The Tailor of Gloucester

by Beatrix Potter

　　

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　　The Tailor of Gloucester

　　"I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;

　　And entertain a score or two of tailors."

　　My Dear Freda:

　　Because you are fond of fairytales, 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, 1901

　　

　　In the time of swords and peri wigs

　　and full-skirted coats with flowered

　　lappets--when gentlemen wore

　　ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of

　　paduasoy and taffeta--there lived a

　　tailor in Gloucester.

　　

　　He sat in the window of a little

　　shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged

　　on a table from morning till dark.

　　All day long while the light lasted

　　he sewed and snippetted, 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 neighbours, he himself was very,

　　very poor. He cut his coats without

　　waste; according to his embroidered

　　cloth, they were very small ends and

　　snippets that lay about upon the

　　table--"Too narrow breadths for

　　nought--except waistcoats for mice,"

　　said the tailor.

　　One bitter cold day near

　　Christmastime the tailor began to

　　make a coat (a coat of cherry-

　　coloured corded silk embroidered

　　with pansies and roses) and a cream-

　　coloured satin waistcoat for the

　　Mayor of Gloucester.

　　The tailor worked and worked, and

　　he talked to himself: "No breadth at

　　all, and cut on the cross; it is no

　　breadth at all; tippets for mice and

　　ribbons for mobs! for mice!" said the

　　Tailor of Gloucester.

　　When the snow-flakes 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 button-

　　holes of the waistcoat there was

　　cherry-coloured twist. And everything

　　was ready to sew together in the

　　morning, all measured and

　　sufficient--except that there was

　　wanting just one single skein of

　　cherry-coloured twisted silk.

　　The tailor came out of his shop at

　　dark. No one lived there at nights but

　　little brown mice, and THEY ran 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.

　　But the tailor came out of his shop

　　and shuffled home through the snow.

　　And although it was not a big house,

　　the tailor was so poor he only rented

　　the kitchen.

　　He lived alone with his cat; it was

　　called Simpkin.

　　"Miaw?" said the cat when the

　　tailor opened the door, "miaw?"

　　The tailor replied: "Simpkin, we

　　shall make our fortune, but I am

　　worn to a ravelling. Take this groat

　　(which is our last fourpence), and,

　　Simpkin, take a china pipkin, but a

　　penn'orth of bread, a penn'orth of

　　milk, and a penn'orth of sausages.

　　And oh, Simpkin, with the last penny

　　of our fourpence but me one

　　penn'orth of cherry-coloured silk. But

　　do not lose the last penny of the

　　fourpence, Simpkin, or I am undone

　　and worn to a thread-paper, for I

　　have NO MORE TWIST."

　　Then Simpkin again said "Miaw!"

　　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 bias--the Mayor of Gloucester is

　　to be married on Christmas Day in the

　　morning, and he hath ordered a coat

　　and an embroidered waistcoat--"

　　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 tailor crossed the

　　kitchen, and stood quite still beside

　　the dresser, listening, and peering

　　through his spectacles.

　　"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 courtesy 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.

　　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 out from under tea-cups and

　　from under bowls and basins, stepped

　　other and more little mice, who

　　hopped away down off the dresser

　　and under the wainscot.

　　The tailor sat down, close over the

　　fire, lamenting: "One-and-twenty

　　buttonholes of cherry-coloured 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 that wonderful coat.

　　They whispered to one another about

　　the taffeta lining and about little

　　mouse tippets.

　　And then suddenly they all ran

　　away together down the passage

　　behind the wainscot, squeaking and

　　calling to one another as they ran

　　from house to house.

　　Not one mouse was left in the

　　tailor's kitchen when Simpkin came

　　back. He set down the pipkin of milk

　　upon the dresser, and looked

　　suspiciously at the tea-cups. He

　　wanted his supper of little fat mouse!

　　"Simpkin," said the tailor, "where is

　　my TWIST?"

　　But Simpkin hid a little parcel

　　privately in the tea-pot, and spit and

　　growled at the tailor; and if Simpkin

　　had been able to talk, he would have

　　asked: "Where is my MOUSE?"

　　"Alack, 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 tea-pot where

　　he had hidden that twist; but still he

　　found never a mouse!

　　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!"

　　What should become of the cherry-

　　coloured coat? Who should come to

　　sew it, when the window was barred,

　　and the door was fast locked?

　　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 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. And still

　　Simpkin wanted his mice, and 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 that 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.

　　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; and air was

　　quite full of little twittering tunes.

　　But it was all rather provoking to

　　poor hungry Simpkin.

　　From the tailor's ship 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 kyloe cow.

　　          Run, tailors, run!

　　          Or she'll have you all e'en now!"

　　Then without a pause the little

　　mouse voices went on again:

　　          "Sieve 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 gentlemen.

　　          Shall I come in and cut off yours threads?

　　          Oh, no, Miss Pussy,

　　          You'd bite off our heads!"

　　"Mew! scratch! scratch!" scuffled

　　Simpkin on the window-sill; while the

　　little mice inside sprang to their feet,

　　and all began to shout all at once in

　　little twittering voices: "No more

　　twist! No more twist!" And they

　　barred up the window-shutters and

　　shut out Simpkin.

　　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 tip-toe 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 which he saw,

　　upon the patchwork quilt, was a skein

　　of cherry-coloured twisted silk, and

　　beside his bed stood the repentant

　　Simpkin!

　　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.

　　"Alack," said the tailor, "I have my

　　twist; but no more strength--nor

　　time--than will serve to make me one

　　single buttonhole; for this is

　　Christmas Day in the Morning! The

　　Mayor of Gloucester shall be married

　　by noon--and where is his cherry-

　　coloured 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!

　　But upon the table--oh joy! the

　　tailor gave a shout--there, where he

　　had left plain cuttings of silk--there

　　lay the most beautiful coat and

　　embroidered satin waistcoat that ever

　　were worn by a Mayor of Gloucester!

　　Everything was finished except just

　　one single cherry-coloured 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 buttonholes were the greatest

　　triumph of it all.

　　The stitches of those buttonholes

　　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 buttonholes

　　were so small--SO small--they looked

　　as if they had been made by little

　　mice!

　　THE END

　　

　　

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The Tailor of Gloucester was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Tue, Dec 24, 2019

　　

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Enjoy Potter's story in our collection of Christmas Stories for Children.

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