A gentle bedtime story to help you drift off tonight: Beatrix Potter's cosy, homely tale The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, read slowly and unhurried for sleep and insomnia relief. This continues the Books at Bedtime strand — also known as Coffee Break for the Soul — from the Calming Anxiety podcast, a series of classic story readings designed as a calming audiobook for restless nights.
Narrated softly by Martin Hewlett, clinical hypnotherapist and former paramedic, this reading follows little Lucy, who loses her pocket handkerchiefs and climbs a hillside searching for them, all the way to a tiny door and a warm, low-ceilinged kitchen — the home of a small, round washerwoman called Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, who irons and mends laundry for all the neighbouring animals. Unhurried, domestic, and thoroughly soothing, with tea by the fire and freshly laundered bundles for every creature in the valley, it's an easy, gentle listen for falling asleep, insomnia, or quieting an anxious mind before bed. Listeners of last week's Squirrel Nutkin will spot a familiar face among the washing — Nutkin's own little red tailcoat, minus its tail, turns up in Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's basket.
First published in October 1905, Beatrix Potter's The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle is in the public domain worldwide (Potter died in 1943); this reading is Calming Anxiety's own narration of the classic public-domain text. Potter dedicated the book to a real little girl, Lucie Carr, and based Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle herself on her own pet hedgehog of that name and on a Scottish washerwoman, Kitty MacDonald, who worked for her family each summer.
The story
Transcribed from the audio, so the odd word may be off. Tap any line while it plays to keep the words in step with Martin's voice.
Books at bedtime by Calming Anxiety, the tale of Mrs. Tiggy Winkle by Beatrix Potter.
Once upon a time there was a little girl called Lucy who lived at a farm called Little Town. She was a good little girl, only she was always losing her pocket hanker jeeps. One day, Little Lucy came into the farm yard crying, "Oh, she did cry so." I'd lost my pocket hankin, three hankins and a penny.
Have you seen them, tabby kitten? The kitten went on washing her white paws, so Lucy asked, "A speckled hen." Sally, honey, penny, have you found three pocket hankins? But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking.
I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot. And then Lucy asked Cockrobin, sitting on a twig. Cockrobin looked sideways at Lucy with his bright black eye, and he flew over a style underway. Lucy climbed upon the style and looked up at the hill behind Little Town.
A hill that goes up and up into the clouds as though it had no top. And a great way up the hillside, she thought she saw some white things spread upon the grass.
Lucy scrambled up the hill as fast as her stout legs would carry her. She ran along the steep pathway up and up until Little Town was right away down below, and she could have dropped a pedal down the chimney. Presently, she came to a spring, bubbling out to the hillside. Someone had stood at Tim Can, upon a stone to catch the water, but the water was already running over for the can, but was no bigger than an egg cup.
And where the sand upon the path was wet, there were footmarks of a very small person. Lucy ran on and on. The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes props cut from raccoons stems with lines of platted russes and a heap of tiny clothespins, but no pocket hankerchiefs.
But there was something else, a door straight into the hill, and inside it, someone was singing.
Lily White and clean, oh, with little frills between, oh, smooth and hot, red rusty spot, never hear be seen, oh, Lucy knocked once, twice, and interrupted the song, a little frightened voice called out, who's that? Lucy opened the door, and what do you think there was inside the hill? A nice clean kitchen, with flagged floors and wooden beams, just like any other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucy's head nearly touched it, and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything else in there.
There were a nice pot's singing smell, and at the table, with an iron in her hand, stood a very stout, short person, staring anxiously at Lucy. Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petty coat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle, an underneath her cap, where Lucy had yellow curls, that little person had preckles. "Who are you?" said Lucy, "Have you seen my pocket hamkins?"
"The little person, made a bob-curtsy." "Oh yes, if you please, my name is Mrs. Tiguiwinkum. Oh yes, if you please, I'm an excellent, clear stature, and she took something out of a clothes basket and spread it on the iron blanket." "What's that thing?" said Lucy.
"That's not my pocket hamkin." "Oh no, if you please them." "That's a little scarlet waistcoat belonging to Kot Krobin, and she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side." "Then, she took something else off her clotheshaws."
"That isn't my penny," said Lucy. "Oh no, if you please them, that's the masked tablecloth belonging to Jenny Ren." "Look how it stained with current wine, and it's very bad to wash," said Mrs. Tiguiwinkum.
Mrs. Tiguiwinkum's nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went to wrinkle to wrinkle, and she fetched another hot iron from the fire. There's one of my pocket hamkins, cried Lucy, and there's my penny." Mrs. Tiguiwinkum lined it, and go for it, and shook out the frills. "Oh that is lovely," said Lucy.
"And what are those long yellow things with finger-like gloves?" "Oh that, that's a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Henny Penny." "Look how she's worn the heels out without scratching in the yard." "She'll very soon go barefoot," said Mrs. Tiguiwinkum.
"Why, there's another hankous sniff, but it isn't mine, it's red." "Oh no, if you please them, that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit, and it did so smell of onions. I've had to wash it separately, I can't get out the smell." "There's another one of mine," said Lucy.
"What are those funny little white things?" "That's a pair of mittens, belonging to Tabi Kitten. I only have to iron them, she washes them herself." "There's my last pocket hamkin," said Lucy.
"And what are you dipping into the basin of starch?" "They're little dicky shirt fronts belonging to Tom Titt's mouse, most terribly particular." Mrs. Tiguiwinkum said, "Now, I've finished my ironing, I'm going to air some clothes." "What do these deer soft fluffy things," said Lucy.
"Oh those, those are woolly coats belonging to the little lambs at Skalgill." "Will their jackets take off?" asked Lucy. "Oh yes, if you please them, look at the sheep mark on the shoulder." "And here's one marked for Gates' girl, and three that come from little town."
"They're always marked at washing," said Mrs. Tiguiwinkum. "And she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes." "Small brown coats of mice, and one velvety black mullskin waistcoat, and a red tailcoat, with no tail, belonging to Squirrel Nuckkin." "And a very much shrunk jacket, belonging to Peter Rammett, and a Pettycoat, not marked, but a gone lost in the washing, and at last the basket was empty."
Then Mrs. Tiguiwinkum made tea, a cup for herself, and a cup for Lucy. They sat before a fire on a bench, and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiguiwinkum's hand, holding the tea cup, was very, very brown, and very, very wrinkly, with the soap-suds, and all through her gown and her cap. They were hairpins sticking wrong-end out, so that Lucy didn't like to sit near her."
When they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes and bundles, and Lucy's pocket hanged cheese were folded up inside her clean penny, and passinged with a silver safety pin. And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the door, and hid the key under the door sill. Then away down the hill, trotted Lucy and Mrs. Tiguiwinkum, and the bundle of clothes. All the way down the path, little animals came out of the fern to meet them.
The very first that they met was Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny, and she gave them their nice clean clothes, and all the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiguiwinkum. So that at the bottom of the hill, when they came to the style, there was nothing left to carry, except Lucy's one little bundle. Lucy scrambled up the style with the bundle in her hand, and then she turned to say, "Good night," and to thank the washerwoman. But what a very odd thing.
Mrs. Tiguiwinkum had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bill. She was running, running up the hill, and where was her white filled cap, and her shore, and her gown, and her petty coat. And how small she had grown, and how brown, and covered with prickles. Why?
Mrs. Tiguiwinkum was nothing but a head-chock. Now some people say that little Lucy had been asleep upon the style, but then how could she have found three clean pocket handkins and a penny pinned with a silver safety pin? And besides? I have seen that door in the back of the hill called Cat Bells, and besides, I am very well acquainted with dear Mrs. Tiggy Winkle .