Speaker 1: 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,