Be sure to follow send me to sleep on your preferred podcast player, so you never miss an episode and a good night's rest. Good evening. Tonight I'll be reading chapters 25 and 26 of The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson-Pinnett.

So let your eyes fall heavy and your breath soften as we settle in for a little bit.

As we settle in, for peaceful night sleep. Chapter 25, the Curtain

and the Secret Garden

Bloomed and Bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles. In the Robin's nest there were

eggs and the Robin's mate sat upon them, keeping them warm with her feathery little breast

and careful wings. At first she was very nervous and the Robin himself was indignantly watchful.

Even Dickin did not go near the closed-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet

working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the

little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves.

Nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them.

The immense, tender, terrible, heartbreaking beauty and solemnity of eggs.

If there had been one person in that garden who had not known to all his or her innermost being, that if an egg were taken

away or hurt, the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end.

If there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly. There could have been no happiness

even in that golden springtime air.

But they all knew it and felt it, and the Robin and his mate knew they knew it.

At first the Robin watched Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety.

For some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch Dickin.

The first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on Dickin. He knew he was not a stranger, but a sort of Robin without

to beak or feathers. He could speak Robin, which is quite a distinct language not to be

mistaken for any other. To speak Robin to a Robin is like speaking French to a Frenchman.

...