The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter. My dear Frida, because you are
fond of fairy tales and have been ill, I have made you a story
all for yourself, a new one that nobody has read before. And the
queerest thing about it is that I heard it in Gloucestershire, and that it
is true at least about the tailor, the waistcoat and the no more twist
Christmas nineteen o one. The Tailor of Gloucester. In the time of swords
and periwigs and full skirted coats with flowered lappets, when gentlemen wore ruffles and
gold laced waistcoats of paduissoi and taffada, there lived a tailor in Gloucester.
He sat in the window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross legged
on the table from morning till dark. All day long, while the light
lasted, he sewed and snippeted, piecing out his satin and pompadour and lutestring.
Stuffs had strange names and were very expensive in the days of the Tailor
of Gloucester. But although he sewed fine silk for his neighbors, he himself
was very very poor, a little old man in spectacles, with a pinched
face, old crooked fingers, and a suit of threadbare clothes. He cut
his coats without waist, according to his embroidered cloth. They were very small
ends and snippets that lay about on the table, two narrow breadths for naught
except waistcoats for mice, said the tailor. One bitter cold day, near
Christmas time, the tailor began to make a coat, a coat of cherry
colored corded silk embroidered with pansies and roses, and a cream colored satin waistcoat
trimmed with gauze and green worsted chineel for the Mayor of Gloucester. The tailor
worked and worked, and he talked to himself. He measured the silk and
turned it round and round, and trimmed it into shape with his shears.
The table was all littered with cherry colored snippets, no breadth at all,
and cut on the cross. It is no breath at all, Tippets for
mice, and ribbons from mobs for mice, said the tailor of Gloucester.
When the snowflakes came down against the small leaded window panes and shut out the
light. The tailor had done his day's work. All the silk and satin
lay cut out upon the table. There were twelve pieces for the coat,
and four pieces for the waistcoat, and there were pocket flaps, and cuffs
and buttons all in order. For the lining of the coat there was fine
yellow taffeta, and for the buttonholes of the waistcoat there was cherry colored twist.
And everything was ready to sew together in the morning, all measured and
sufficient, except that there was wanting just one's single skein of cherry colored twisted
silk. The tailor came out of his shop at dark, for he did
not sleep there at nights. He fastened the window and locked the door,
and took away the key. No one lived there at night but little brown
mice, and they run in and out without any keys. For behind the
wooden wainscots of all the old houses in Gloucester there are little mouse staircases and
secret trap doors, and the mice run from house to house through those long
narrow passages. They can run all over the town without going into the streets.
But the tailor came out of his shop and shuffled home through the snow.
He lived quite near by in College Court, next the doorway to College
Green, And although it was not a big house, the tailor was so
poor that he only rented the kitchen. He lived alone with his cat.
It was called Simpkin. Now all day long while the tailor was out at
work, Simkin kept house by himself, and he also was fond of the
mice, although he gave them no satin for coats. Now, said the
cat. When the tailor opened the door, yew. The tailor replied,
Simkin, we shall make our fortune, but I am worn to a raveling.
Take this groat, which is our last fourpence, and Simpkin, take
a china pipkin, buy a penworth of bread, a penworth of milk,
and a penworth of sausages. And oh, Simkin, with the last penny
of our fourpence, buy me one penworth of cherry colored silk. But do
not lose the last penny of the fourpence, Simkin, or I am undone
and worn to a thread paper, for I have no more twist. Then
Simkin again said yew, and took the groat and the pipkin, and went
out into the dark. The tailor was very tired and beginning to be ill,
he sat down by the hearth and talked to himself about that wonderful coat.
I shall make my fortune to be cut by us. The Mayor of
Gloucester is to be married on Christmas Day in the morning, and he hath
ordered a coat and an embroidered waistcoat to be lined with yellow taffeta, and
the taffetas afficeth. There is no more left over in snippets than will make
tippets for mice. Then the tailor started for suddenly, interrupting him from the
dresser at the other side of the kitchen came a number of little noises,
tip tap tip, tap tip tap tip. Now what can that be?
Said the Tailor of Gloucester, jumping up from his chair. The dresser was
covered with crockery and pipkins, willow pattern plates, and teacups and mugs.
The tailor crossed the kitchen and stood quite still beside the dresser, lists and
peering through his spectacles. Again, from under a tea cup came those funny
little noises. Tip tap tip, tap tip tap tip. This is very
peculiar, said the Tailor of Gloucester, and he lifted up the tea cup,
which was upside down. Out stepped a little live lady mouse and made
a curtsey to the tailor. Then she hopped away down off the dresser and
under the wainscot. The tailor sat down again by the fire, warming his
poor cold hands, and mumbling to himself. The waist cut is cut out
from peach colored satin, tambur stitch and rose buds in beautiful floss silk.
Was I wise to entrust my last fourpence to simpkin one and twenty button holes
of cherry colored twist. But all at once from the dresser there came other
little noises. Tip tap tip, tap tip, tap tip. This is
passing extraordinary, said the tailor of Gloucester, and turned over another tea cup,
which was upside down. Out stepped a little gentleman mouse and made a
bow to the tailor. And then from all over the dresser came a chorus
of little tappings, all sounding together and answering one another, like watch beetles
in an old worm eaten window. Shutter, tip tap tip, tap tip,
tap tip. And out from under tea cups and from under bowls and
basins stepped other and more little mice who hopped away down off the dresser in
under the winscot. The tailor sat down close over the fire, lamenting one
and twenty button holes of cherry colored silk to be finished by noon of Saturday,
and this is Tuesday evening. Was it right to let loose those mice?
Undoubtedly the property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I
have no more twist. The little mice came out again and listened to the
tailor. They took notice of the pattern of the wonderful coat. They whispered
to one another about the taffeta lining, and about the mouse tippets, and
then all at once they all ran away together down the passage behind the wainscot,
squeaking and calling to one another as they ran from house to house,
and not one mouse was left in the tailor's kitchen when Simkin came back with
the pipkin of milk. Simpkin opened the door and bounced in with an angry
grow, like a cat that is vexed, for he hated the snow,
and there was snow in his ears, and snow in his collar at the
back of his neck. He put down the loaf and the sausages upon the
dresser and sniffed. Simpkin said the tailor, where is my twist? But
Simpkins said, down the pipkin of milk upon the dresser, and looked suspiciously
at the tea cups. He wanted his supper of fat little mouse, Simpkin
said the tailor, where is my twist? But Simkin hid a little parcel
privately in the teapot and spit and growled at the tailor. And if Simpkin
had been able to talk, he would have asked, where is my mouse?
A lack i am undone, said the tailor of Gloucester, and went
sadly to bed. All that night long, Simpkin hunted and searched through the
kitchen, peeping into cupboards and under the wainscot, and into the teapot where
he had hidden that twist. But still he found never a mouse. Whenever
the tailor muttered and talked in his sleep, Simpkin said wowsh and made strange,
horrid noises, as cats do at night. For the poor old tailor
was very ill with a fever, tossing and turning in his four post bed,
and still in his dreams he mumbled no more twist, no more twist.
All that day he was ill, and the next day and the next,
And what should become of the cherry colored coat in the tailor's shop in
Westgate Street, The embroidered silk and satin lay cut out upon the table,
one in twenty button holes. And who should come to sow them? When
the window was barred and the door was fast locked. But that does not
hinder the little brown mice. They run in and out without any keys,
through all the old houses in Gloucester, out of doors. The market folks
went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and turkeys and to bake their
Christmas pies. But there would be no Christmas dinner for Simpkin and the poor
old tailor of Gloucester. The tailor lay ill for three days and nights,
and then it was Christmas Eve, and very late at night the moon climbed
up over the roofs and chimneys and looked down over the gateway into College Court.
There were no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses.
All the city of Gloucester was fast asleep under the snow. And still
Simpkin wanted his mice, and he mewed as he stood beside the four post
bed. But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk
in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning, though there
are very few folk that can hear them or know what it is they say.
When the cathedral clock struck twelve, there was an answer, like an
echo of the chimes, and Simpkin heard it and came out of the tailor's
door and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and
old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices, singing the old Christmas
rhymes, all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that
I don't know, like Whittington's bells. First and loudest, the cocks cried
out, Dame, get up and bake your pies. Oh dilly, dilly,
dilly, sighed Simpkin. And now in a garret there were lights and
sounds of dancing, and cats came from over the way. Hey, diddle,
diddle, the cat in the fiddle. All the cats in Gloucester except
me, said Simpkin. Under the wooden eaves, the starlings and sparrows sang
of Christmas pies. The jackdaws woke up in the cathedral tower, and although
it was the middle of the night, the throstles and robins sang. The
air was quite full of little twittering tunes, but it was all rather provoking
to poor hungry Simpkin. Particularly, he was vexed with some little shrill voices
from behind a wooden lattice. I think that they were bats, because they
always have very small voices, especially in a black frost, when they talk
in their sleep. Like the tailor of Gloucester. They said something mysterious that
sounded like buzz quoth the blue fly, hum quoth the bee. Buzz and
hum. They cry, and so do we. And Simkin went away,
shaking his ears as if he had a bee in his bonnet. From the
tailor's shop in Westgate came a glow of light, and when Simpkin crept up
to peep in at the window, it was full of candles. There was
a snippeting of scissors and snappeting of thread, and little mouse voices sang loudly
and gaily. Four and twenty tailors went to catch a snail. The best
man amongst them durst not touch her tail. She put out her horns like
a little kilo cow. Run tailor's run, Or shall have you all e
now? Then, without a pause, the little mouse voices went on again.
Sive my lady's oatmeal, grind my lady's flour, put it in a
chestnut, Let it stand an hour. Mew mew, interrupted Simpkin, and
he scratched at the door, but the key was under the tailor's pillow.
He could not get in. The little mice only laughed and tried another tune.
Three little mice sat down to spin. Pussy passed by, and she
peeped in, What are you at, my fine little men making coats for
gentle men? And shall I come in nan cut off your threads? Though,
no, miss Pussy, you'd bite off our heads, you, you,
cried Simpkin. Hey diddle dinkity, answered the little mice, Hey,
diddle dinkity, poppitea pet. The merchants of London they wear scarlet, silk
in the collar and gold in the hem. So merrily march the merchant men.
They clicked their thimbles to mark the time, but none of the songs
pleased Simpkin. He sniffed and mewed at the door to the shop. And
then I bought a pipkin and a popkin, a slipkin and a slopkin,
all for one farthing. And upon the kitchen dresser added the rude little mice.
You scratch, scratch, scuffled Simpkin on the window sill, while the
little mice inside sprang to their feet, and all began to shout at once
in little twitter ring voices, no more twist, no more twist. And
they barred up the window shutters and shut out Simpkin. But still through the
nicks in the shutters he could hear the click of thimbles and little mouse voices
singing, no more twist, no more twist. Simpkin came away from the
shop and went home, considering in his mind he found the poor old tailor
without fever, sleeping peacefully. Then Simpkin went on tiptoe and took a little
parcel of silk out of the tea pot and looked at it in the moonlight,
and he felt quite ashamed of his badness compared with those good little mice.
When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing he saw upon
the patchwork quilt was a skein of cherry colored twisted silk, and beside his
bed stood the repentant Simpkin black. I am worn to a raveling, said
the tailor of Gloucester, but I have my twist. The sun was shining
on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed, and came out into
the street, with Simpkin running before him. The starlings whistled on the chimney
stacks, and the throstles and robins sang, but they sang their own little
noises, not the words they had sung in the night a lac said the
tailor. I have my twist, but no more strength nor time than will
serve to make me one single button hole. For this is Christmas Day in
the morning. The Mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon. And where
is his cherry colored coat? He unlocked the door of the little shop in
Westgate Street, and Simpkin ran in like a cat that expects something. But
there was no one there, not even one little brown mouse. The boards
were swept clean, the little ends of thread, and the little silk snippets
were all tidied away and gone from off the floor. But upon the table,
Oh joy, the tailor gave a shout. There where he had left
plain cuttings of silk, there lay the most beautifulest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat
that ever were worn by a mayor of Gloucester. There were roses and pansies
upon the facings of the coat, and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and
corn flowers. Everything was finished except just one single cherry colored buttonhole. And
where that buttonhole was wanting, there was pinned a scrap of paper with these
words in little teeny weeny writing, no more twist. And from then began
the luck of the tailor of Gloucester. He grew quite stout, and he
grew quite rich. He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants
of Gloucester, and for all the fine gentlemen of the country round. Never
were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lappets. But his button
holes were the greatest triumph of it all. The stitches of those button holes
were so neat, so neat, I wonder how they could be stitched by
an old man in spectacles, with crooked old fingers and a tailor's thimble.
The stitches of those button holes were so small, so small, they looked
as if they had been made by little mice and of the tailor of Gloucester
by Beatrix Potter,