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The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter. My dear Frida, because you are

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fond of fairy tales and have been
ill, I have made you a story

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all for yourself, a new one
that nobody has read before. And the

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queerest thing about it is that I
heard it in Gloucestershire, and that it

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is true at least about the tailor, the waistcoat and the no more twist

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Christmas nineteen o one. The Tailor
of Gloucester. In the time of swords

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and periwigs and full skirted coats with
flowered lappets, when gentlemen wore ruffles and

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gold laced waistcoats of paduissoi and taffada, there lived a tailor in Gloucester.

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He sat in the window of a
little shop in Westgate Street, cross legged

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on the table from morning till dark. All day long, while the light

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lasted, he sewed and snippeted,
piecing out his satin and pompadour and lutestring.

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Stuffs had strange names and were very
expensive in the days of the Tailor

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of Gloucester. But although he sewed
fine silk for his neighbors, he himself

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was very very poor, a little
old man in spectacles, with a pinched

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face, old crooked fingers, and
a suit of threadbare clothes. He cut

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his coats without waist, according to
his embroidered cloth. They were very small

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ends and snippets that lay about on
the table, two narrow breadths for naught

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except waistcoats for mice, said the
tailor. One bitter cold day, near

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Christmas time, the tailor began to
make a coat, a coat of cherry

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colored corded silk embroidered with pansies and
roses, and a cream colored satin waistcoat

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trimmed with gauze and green worsted chineel
for the Mayor of Gloucester. The tailor

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worked and worked, and he talked
to himself. He measured the silk and

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turned it round and round, and
trimmed it into shape with his shears.

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The table was all littered with cherry
colored snippets, no breadth at all,

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and cut on the cross. It
is no breath at all, Tippets for

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mice, and ribbons from mobs for
mice, said the tailor of Gloucester.

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When the snowflakes came down against the
small leaded window panes and shut out the

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light. The tailor had done his
day's work. All the silk and satin

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lay cut out upon the table.
There were twelve pieces for the coat,

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and four pieces for the waistcoat,
and there were pocket flaps, and cuffs

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and buttons all in order. For
the lining of the coat there was fine

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yellow taffeta, and for the buttonholes
of the waistcoat there was cherry colored twist.

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And everything was ready to sew together
in the morning, all measured and

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sufficient, except that there was wanting
just one's single skein of cherry colored twisted

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silk. The tailor came out of
his shop at dark, for he did

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not sleep there at nights. He
fastened the window and locked the door,

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and took away the key. No
one lived there at night but little brown

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mice, and they run in and
out without any keys. For behind the

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wooden wainscots of all the old houses
in Gloucester there are little mouse staircases and

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secret trap doors, and the mice
run from house to house through those long

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narrow passages. They can run all
over the town without going into the streets.

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But the tailor came out of his
shop and shuffled home through the snow.

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He lived quite near by in College
Court, next the doorway to College

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Green, And although it was not
a big house, the tailor was so

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poor that he only rented the kitchen. He lived alone with his cat.

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It was called Simpkin. Now all
day long while the tailor was out at

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work, Simkin kept house by himself, and he also was fond of the

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mice, although he gave them no
satin for coats. Now, said the

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cat. When the tailor opened the
door, yew. The tailor replied,

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Simkin, we shall make our fortune, but I am worn to a raveling.

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Take this groat, which is our
last fourpence, and Simpkin, take

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a china pipkin, buy a penworth
of bread, a penworth of milk,

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and a penworth of sausages. And
oh, Simkin, with the last penny

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of our fourpence, buy me one
penworth of cherry colored silk. But do

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not lose the last penny of the
fourpence, Simkin, or I am undone

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and worn to a thread paper,
for I have no more twist. Then

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Simkin again said yew, and took
the groat and the pipkin, and went

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out into the dark. The tailor
was very tired and beginning to be ill,

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he sat down by the hearth and
talked to himself about that wonderful coat.

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I shall make my fortune to be
cut by us. The Mayor of

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Gloucester is to be married on Christmas
Day in the morning, and he hath

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ordered a coat and an embroidered waistcoat
to be lined with yellow taffeta, and

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the taffetas afficeth. There is no
more left over in snippets than will make

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tippets for mice. Then the tailor
started for suddenly, interrupting him from the

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dresser at the other side of the
kitchen came a number of little noises,

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tip tap tip, tap tip tap
tip. Now what can that be?

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Said the Tailor of Gloucester, jumping
up from his chair. The dresser was

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covered with crockery and pipkins, willow
pattern plates, and teacups and mugs.

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The tailor crossed the kitchen and stood
quite still beside the dresser, lists and

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peering through his spectacles. Again,
from under a tea cup came those funny

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little noises. Tip tap tip,
tap tip tap tip. This is very

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peculiar, said the Tailor of Gloucester, and he lifted up the tea cup,

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which was upside down. Out stepped
a little live lady mouse and made

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a curtsey to the tailor. Then
she hopped away down off the dresser and

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under the wainscot. The tailor sat
down again by the fire, warming his

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poor cold hands, and mumbling to
himself. The waist cut is cut out

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from peach colored satin, tambur stitch
and rose buds in beautiful floss silk.

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Was I wise to entrust my last
fourpence to simpkin one and twenty button holes

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of cherry colored twist. But all
at once from the dresser there came other

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little noises. Tip tap tip,
tap tip, tap tip. This is

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passing extraordinary, said the tailor of
Gloucester, and turned over another tea cup,

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which was upside down. Out stepped
a little gentleman mouse and made a

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bow to the tailor. And then
from all over the dresser came a chorus

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of little tappings, all sounding together
and answering one another, like watch beetles

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in an old worm eaten window.
Shutter, tip tap tip, tap tip,

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tap tip. And out from under
tea cups and from under bowls and

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basins stepped other and more little mice
who hopped away down off the dresser in

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under the winscot. The tailor sat
down close over the fire, lamenting one

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and twenty button holes of cherry colored
silk to be finished by noon of Saturday,

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and this is Tuesday evening. Was
it right to let loose those mice?

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Undoubtedly the property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I

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have no more twist. The little
mice came out again and listened to the

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tailor. They took notice of the
pattern of the wonderful coat. They whispered

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to one another about the taffeta lining, and about the mouse tippets, and

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then all at once they all ran
away together down the passage behind the wainscot,

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squeaking and calling to one another as
they ran from house to house,

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and not one mouse was left in
the tailor's kitchen when Simkin came back with

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the pipkin of milk. Simpkin opened
the door and bounced in with an angry

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grow, like a cat that is
vexed, for he hated the snow,

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and there was snow in his ears, and snow in his collar at the

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back of his neck. He put
down the loaf and the sausages upon the

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dresser and sniffed. Simpkin said the
tailor, where is my twist? But

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Simpkins said, down the pipkin of
milk upon the dresser, and looked suspiciously

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at the tea cups. He wanted
his supper of fat little mouse, Simpkin

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said the tailor, where is my
twist? But Simkin hid a little parcel

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privately in the teapot and spit and
growled at the tailor. And if Simpkin

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had been able to talk, he
would have asked, where is my mouse?

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A lack i am undone, said
the tailor of Gloucester, and went

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sadly to bed. All that night
long, Simpkin hunted and searched through the

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kitchen, peeping into cupboards and under
the wainscot, and into the teapot where

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he had hidden that twist. But
still he found never a mouse. Whenever

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the tailor muttered and talked in his
sleep, Simpkin said wowsh and made strange,

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horrid noises, as cats do at
night. For the poor old tailor

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was very ill with a fever,
tossing and turning in his four post bed,

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and still in his dreams he mumbled
no more twist, no more twist.

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All that day he was ill,
and the next day and the next,

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And what should become of the cherry
colored coat in the tailor's shop in

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Westgate Street, The embroidered silk and
satin lay cut out upon the table,

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one in twenty button holes. And
who should come to sow them? When

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the window was barred and the door
was fast locked. But that does not

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hinder the little brown mice. They
run in and out without any keys,

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through all the old houses in Gloucester, out of doors. The market folks

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went trudging through the snow to buy
their geese and turkeys and to bake their

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Christmas pies. But there would be
no Christmas dinner for Simpkin and the poor

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old tailor of Gloucester. The tailor
lay ill for three days and nights,

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and then it was Christmas Eve,
and very late at night the moon climbed

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up over the roofs and chimneys and
looked down over the gateway into College Court.

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There were no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses.

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All the city of Gloucester was fast
asleep under the snow. And still

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Simpkin wanted his mice, and he
mewed as he stood beside the four post

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bed. But it is in the
old story that all the beasts can talk

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in the night between Christmas Eve and
Christmas Day in the morning, though there

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are very few folk that can hear
them or know what it is they say.

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When the cathedral clock struck twelve,
there was an answer, like an

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echo of the chimes, and Simpkin
heard it and came out of the tailor's

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door and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and

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old wooden houses in Gloucester came a
thousand merry voices, singing the old Christmas

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rhymes, all the old songs that
ever I heard of, and some that

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I don't know, like Whittington's bells. First and loudest, the cocks cried

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out, Dame, get up and
bake your pies. Oh dilly, dilly,

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dilly, sighed Simpkin. And now
in a garret there were lights and

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sounds of dancing, and cats came
from over the way. Hey, diddle,

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diddle, the cat in the fiddle. All the cats in Gloucester except

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me, said Simpkin. Under the
wooden eaves, the starlings and sparrows sang

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of Christmas pies. The jackdaws woke
up in the cathedral tower, and although

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it was the middle of the night, the throstles and robins sang. The

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air was quite full of little twittering
tunes, but it was all rather provoking

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to poor hungry Simpkin. Particularly,
he was vexed with some little shrill voices

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from behind a wooden lattice. I
think that they were bats, because they

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always have very small voices, especially
in a black frost, when they talk

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in their sleep. Like the tailor
of Gloucester. They said something mysterious that

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sounded like buzz quoth the blue fly, hum quoth the bee. Buzz and

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hum. They cry, and so
do we. And Simkin went away,

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shaking his ears as if he had
a bee in his bonnet. From the

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tailor's shop in Westgate came a glow
of light, and when Simpkin crept up

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to peep in at the window,
it was full of candles. There was

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a snippeting of scissors and snappeting of
thread, and little mouse voices sang loudly

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and gaily. Four and twenty tailors
went to catch a snail. The best

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man amongst them durst not touch her
tail. She put out her horns like

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a little kilo cow. Run tailor's
run, Or shall have you all e

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now? Then, without a pause, the little mouse voices went on again.

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Sive my lady's oatmeal, grind my
lady's flour, put it in a

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chestnut, Let it stand an hour. Mew mew, interrupted Simpkin, and

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he scratched at the door, but
the key was under the tailor's pillow.

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He could not get in. The
little mice only laughed and tried another tune.

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Three little mice sat down to spin. Pussy passed by, and she

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peeped in, What are you at, my fine little men making coats for

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gentle men? And shall I come
in nan cut off your threads? Though,

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no, miss Pussy, you'd bite
off our heads, you, you,

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cried Simpkin. Hey diddle dinkity,
answered the little mice, Hey,

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diddle dinkity, poppitea pet. The
merchants of London they wear scarlet, silk

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in the collar and gold in the
hem. So merrily march the merchant men.

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They clicked their thimbles to mark the
time, but none of the songs

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pleased Simpkin. He sniffed and mewed
at the door to the shop. And

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then I bought a pipkin and a
popkin, a slipkin and a slopkin,

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all for one farthing. And upon
the kitchen dresser added the rude little mice.

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You scratch, scratch, scuffled Simpkin
on the window sill, while the

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little mice inside sprang to their feet, and all began to shout at once

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in little twitter ring voices, no
more twist, no more twist. And

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they barred up the window shutters and
shut out Simpkin. But still through the

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nicks in the shutters he could hear
the click of thimbles and little mouse voices

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singing, no more twist, no
more twist. Simpkin came away from the

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shop and went home, considering in
his mind he found the poor old tailor

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without fever, sleeping peacefully. Then
Simpkin went on tiptoe and took a little

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parcel of silk out of the tea
pot and looked at it in the moonlight,

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and he felt quite ashamed of his
badness compared with those good little mice.

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When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing he saw upon

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the patchwork quilt was a skein of
cherry colored twisted silk, and beside his

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bed stood the repentant Simpkin black.
I am worn to a raveling, said

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the tailor of Gloucester, but I
have my twist. The sun was shining

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on the snow when the tailor got
up and dressed, and came out into

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the street, with Simpkin running before
him. The starlings whistled on the chimney

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stacks, and the throstles and robins
sang, but they sang their own little

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noises, not the words they had
sung in the night a lac said the

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tailor. I have my twist,
but no more strength nor time than will

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serve to make me one single button
hole. For this is Christmas Day in

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the morning. The Mayor of Gloucester
shall be married by noon. And where

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is his cherry colored coat? He
unlocked the door of the little shop in

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Westgate Street, and Simpkin ran in
like a cat that expects something. But

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there was no one there, not
even one little brown mouse. The boards

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were swept clean, the little ends
of thread, and the little silk snippets

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were all tidied away and gone from
off the floor. But upon the table,

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Oh joy, the tailor gave a
shout. There where he had left

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plain cuttings of silk, there lay
the most beautifulest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat

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that ever were worn by a mayor
of Gloucester. There were roses and pansies

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upon the facings of the coat,
and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and

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corn flowers. Everything was finished except
just one single cherry colored buttonhole. And

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where that buttonhole was wanting, there
was pinned a scrap of paper with these

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words in little teeny weeny writing,
no more twist. And from then began

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the luck of the tailor of Gloucester. He grew quite stout, and he

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grew quite rich. He made the
most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants

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of Gloucester, and for all the
fine gentlemen of the country round. Never

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were seen such ruffles, or such
embroidered cuffs and lappets. But his button

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holes were the greatest triumph of it
all. The stitches of those button holes

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were so neat, so neat,
I wonder how they could be stitched by

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an old man in spectacles, with
crooked old fingers and a tailor's thimble.

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The stitches of those button holes were
so small, so small, they looked

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as if they had been made by
little mice and of the tailor of Gloucester

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by Beatrix Potter,