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 TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKIN
[A Story for Norah]