, Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells and marigolds all in a row. I just remembered it, and it made me wonder if there really were flowers like silver bells. She frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth. I wasn't as contrary as they were. But Dickin laughed. Eh, he said, as he crumbled the rich black soil, she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it. There doesn't seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there's flowers and such alike, and such lots of friendly wild things running about, making homes for themselves, or buildin' nests and singin' and whistlin', does there? Mary kneeling by him holding the seeds looked at him and stopped frowning. Dicken, she said, you are as nice as Martha said you were. I like you, and you make the fifth person. I never thought I should like five people. Dickens sat up on his heels as Martha did when she was polishing the grate. He did look funny and delightful, Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned up nose. Only five folks is the likes, he said. Who is the other for? Your mother and Martha. Mary checked them off with her fingers, and the Robin and Ben Weatherstaff. Dickin laughed so hard that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth. I know the thinks I'm a queer lad, he said, but I think Thart the queerest little lass I ever saw. Then Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking anyone before. And she tried to ask it in New Yorkshire, because that was his language, and in India a native was always pleased if you knew his speech. Does the like me? she said. Eh, he answered heartily, that I does. I likes thee wonderful, and so does the robin, I do believe. That's two, then, said Mary. That's two for me. And then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully. Mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner. I shall have to go, she said mournfully. And you will have to go too, won't you? Dicken grinned. My dinner's easy to carry about with me, he said. Mother always lets me put a bit of something in my pocket. He picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quiet, clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief. It held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them. It's often as not but bread, he said, but I got a fine slice of fat bacon with it today. Mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but she seemed ready to enjoy it. Run on and get thy victuals, he said. I'll be done with mine first. I'll get some more work done before I start back home. He sat down with his back against a tree. I'll call the robin up, he said, and give him the rind of the bacon to peck at. They likes a bit of fat wonderful. Mary could scarcely bear to leave him. Suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again. He seemed too good to be true. She went slowly halfway to the door in the wall, and then she stopped and went back. Whatever happens you never would tell, she said. His poppy colored cheeks were distended with the first bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly. If the was a mistletrush and showed me where thy nest was, does the think I'd tell anyone? Not me, he said. And she was quite sure she was. Might I have a bit of earth Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her forehead, and her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waiting on the table, and Martha was waiting near it. Uh's a bit late, she said. Where has the bin? I've seen Dicken, said Mary. I've seen Dicken. I knew he'd come, said Martha exultantly. How does the like him? I think I think he's beautiful, said Mary, in a determined voice. Martha looked rather taken aback, but she looked pleased too. Well, she said, he's the best lad as ever was born, but none of us ever thought he was handsome. His nose turns up too much. I like it to turn up, said Mary. And his eyes is so round, said Martha, a trifle doubtful. Though they're a nice color. I like them round, said Mary. And they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor. Martha beamed with satisfaction. Mother says he made 'em that color with always looking up at the birds and the clouds. But he has got a big mouth, hasn't he now? I love his big mouth, said Mary obstinately. I wish mine were just like it. Martha chuckled delightedly. It'd look rare and funny in thy bit of a face, she said. But I knowed it would be that way when they saw him. How did they like the seeds and the garden tools? How did you know he brought them? asked Mary. Eh, I never thought of him not bringing them. He'd be sure to bring em if they was in Yorkshire. He's such a trusty lad. Mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not. She was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened. This was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted. Who did the ask about it? she inquired. Well, I haven't asked anybody yet, said Mary, hesitating. Well, I wouldn't ask the head gardener. He's too grand, Mr. Roach is. I've never seen him, said Mary. I've only seen undergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff. If I was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff, advised Martha. He's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed. Mr Craven lets him do what he likes, because he was here when Mrs. Craven was alive, and he used to make her laugh. She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out of the way. If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one could mind my having it, could they? Mary said anxiously. There wouldn't be no reason, answered Martha. You wouldn't do no harm. Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could, and when she rose from the table, she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her. I've got something to tell you, she said. I thought I'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this morning, and I think he wants to see you. Mary turned quite pale. Oh, she said, why? Why he didn't want to see me when I came. I heard Pitcher say he didn't. Well, explained Martha, Mrs. Medlock says it's because of mother. She was walking to Thwaite Village and she met him. She'd never spoke to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to her cottage two or three times. He'd forgot, but Mother hadn't, and she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she said to him about you, but she said something is putting in his mind to see you before he goes away again tomorrow. Oh, cried Mary, is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad. He's gone for a long time. He may not have time to travel back till autumn or winter. He's going to travel in foreign places. He's always doing it. Oh, I'm so glad, so glad, said Mary thankfully. If he did not come back until winter or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive. Even if he found out then and took it away from her, she would have had at least that much. When do you think he will want to see? She did not even finish the sentence, because the door opened and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man's face on it. It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock, who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up. She looked nervous and excited. Your hair's rough, she said quickly. Go and brush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study. All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began to thump, and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha. She said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy, she followed Mrs. Medlock down the corridors in silence. What was there for her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven, and he would not like her, and she would not like him. She knew what he would think of her. She was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door, and when someone said, Come in, they entered the room together. A man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him. This is Miss Mary, sir, she said. I will ring for you when I want you to take her away, said Mr. Craven. When she went out and closed the door, Mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together. She could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback, as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white. He turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her. Come here, he said. Mary went to him. He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if he had not been so miserable. He looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him, and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her. Are you well? he asked. Yes, answered Mary. Do they take good care of you? Yes. He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over. You are very thin, he said. I am getting fatter, Mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way. What an unhappy face he had. His black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her. I forgot you, he said. How could I remember you? I intended to send you a governess or a nurse or someone of that sort, but I forgot. Please, began Mary. Please and then the lump in her throat choked her. What do you want to say? he inquired. I am I am too big for a nurse, said Mary. And please, please don't make me have a governess yet. He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her. That was what the sourby woman said, he muttered absent mindedly. Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage. Is she is she Martha's mother? she stammered. Yes, I think so, he replied. She knows about children, said Mary. She has twelve. She knows. He seemed to rouse himself. What do you want to do? I want to play out of doors, Mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble. I never liked it in India. It makes me hungry here, and I'm getting fatter. He was watching her. Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will, he said. She thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess. It makes me feel strong when I play, and the wind comes over the moor, argued Mary. Where do you play? he asked next. Everywhere, gasped Mary. Martha's mother sent me a skipping rope. I skip and run, and I look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth. I don't do any harm. Don't look so frightened, he said in a worried voice. You could not do any harm, a child like you. You may do what you like. Mary put her hand up to her throat, because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it. She came a step nearer to him. May I? she said tremulously. Her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever. Don't look so frightened, he exclaimed. Of course you may. I am your guardian, though I am a poor one for any child. I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill and wretched and distracted, but I wish you to be happy and comfortable. I don't know anything about children, but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you today because Mrs. Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you. She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about. She knows all about children, Mary said again, in spite of herself. She ought to, said Mr. Craven. I thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said Mrs. Craven had been kind to her. It seemed hard for him to speak about his dead wife and her name. She's a respectable woman. Now I have seen you. I think she said sensible things. Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place, and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. Is there anything you want? As if a sudden thought had struck him. Do you want toys, books, dolls? Might I, quavered Mary. Might I have a bit of earth? In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words sound, and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr Craven looked quite startled. Earth, he repeated, what do you mean? To plant seeds in, to make things grow, to see them come alive, Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment, and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. Do you care about gardens so much? he said slowly. I didn't think about them in India, said Mary. I was always ill and tired, and it was too hot. I sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. But here it is different. Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. A bit of earth, he said to himself. And Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her, his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. You can have as much earth as you want, he said. You remind me of someone else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want, with something like a smile. Take it, child, and make it come alive. May I take it from anywhere if it's not wanted? Anywhere, he answered. There, you must go now, I am tired. He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock. Goodbye, I shall be away all summer. Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. Mrs. Medlock, Mr. Craven said to her, Now I have seen the child, I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before she begins lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby is to come and see her now and then, and she may sometimes go to the cottage. Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved to hear that she need not, quote, look after Mary too much. She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared. In addition to this, she was fond of Martha's mother. Thank you, sir, she said. Susan Sowerby and me went to school together, and she's as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any children myself, and she's had twelve, but there never was healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them. I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself. She's what you might call healthy-minded, if you understand me. I understand, Mr. Craven answered. Take Miss Mary away now and send pitcher to me. When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridor, Mary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there. Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service. I can have my garden, cried Mary. I may have it where I like. I'm not going to have a governess for a long time. Your mother is coming to see me, and I may go to your cottage. He says a little girl like me could not do any harm, and I may do what I like, anywhere. Eh, said Martha delightedly. That was nice of him, wasn't it? Martha, said Mary solemnly, he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable, and his forehead is all drawn together. She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She had been away so much longer than she had thought she should, and she knew Dicken would have set out early on his five-mile walk. When she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she'd left him. The gardening tools were laid together under a tree. She ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no Dicken to be seen. He had gone away and the secret garden was empty, except for the robin who had just flown across the wall, and sat on a standard rose bush watching her. He's gone, she said woefully. Oh, was he was he was he only a wood fairy? Something white fastened to the standard rose bush caught her eye. It was a piece of paper. In fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for Martha to send to Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there. There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture. At first she could not tell what it was. Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it. Underneath were the printed letters, and they said, I will come back.