A (4:14)

Them know we sent you.

B (4:16)

That's r u l a.com sleepmagic. You deserve mental health care that works with you, not against your budget.

C (4:26)

Martha listens to her favorite band all the time. In the car, gym, even sleeping. So when they finally went on tour, Martha bundled her flight and hotel on Expedia to see them live. She saved so much she got her seat close enough to actually see and hear them. Sort of. You were made to scream from the front row. We were made to quietly save you. More Expedia made to travel savings vary and subject to availability. Flight inclusive packages are atoll protected.

A (4:57)

September is a month of change. The seasons begin to shift, routines adjust and life moves at a different pace. And it can be the perfect time to embrace new sources of calm, inspiration and rest. So from September 8th to September 22nd, you can start a 14 day free trial of Sleep Magic Premium, our ad free world of soothing sleep hypnosis and exclusive themed collections. And this month on Premium, we're sharing the story of collection with hours of inspiring, gently told biographies of some of my favorite people in history designed to help you drift into sleep and to stay there. You'll hear the life stories of visionaries, artists and leaders like Raphael Nadal, Meryl Streep, Mick Jagger, Oprah Winfrey, Leonardo da Vinci, and Elizabeth Cady Stanton all in one episode. We'll be dropping this collection in September, so it's a great time to join. If you listen on Apple Podcasts, just tap to subscribe. But if you listen on Spotify or other podcast players, go into our Show Notes and use the Supercast link to start your free trial and let these remarkable stories carry you into a peaceful night's rest. Enjoy. All right, tonight, the Secret Garden Part 2. I'm happy to be Reading from the Secret Garden again tonight. It was written by Frances Hodgson Burnett, who had her first story published at the age of 18. And by 20, she was earning enough for her family to move into a bigger house. Burnett was obviously very industrious and successful over a long career. The Secret Garden was published in 1911 when she was 62 years old. So tonight we celebrate Frances Hodgson Burnett with this excerpt of her most famous work, the Secret Garden. And as always, we start with some hypnosis. And don't worry so much about tracking the story. Just allow my voice to take you deeper and deeper into your secret garden of sleep. And just a heads up, one of the characters has a broad Yorkshire accent which I will not attempt to replicate with any precision. Many of the producers of this show hail from Yorkshire, so I risk embarrassing myself if I try that. Okay. Forgive me. Thank you. So, get yourself into a safe and comfortable position and let's begin. Allow your eyes to close easily and gently. The day is done. I love it when the day is done. So bring your awareness now to your breath. And you don't need to do anything fancy with your breath. You just allow your awareness to ride the wave of your breath just for a moment. By doing this, we're inviting your awareness to focus and slow down. Good. Now I'd like you to bring your awareness up into your eyelids. And imagine now that your eyelids are feeling so sleepy, heavy, relaxed. And as your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, I'd like you to accept the suggestion that your eyelids are so relaxed they will not open. Now, as you know, you could open your eyelids if you wanted to, but I'm asking you to pretend that you can't. So now test your eyelids by wiggling your eyebrows. Just give them a gentle wiggle. Good. As you let go now and go deeper and even deeper into relaxation. And this warm, heavy feeling around your eyes is the same quality of relaxation you will soon have throughout your entire body. For those of you who have been here for a while already, the sound of my voice is taking you deeper and deeper because you have practiced these responses, you have heard these words. And the cells of your body are responding just as they respond to the sun or the rain or the breeze. Good. So let's imagine that feeling around your eyes, that warm, relaxed feeling. Let's imagine it moving back into your head like a waterfall, warm waterfall spilling into your skull. A warm waterfall soaking your whole brain. So your whole brain is feeling saturated by this lovely, warm, relaxed feeling. And as your brain goes deeper and deeper into relaxation, all mental tension is dissolving and your head is feeling very heavy on the pillow. And it's nice to allow your head to feel heavy. Finally, at the end of the day, your head gets to feel heavy because there's nothing to do, nowhere to go. The muscles of your face are softening and letting go. Your cheeks relaxing, your jaw releasing. Good. Now let's allow the waterfall to move down, down your neck, down your shoulders, like you're standing in a warm, beautiful waterfall of relaxation pouring down your shoulders, down your arms. And your shoulders are feeling heavy in a nice, soft, relaxed way, letting go of any tension they've been carrying through the day. And that tension is moving all the way down your arms, out your fingers, moving down with the water of the waterfall. And you find that your arms are feeling nice and heavy, heavy, relaxed and cleansed. And now I'd like you to notice any sounds that you may hear going on around you. Just bring your awareness to the room that you're in and let yourself be open to the sounds, because from this moment on, no sound that you hear will bother you or disturb you at all. From this moment on, any sound that you hear will actually take you deeper and even deeper, because you are deciding that the sounds going on around you are bringing you deeper and deeper. So as you hear them now, let them simply move through you and take you deeper. Good. And the only sound you're paying any real attention to is the sound of my voice. But even that will feel distant and detached in a little while. Maybe it does already, because my voice is also taking you deeper and deeper as that waterfall of relaxation cascades down the front of your torso, relaxing the muscles in your chest and belly. And now you feel the waterfall moving down your back, releasing and relaxing the muscles of your upper back and lower back. And you notice that your belly is softening, that your buttocks are relaxed, and your pelvis is feeling nice and heavy on the bed. As the waterfall moves down your legs, cascading down your legs, and your legs are becoming very, very relaxed and heavy. Heavy. And any tension you may have carried in your legs over the last little while is moving out the soles of your feet and your toes. And as your body is relaxing, your mind is relaxing. And as your mind is relaxing, your body is letting go, going deeper and deeper. Mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes. At length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try, if she could skip the whole length of was a good long skip. And she began slowly, but before she had gone halfway down the path, she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop. She did not mind much, because she had already counted up to 30. She stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin, swaying on a long branch of ivy. He had followed her, and he greeted her with a chirp. As Mary had skipped toward him, she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again. You showed me where the key was yesterday, she said. You ought to show me the door today. But I don't believe you know. The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy onto the top of the wall, and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off, and they are nearly always. Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about magic in her ayah stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was magic. One of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest. It was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. Mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still. She jumped toward it and caught it in her hand. This she did because she had seen something under it, a round knob which had been covered by the leaves. Hanging over was the knob of a door. She put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside, thick as the ivy hung it. Nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron. Mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. The robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side as if he were as excited as she was. What was this under her hands, which was square and made of iron, and which her fingers found a hole in? It was the lock of the door, which had been closed 10 years, and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in and turned, took two hands to do it, but it did turn, and then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if anyone was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed the door which opened slowly, slowly. Then she slipped through it and shut it behind her and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement and wonder and delight. She was standing inside the Secret Garden. Chapter 9 the Strangest House anyone ever lived in. It was the sweetest, most mysterious looking place anyone could imagine. The high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together. Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in India. All the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown, and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rose bushes if they were alive. There were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees. There were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made light lovely bridges of themselves. There were neither leaves nor roses on them now, and Mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, trees, and even brown grass where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious. Mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long, and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life. How still it is, she whispered. How still. Then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness. The robin who had flown to his treetop was still as all the rest. He did not even flutter his wings. He sat without stirring and looked at Mary. No wonder it is still, she whispered again. I am the first person who has spoken in here for 10 years. She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening someone. She was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds. She walked under one of the fairy like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them. I wonder if they're all quite dead, she said. Is it all a quite dead garden? I wish it wasn't. If she had been Ben Weatherstaff, she could have told Weta the wood was alive by looking at it. But she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches, and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf bud anywhere. But she was inside the wonderful garden, and she could come through the door under the ivy anytime, and she felt as if she had found a world all her own. The sun was shining inside the four walls, and the high arch of the blue sky over this particular piece of mistlethwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor. The robin flew down from his treetop and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another. He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things. Everything was strange and silent, and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from anyone. But somehow she did not feel lonely at all. All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer. She did not want it to be a quite dead garden. If it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side. Her skipping rope had hung over her arm when she came in, and after she'd walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things. There seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss covered flower urns in them. As she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping. There had once been a flower bed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth, some sharp little pale green points. She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said, and she knelt down to look at them. Yes, they are tiny growing things, and they might be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils, she whispered. She bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth. She liked it very much. Perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places, she said. I will go all over the garden and look. She did not skip, but walked. She went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. She looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp pale green points, and she had become quite excited again. It isn't a quite dead garden, she cried out softly to herself. Even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive. She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick and some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow. She searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them. Now they look as if they could breathe, she said after she'd finished with the first ones. I'm going to do ever so many more. I'll do all I can see. If I haven't time today, I can come tomorrow. She went from place to place and dug and weeded and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees. This exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down onto the grass and the pale green points all the time. The robin was tremendously busy. He was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate. He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff, where gardening has done all sorts of delightful things to eat or turned up with the soil. Now here was this new kind of creature who was not half Ben's size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once. Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner. In fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat and picked up her skipping rope, she could not believe that she'd been working two or three hours. She'd been actually happy all the time, and dozens and dozens of the tiny pale green points were to be seen in cleared places looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them. I shall come back this afternoon, she said, looking all round at her new kingdom and speaking to the trees and the rose bushes as if they heard her. Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy. She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes that and ate such a dinner that Martha was delighted. Two pieces of meat and two helps. O rice pudding, she said. Eh? Mother will be pleased when I tell her what the skippin rope's done for thee. In the course of her digging with her pointed sticks, Mistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root, rather like an onion. She put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it, and just now she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was. Martha, she said, what are those white roots that look like onions? They're bulbs, answered Martha. Lots of spring flowers grow from them. The very little ones are snowdrops and crocuses and the big ones are narcissuses and jonquils and daffy down dillies. The biggest of all is lilies and purple flags. Eh? They're nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of them planted in our bit of garden. Does Dickon know all about them? Asked Mary, a new idea taking place possession of her. Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick wall. Mother says he just whispers things out of the ground. Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one helped them? Inquired Mary anxiously. They're things as helps themselves, said Martha. That's why poor folk can afford to have em if you don't trouble them. Most of em will work away underground for a lifetime and spread out and have little un's. There's a place in the parkwoods here where there's snow drops by thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when spring comes. No one knows when they was first planted. I wish the spring was here now, said Mary. I want to see all the things that grow in England. She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth rug. I wish. I wish I had a little spade, she said. Whatever does it want a spade for? Asked Martha, laughing. Arthur going to take to digging. I must tell Mother that, too. Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm. But if Mr. Craven found out about the open door, he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear that. This is such a big lonely place, she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind. The house is lonely and the park is lonely, lonely and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never did many things in India, but there were more people to look at, natives and soldiers marching by and sometimes bands playing. And my Ayah told me stories. There's no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff, and you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig somewhere as he does and I might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds. Martha's face quite lighted up. If I have a spade, she whispered, I can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and can make flowers grow, the garden won't be dead at all. It will come alive. In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages of flower seeds for a penny each. And our Dickon, he knows which one is the prettiest one and how to make them grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for the fun of it. Does the know how to print letters suddenly? I know how to write, mary answered. Martha shook her head. Our Dickon can only read printing. If I could print, we could write a letter to him and ask him to go and buy the garden tools and the seeds the same time. Oh, you're a good girl, Mary cried. You are really. I didn't know you were so nice. I know I can print letters if I try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper. I've got some of my own, said Martha. I bought em so I could print a bit of a letter to Mother of a Sunday. I'll go and get it. She ran out of the room and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin, thin little hands together with sheer pleasure. She did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes downstairs. And when she got into the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something. So Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back. Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon. Mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her. She could not spell particularly well, but she found that she could print letters when she tried. This was the letter Martha dictated to my dear Dickon, this comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present Miss Mary has plenty of money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower bed. Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in India, which is different. Give my love to Mother and every one of you. Ms. Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers Your loving sister, Martha Phoebe Sowerby. It seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day. To think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue, to think of going into the cottage which held 12 children. Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until tea time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went downstairs for the tea tray, Mary asked a question. Martha, she said, has the scullery maid had the toothache again today? Martha certainly started slightly. What makes thee ask that? She said. Because when I waited so long for you to come back, I opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard that far off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn't a wind today, so you see. It couldn't have been the wind. Eh? Said Martha restlessly. They mustn't go walking about in corridors and listening. Mr. Craven would be that they're angry. There's no knowing what he'd do. I wasn't listening, said Mary. I was just waiting for you. And I heard it. That's three times my word. There's Mrs. Medlock's bell, said Martha, and she almost ran out of the room. It's the strangest house anyone ever lived in, said Mary drowsily as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. Fresh air and digging and skipping rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. It. It.