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Speaker 1: The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter. My dear Frida,

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because you are fond of fairy tales and have been ill,

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I have made you a story all for yourself, a

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new one that nobody has read before. And the queerest

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thing about it is that I heard it in Gloucestershire,

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and that it is true at least about the tailor,

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the waistcoat and the no more twist Christmas nineteen o one.

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The Tailor of Gloucester. In the time of swords and

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periwigs and full skirted coats with flowered lappets, when gentlemen

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wore ruffles and gold laced waistcoats of paduissoi and taffada,

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there lived a tailor in Gloucester. He sat in the

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window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross legged

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

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while the light lasted, he sewed and snippeted, piecing out

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his satin and pompadour and lutestring. Stuffs had strange names

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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,

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he himself was very very poor, a little old man

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in spectacles, with a pinched face, old crooked fingers, and

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a suit of threadbare clothes. He cut his coats without waist,

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according to his embroidered cloth. They were very small ends

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and snippets that lay about on the table, two narrow

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breadths for naught except waistcoats for mice, said the tailor.

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One bitter cold day, near Christmas time, the tailor began

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to make a coat, a coat of cherry colored corded

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silk embroidered with pansies and roses, and a cream colored

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satin waistcoat trimmed with gauze and green worsted chineel for

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the Mayor of Gloucester. The tailor worked and worked, and

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he talked to himself. He measured the silk and turned

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it round and round, and trimmed it into shape with

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his shears. The table was all littered with cherry colored snippets,

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no breadth at all, and cut on the cross. It

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is no breath at all, Tippets for mice, and ribbons

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from mobs for mice, said the tailor of Gloucester. When

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the snowflakes came down against the small leaded window panes

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and shut out the light. The tailor had done his

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day's work. All the silk and satin lay cut out

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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,

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and cuffs and buttons all in order. For the lining

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of the coat there was fine yellow taffeta, and for

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the buttonholes of the waistcoat there was cherry colored twist.

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And everything was ready to sew together in the morning,

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all measured and sufficient, except that there was wanting just

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one's single skein of cherry colored twisted silk. The tailor

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came out of his shop at dark, for he did

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not sleep there at nights. He fastened the window and

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locked the door, and took away the key. No one

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lived there at night but little brown mice, and they

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run in and out without any keys. For behind the

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wooden wainscots of all the old houses in Gloucester there

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are little mouse staircases and secret trap doors, and the

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mice run from house to house through those long narrow passages.

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They can run all over the town without going into

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the streets. But the tailor came out of his shop

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and shuffled home through the snow. He lived quite near

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by in College Court, next the doorway to College Green,

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And although it was not a big house, the tailor

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was so poor that he only rented the kitchen. He

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lived alone with his cat. It was called Simpkin. Now

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all day long while the tailor was out at work,

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Simkin kept house by himself, and he also was fond

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

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said the cat. When the tailor opened the door, yew.

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The tailor replied, Simkin, we shall make our fortune, but

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I am worn to a raveling. Take this groat, which

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is our last fourpence, and Simpkin, take a china pipkin,

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buy a penworth of bread, a penworth of milk, and

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

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penny of our fourpence, buy me one penworth of cherry

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colored silk. But do not lose the last penny of

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the fourpence, Simkin, or I am undone and worn to

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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,

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and went out into the dark. The tailor was very

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tired and beginning to be ill, he sat down by

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the hearth and talked to himself about that wonderful coat.

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I shall make my fortune to be cut by us.

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The Mayor of Gloucester is to be married on Christmas

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Day in the morning, and he hath ordered a coat

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and an embroidered waistcoat to be lined with yellow taffeta,

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and the taffetas afficeth. There is no more left over

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in snippets than will make tippets for mice. Then the

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tailor started for suddenly, interrupting him from the dresser at

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the other side of the kitchen came a number of

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little noises, tip tap tip, tap tip tap tip. Now

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what can that be? Said the Tailor of Gloucester, jumping

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up from his chair. The dresser was covered with crockery

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and pipkins, willow pattern plates, and teacups and mugs. The

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

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lists and peering through his spectacles. Again, from under a

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tea cup came those funny little noises. Tip tap tip,

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tap tip tap tip. This is very peculiar, said the

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

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which was upside down. Out stepped a little live lady

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mouse and made a curtsey to the tailor. Then she

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hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot.

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The tailor sat down again by the fire, warming his

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

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is cut out from peach colored satin, tambur stitch and

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rose buds in beautiful floss silk. Was I wise to

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entrust my last fourpence to simpkin one and twenty button

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holes of cherry colored twist. But all at once from

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the dresser there came other little noises. Tip tap tip,

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tap tip, tap tip. This is passing extraordinary, said the

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tailor of Gloucester, and turned over another tea cup, which

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was upside down. Out stepped a little gentleman mouse and

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made a bow to the tailor. And then from all

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over the dresser came a chorus of little tappings, all

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sounding together and answering one another, like watch beetles in

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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

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under bowls and basins stepped other and more little mice

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who hopped away down off the dresser in under the winscot.

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The tailor sat down close over the fire, lamenting one

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and twenty button holes of cherry colored silk to be

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finished by noon of Saturday, and this is Tuesday evening.

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Was it right to let loose those mice? Undoubtedly the

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property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I have

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no more twist. The little mice came out again and

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listened to the tailor. They took notice of the pattern

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of the wonderful coat. They whispered to one another about

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the taffeta lining, and about the mouse tippets, and then

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all at once they all ran away together down the

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passage behind the wainscot, squeaking and calling to one another

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as they ran from house to house, and not one

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mouse was left in the tailor's kitchen when Simkin came

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back with the pipkin of milk. Simpkin opened the door

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and bounced in with an angry grow, like a cat

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that is vexed, for he hated the snow, and there

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was snow in his ears, and snow in his collar

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at the back of his neck. He put down the

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loaf and the sausages upon the dresser and sniffed. Simpkin

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said the tailor, where is my twist? But Simpkins said,

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down the pipkin of milk upon the dresser, and looked

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suspiciously at the tea cups. He wanted his supper of

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fat little mouse, Simpkin said the tailor, where is my twist?

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But Simkin hid a little parcel privately in the teapot

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and spit and growled at the tailor. And if Simpkin

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had been able to talk, he would have asked, where

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is my mouse? A lack i am undone, said the

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tailor of Gloucester, and went sadly to bed. All that

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night long, Simpkin hunted and searched through the kitchen, peeping

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into cupboards and under the wainscot, and into the teapot

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where he had hidden that twist. But still he found

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never a mouse. Whenever the tailor muttered and talked in

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his sleep, Simpkin said wowsh and made strange, horrid noises,

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as cats do at night. For the poor old tailor

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was very ill with a fever, tossing and turning in

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his four post bed, and still in his dreams he

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mumbled no more twist, no more twist. All that day

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

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And what should become of the cherry colored coat in

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the tailor's shop in Westgate Street, The embroidered silk and

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satin lay cut out upon the table, one in twenty

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

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the window was barred and the door was fast locked.

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But that does not hinder the little brown mice. They

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run in and out without any keys, through all the

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

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went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and

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turkeys and to bake their Christmas pies. But there would

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be no Christmas dinner for Simpkin and the poor old

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tailor of Gloucester. The tailor lay ill for three days

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and nights, and then it was Christmas Eve, and very

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late at night the moon climbed up over the roofs

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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

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in the houses. All the city of Gloucester was fast

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asleep under the snow. And still Simpkin wanted his mice,

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and he mewed as he stood beside the four post bed.

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But it is in the old story that all the

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beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve and

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Christmas Day in the morning, though there are very few

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folk that can hear them or know what it is

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they say. When the cathedral clock struck twelve, there was

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an answer, like an echo of the chimes, and Simpkin

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heard it and came out of the tailor's door and

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wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and

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gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand

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merry voices, singing the old Christmas rhymes, all the old

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songs that ever I heard of, and some that I

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

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

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sighed Simpkin. And now in a garret there were lights

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

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the cat in the fiddle. All the cats in Gloucester

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except me, said Simpkin. Under the wooden eaves, the starlings

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and sparrows sang of Christmas pies. The jackdaws woke up

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in the cathedral tower, and although it was the middle

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of the night, the throstles and robins sang. The air

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was quite full of little twittering tunes, but it was

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all rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin. Particularly, he was

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vexed with some little shrill voices from behind a wooden lattice.

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I think that they were bats, because they always have

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very small voices, especially in a black frost, when they

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talk in their sleep. Like the tailor of Gloucester. They

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said something mysterious that sounded like buzz quoth the blue fly,

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hum quoth the bee. Buzz and hum. They cry, and

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so do we. And Simkin went away, shaking his ears

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as if he had a bee in his bonnet. From

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the tailor's shop in Westgate came a glow of light,

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and when Simpkin crept up to peep in at the window,

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it was full of candles. There was a snippeting of

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scissors and snappeting of thread, and little mouse voices sang

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loudly and gaily. Four and twenty tailors went to catch

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a snail. The best man amongst them durst not touch

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her tail. She put out her horns like a little

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

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e now? Then, without a pause, the little mouse voices

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went on again. Sive my lady's oatmeal, grind my lady's flour,

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put it in a chestnut, Let it stand an hour.

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Mew mew, interrupted Simpkin, and he scratched at the door,

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but the key was under the tailor's pillow. He could

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not get in. The little mice only laughed and tried

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another tune. Three little mice sat down to spin. Pussy

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passed by, and she peeped in, What are you at,

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my fine little men making coats for gentle men? And

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shall I come in nan cut off your threads? Though, no,

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miss Pussy, you'd bite off our heads, you, you, cried Simpkin.

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Hey diddle dinkity, answered the little mice, Hey, diddle dinkity,

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

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in the collar and gold in the hem. So merrily

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march the merchant men. They clicked their thimbles to mark

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the time, but none of the songs pleased Simpkin. He

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sniffed and mewed at the door to the shop. And

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then I bought a pipkin and a popkin, a slipkin

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and a slopkin, all for one farthing. And upon the

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kitchen dresser added the rude little mice. You scratch, scratch,

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scuffled Simpkin on the window sill, while the little mice

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inside sprang to their feet, and all began to shout

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at once in little twitter ring voices, no more twist,

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no more twist. And they barred up the window shutters

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and shut out Simpkin. But still through the nicks in

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the shutters he could hear the click of thimbles and

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little mouse voices singing, no more twist, no more twist.

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Simpkin came away from the shop and went home, considering

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in his mind he found the poor old tailor without fever,

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sleeping peacefully. Then Simpkin went on tiptoe and took a

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little parcel of silk out of the tea pot and

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looked at it in the moonlight, and he felt quite

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ashamed of his badness compared with those good little mice.

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When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing

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he saw upon the patchwork quilt was a skein of

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cherry colored twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the

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

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

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sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got

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up and dressed, and came out into the street, with

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

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and the throstles and robins sang, but they sang their

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own little noises, not the words they had sung in

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the night a lac said the tailor. I have my twist,

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but no more strength nor time than will serve to

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make me one single button hole. For this is Christmas

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Day in the morning. The Mayor of Gloucester shall be

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married by noon. And where is his cherry colored coat?

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He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street,

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and Simpkin ran in like a cat that expects something.

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But there was no one there, not even one little

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brown mouse. The boards were swept clean, the little ends

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of thread, and the little silk snippets were all tidied

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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

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had left plain cuttings of silk, there lay the most

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beautifulest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever were worn

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by a mayor of Gloucester. There were roses and pansies

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upon the facings of the coat, and the waistcoat was

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worked with poppies and corn flowers. Everything was finished except

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just one single cherry colored buttonhole. And where that buttonhole

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was wanting, there was pinned a scrap of paper with

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these words in little teeny weeny writing, no more twist.

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And from then began the luck of the tailor of Gloucester.

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He grew quite stout, and he grew quite rich. He

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made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants

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of Gloucester, and for all the fine gentlemen of the

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country round. Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered

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cuffs and lappets. But his button holes were the greatest

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triumph of it all. The stitches of those button holes

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were so neat, so neat, I wonder how they could

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be stitched by an old man in spectacles, with crooked

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old fingers and a tailor's thimble. The stitches of those

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button holes were so small, so small, they looked as

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if they had been made by little mice and of

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the tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter,