Marigold, from the nursery rhyme about Mary Quite Contrary.
The second chapter of The Secret Garden takes Mary from India, to the grey skies of England. Before she leaves, she acquires a nickname that discribes her character, Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary.
Read by Natasha.
MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY
Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had
thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could
scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when
she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a
self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had
always done. If she had been older she would no doubt have been very
anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and
as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be.
What she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to
nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her
Ayah and the other native servants had done.
She knew that she was not going to stay at the English clergyman’s
house where she was taken at first. She did not want to stay. The
English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same
age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarrelling and
snatching toys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalow and
was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody
would play with her. By the second day they had given her a nickname
which made her furious.
It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a little boy with
impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary hated him. She was
playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day
the cholera broke out. She was making heaps of earth and paths for a
garden and Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently he got
rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.
“Why don’t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?”
he said. “There in the middle,” and he leaned over her to point.
“Go away!” cried Mary. “I don’t want boys. Go away!”
For a moment Basil looked angry, and then he began to tease. He was
always teasing his sisters. He danced round and round her and made
faces and sang and laughed.
“Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And marigolds all in a row.”
He sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the
crosser Mary got, the more they sang “Mistress Mary, quite contrary”;
and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her
“Mistress Mary Quite Contrary” when they spoke of her to each other,
and often when they spoke to her.
“You are going to be sent home,” Basil said to her, “at the end of the
week. And we’re glad of it.”
“I am glad of it, too,” answered Mary. “Where is home?”
“She doesn’t know where home is!” said Basil, with seven-year-old
scorn. “It’s England, of course. Our grandmama lives there and our
sister Mabel was sent to her last year. You are not going to your
grandmama. You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name is
Mr. Archibald Craven.”
“I don’t know anything about him,” snapped Mary.
“I know you don’t,” Basil answered. “You don’t know anything. Girls
never do. I heard father and mother talking about him. He lives in a
great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him.
He’s so cross he won’t let them, and they wouldn’t come if he would let
them. He’s a hunchback, and he’s horrid.” “I don’t believe you,” said
Mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears,
because she would not listen any more.
But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford
told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few
days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at
Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested
that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind
to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted
to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her
“She is such a plain child,” Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward.
“And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty
manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a
child. The children call her ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,’ and
though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.”
“Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty
manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty
ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to
remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.”
“I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,” sighed Mrs. Crawford.
“When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the
little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all
alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped
out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by
herself in the middle of the room.”
Mary made the long voyage to England under the care of an officer’s
wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school.
She was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was
rather glad to hand the child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven
sent to meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeper at
Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. She was a stout
woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a very
purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black
bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she
moved her head. Mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom
liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was
very evident Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her.
“My word! she’s a plain little piece of goods!” she said. “And we’d
heard that her mother was a beauty. She hasn’t handed much of it down,
has she, ma’am?” “Perhaps she will improve as she grows older,” the
officer’s wife said good-naturedly. “If she were not so sallow and had
a nicer expression, her features are rather good. Children alter so
“She’ll have to alter a good deal,” answered Mrs. Medlock. “And,
there’s nothing likely to improve children at Misselthwaite–if you ask
me!” They thought Mary was not listening because she was standing a
little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone
to. She was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she
heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the
place he lived in. What sort of a place was it, and what would he be
like? What was a hunchback? She had never seen one. Perhaps there
were none in India.
Since she had been living in other people’s houses and had had no Ayah,
she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new
to her. She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to
anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children
seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed
to really be anyone’s little girl. She had had servants, and food and
clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her. She did not know that
this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she
did not know she was disagreeable. She often thought that other people
were, but she did not know that she was so herself.
She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever
seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet.
When the next day they set out on their journey to Yorkshire, she
walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and
trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not
want to seem to belong to her. It would have made her angry to think
people imagined she was her little girl.
But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her
thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would “stand no nonsense from
young ones.” At least, that is what she would have said if she had been
asked. She had not wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria’s
daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid
place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor and the only way in which
she could keep it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald Craven told her
to do. She never dared even to ask a question.
“Captain Lennox and his wife died of the cholera,” Mr. Craven had said
in his short, cold way. “Captain Lennox was my wife’s brother and I am
their daughter’s guardian. The child is to be brought here. You must
go to London and bring her yourself.”
So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.
Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and
fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her
thin little black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black dress made her
look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under
her black crepe hat.
“A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life,” Mrs. Medlock
thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.)
She had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and
at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk,
“I suppose I may as well tell you something about where you are going
to,” she said. “Do you know anything about your uncle?”
“No,” said Mary.
“Never heard your father and mother talk about him?”
“No,” said Mary frowning. She frowned because she remembered that her
father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.
Certainly they had never told her things.
“Humph,” muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive
little face. She did not say any more for a few moments and then she
“I suppose you might as well be told something–to prepare you. You
are going to a queer place.”
Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by
her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
“Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s
proud of it in his way–and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is
six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s
near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked.
And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been
there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees
with branches trailing to the ground–some of them.” She paused and
took another breath. “But there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly.
Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike
India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend
to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy,
disagreeable ways. So she sat still.
“Well,” said Mrs. Medlock. “What do you think of it?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “I know nothing about such places.”
That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
“Eh!” she said, “but you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?”
“It doesn’t matter” said Mary, “whether I care or not.”
“You are right enough there,” said Mrs. Medlock. “It doesn’t. What
you’re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don’t know, unless
because it’s the easiest way. He’s not going to trouble himself about
you, that’s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.”
She stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
“He’s got a crooked back,” she said. “That set him wrong. He was a
sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he
Mary’s eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to
care. She had never thought of the hunchback’s being married and she
was a trifle surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a
talkative woman she continued with more interest. This was one way of
passing some of the time, at any rate.
“She was a sweet, pretty thing and he’d have walked the world over to
get her a blade o’ grass she wanted. Nobody thought she’d marry him,
but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she
didn’t–she didn’t,” positively. “When she died–”
Mary gave a little involuntary jump.
“Oh! did she die!” she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had
just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called “Riquet a
la Houppe.” It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess
and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.
“Yes, she died,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “And it made him queerer than
ever. He cares about nobody. He won’t see people. Most of the time
he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in
the West Wing and won’t let any one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher’s an
old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows
It sounded like something in a book and it did not make Mary feel
cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with
their doors locked–a house on the edge of a moor–whatsoever a moor
was–sounded dreary. A man with a crooked back who shut himself up
also! She stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and
it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in
gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes. If the
pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being
something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to
parties as she had done in frocks “full of lace.” But she was not there
“You needn’t expect to see him, because ten to one you won’t,” said
Mrs. Medlock. “And you mustn’t expect that there will be people to
talk to you. You’ll have to play about and look after yourself.
You’ll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you’re to keep
out of. There’s gardens enough. But when you’re in the house don’t go
wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won’t have it.”
“I shall not want to go poking about,” said sour little Mary and just
as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for Mr. Archibald
Craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant
enough to deserve all that had happened to him.
And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the
railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as
if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and
steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and
she fell asleep.
Mary had a lonely childhood even when her parents were alive, so her oddities must be forgiven, but the nickname the other children gave her is so funny, I can’t help laughing!
Thanks so much, Natasha and everybody at Storynory.
July 15, 2012
The children call her Mistress Mary Quite Contrary. And then they sing a rhyme about her and the garden,
which is famous in English oral tradition.
It’s funny how natasha includes a byebye to her meessages
August 2, 2012
August 10, 2012
August 15, 2012
I like Natasha’s voice <3
August 17, 2012
please please can you correct the spelling and pronunciation of the author’s name? She is one of the most famous children’s writers in the world and it is FRANCES (not Francis, the boy’s name!) HODGSON (not Hodgkinson) Burnett. Thanks, we are enjoying the story.
August 27, 2012
Dear Lisa, I’ve found the Frances in the first chapter. I can’t see any more elsewhere. Changing the recording is harder. I can edit it out when I return from holiday.
OMG LOVE THIS STORY BUT I THINK WE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO SKIP
September 5, 2014
September 22, 2014
I’ve always loved this story
January 3, 2015
Mary was placed under the care of a number of people, and they found her tiresome to look after.
January 19, 2015
I liked it but I like themosed were both of the chapers but do DO NOT DO IT THAT LONG BY BY EVREYBOUDY
freya ward —
January 21, 2015
I love it
January 23, 2015
A really nice story
March 14, 2015
Thank you , love it
April 9, 2015
I loved it and the details
July 29, 2015
It is very beautiful
August 8, 2015
It is not beautiful
October 29, 2015
I like it
Mrs garason —
August 11, 2015
i love secrate garden
October 7, 2015
October 13, 2015
November 5, 2015
November 16, 2015
I really like this book so far:)
November 16, 2015
it is really nice and if you didn’t read it you should
November 16, 2015
i like the story and the voice
November 23, 2015
this such a boring book. i hate it. most horrible book ever
December 2, 2015
i love this book so interresting ,i am glad you have it on
storynory because my friends say it is wonderful and now i really
want to read the next chapter fantastic
February 14, 2016
sophie my friend loves it
i do too
February 14, 2016
i love this book yay
on fleek —
February 17, 2016
May 19, 2016
I love your books i think they are amazing ????
gummy girl —
August 1, 2016
I loved this story so much i can’t wait to hear the end of it
August 1, 2016
Love it so much good work
September 20, 2016
loved it it was the best chapter i really enjoyed the story its like i traveled back in time im so exictedddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd so a joyous book i find it really intriuging.
October 1, 2016
I love it
January 11, 2017
I love this story ssssssssssooooooooooooooo muuuuuuch
January 13, 2017
it it bad
boy boy —
February 8, 2017
my sister havs al of the books
ryan stout —
February 10, 2017
March 12, 2017
mark thamos —
March 29, 2017
March 31, 2017
I loved it.
April 4, 2017
It was the best story ever
I’m a big fan
April 6, 2017
Make book 2 nowwwwwwww
April 30, 2017
It is a lovely story
May 21, 2017
This story is stupid
F u —
June 5, 2017
I’ve read the book already but this is also so good!😺
August 1, 2017
August 1, 2017
August 14, 2017
August 23, 2017
i liked it
August 23, 2017
August 29, 2017
the best ever! love it
September 25, 2017
I love this book I watched the film.👍
October 2, 2017
i like it
November 20, 2017
this story is very exiting cause mary is an orphan.
January 24, 2018
i love the secret garden.
January 24, 2018
January 24, 2018
i love this book a lot
superstar jay —
January 24, 2018
i was sad and happy.
February 5, 2018
I liked chapter two
February 13, 2018
I think that this is a good story and I like that your listening to it and doing something else that is amazing and I would recommend this story to every-one.