English
“I’llbeatchargesforalooking-glass;Andentertainascoreortwooftailors.”—RichardIII
MyDearFreda:
Becauseyouarefondoffairytales,andhavebeenill,Ihavemadeyouastoryallforyourself—anewonethatnobodyhasreadbefore.
Andthequeerestthingaboutitis—thatIhearditinGloucestershire,andthatitistrue—atleastaboutthetailor,thewaistcoat,andthe“Nomoretwist!”Christmas.
Inthetimeofswordsandperiwigsandfull-skirtedcoatswithfloweredlappets—whengentlemenworeruffles,andgold-lacedwaistcoatsofpaduasoyandtaffeta—therelivedatailorinGloucester.
HesatinthewindowofalittleshopinWestgateStreet,cross-leggedonatablefrommorningtilldark.
Alldaylongwhilethelightlastedhesewedandsnippetted,piecingouthissatin,andpompadour,andlutestring;stuffshadstrangenames,andwereveryexpensiveinthedaysoftheTailorofGloucester.
Butalthoughhesewedfinesilkforhisneighbors,hehimselfwasvery,verypoor.
Hecuthiscoatswithoutwaste;accordingtohisembroideredcloth,theywereverysmallendsandsnippetsthatlayaboutuponthetable—“Toonarrowbreadthsfornought—exceptwaistcoatsformice,”saidthetailor.
OnebittercolddaynearChristmastimethetailorbegantomakeacoat(acoatofcherry-coloredcordedsilkembroideredwithpansiesandroses)andacream-coloredsatinwaistcoatfortheMayorofGloucester.
Thetailorworkedandworked,andhetalkedtohimself:“Nobreadthatall,andcutonthecross;itisnobreadthatall;tippetsformiceandribbonsformobs!formice!”saidtheTailorofGloucester.
Whenthesnowflakescamedownagainstthesmallleadedwindow-panesandshutoutthelight,thetailorhaddonehisday’swork;allthesilkandsatinlaycutoutuponthetable.
Thereweretwelvepiecesforthecoatandfourpiecesforthewaistcoat;andtherewerepocket-flapsandcuffsandbuttons,allinorder.
Fortheliningofthecoattherewasfineyellowtaffeta,andforthebutton-holesofthewaistcoattherewascherry-coloredtwist.
Andeverythingwasreadytosewtogetherinthemorning,allmeasuredandsufficient—exceptthattherewaswantingjustonesingleskeinofcherry-coloredtwistedsilk.
Thetailorcameoutofhisshopatdark.Noonelivedthereatnightsbutlittlebrownmice,andTHEYraninandoutwithoutanykeys!
ForbehindthewoodenwainscotsofalltheoldhousesinGloucester,therearelittlemousestaircasesandsecrettrapdoors;andthemicerunfromhousetohousethroughthoselong,narrowpassages.
Butthetailorcameoutofhisshopandshuffledhomethroughthesnow.Andalthoughitwasnotabighouse,thetailorwassopoorheonlyrentedthekitchen.
Helivedalonewithhiscat;itwascalledSimpkin.
“Miaw?”saidthecatwhenthetailoropenedthedoor,“Miaw?”
Thetailorreplied:“Simpkin,weshallmakeourfortune,butIamworntoaravelling.
Takethisgroat(whichisourlastfourpence)and,Simpkin,takeachinapipkin,butapenn’orthofbread,apenn’orthofmilk,andapenn’orthofsausages.
Andoh,Simpkin,withthelastpennyofourfourpencebutmeonepenn’orthofcherry-coloredsilk.
Butdonotlosethelastpennyofthefourpence,Simpkin,orIamundoneandworntoathread-paper,forIhaveNOMORETWIST.”
ThenSimpkinagainsaid“Miaw!”andtookthegroatandthepipkin,andwentoutintothedark.
Thetailorwasverytiredandbeginningtobeill.Hesatdownbythehearthandtalkedtohimselfaboutthatwonderfulcoat.
“Ishallmakemyfortune—tobecutbias—theMayorofGloucesteristobemarriedonChristmasDayinthemorning,andhehathorderedacoatandanembroideredwaistcoat—”
Thenthetailorstarted;forsuddenly,interruptinghim,fromthedresserattheothersideofthekitchencameanumberoflittlenoises—
Tiptap,tiptap,tiptaptip!
“Nowwhatcanthatbe?”saidtheTailorofGloucester,jumpingupfromhischair.
Thetailorcrossedthekitchen,andstoodquitestillbesidethedresser,listening,andpeeringthroughhisspectacles.
“Thisisverypeculiar,”saidtheTailorofGloucester,andheliftedupthetea-cupwhichwasupsidedown.
Outsteppedalittleliveladymouse,andmadeacourtesytothetailor!Thenshehoppedawaydownoffthedresser,andunderthewainscot.
Thetailorsatdownagainbythefire,warminghispoorcoldhands.Butallatonce,fromthedresser,therecameotherlittlenoises—
Tiptap,tiptap,tiptaptip!
“Thisispassingextraordinary!”saidtheTailorofGloucester,andturnedoveranothertea-cup,whichwasupsidedown.
Outsteppedalittlegentlemanmouse,andmadeabowtothetailor!
Andoutfromundertea-cupsandfromunderbowlsandbasins,steppedotherandmorelittlemice,whohoppedawaydownoffthedresserandunderthewainscot.
Thetailorsatdown,closeoverthefire,lamenting:“One-and-twentybuttonholesofcherry-coloredsilk!
TobefinishedbynoonofSaturday:andthisisTuesdayevening.
Wasitrighttoletloosethosemice,undoubtedlythepropertyofSimpkin?
Alack,Iamundone,forIhavenomoretwist!”
Thelittlemicecameoutagainandlistenedtothetailor;theytooknoticeofthepatternofthatwonderfulcoat.
Theywhisperedtooneanotheraboutthetaffetaliningandaboutlittlemousetippets.
Andthensuddenlytheyallranawaytogetherdownthepassagebehindthewainscot,squeakingandcallingtooneanotherastheyranfromhousetohouse.
Notonemousewasleftinthetailor’skitchenwhenSimpkincameback.
Hesetdownthepipkinofmilkuponthedresser,andlookedsuspiciouslyattheteacups.
Hewantedhissupperoflittlefatmouse!
“Simpkin,”saidthetailor,“whereismyTWIST?”
ButSimpkinhidalittleparcelprivatelyinthetea-pot,andspitandgrowledatthetailor;andifSimpkinhadbeenabletotalk,hewouldhaveasked:“WhereismyMOUSE?”
“Alack,Iamundone!”saidtheTailorofGloucester,andwentsadlytobed.
AllthatnightlongSimpkinhuntedandsearchedthroughthekitchen,peepingintocupboardsandunderthewainscot,andintothetea-potwherehehadhiddenthattwist;butstillhefoundneveramouse!
Thepooroldtailorwasveryillwithafever,tossingandturninginhisfour-postbed;andstillinhisdreamshemumbled:“Nomoretwist!Nomoretwist!”
Whatshouldbecomeofthecherry-coloredcoat?Whoshouldcometosewit,whenthewindowwasbarred,andthedoorwasfastlocked?
Out-of-doorsthemarketfolkswenttrudgingthroughthesnowtobuytheirgeeseandturkeys,andtobaketheirChristmaspies;buttherewouldbenodinnerforSimpkinandthepooroldtailorofGloucester.
Thetailorlayillforthreedaysandnights;andthenitwasChristmasEve,andverylateatnight.AndstillSimpkinwantedhismice,andmewedashestoodbesidethefour-postbed.
ButitisintheoldstorythatallthebeastscantalkinthenightbetweenChristmasEveandChristmasDayinthemorning(thoughthereareveryfewfolkthatcanhearthem,orknowwhatitisthattheysay).
WhentheCathedralclockstrucktwelvetherewasananswer—likeanechoofthechimes—andSimpkinheardit,andcameoutofthetailor’sdoor,andwanderedaboutinthesnow.
FromalltheroofsandgablesandoldwoodenhousesinGloucestercameathousandmerryvoicessingingtheoldChristmasrhymes—alltheoldsongsthateverIheardof,andsomethatIdon’tknow,likeWhittington’sbells.
UnderthewoodeneavesthestarlingsandsparrowssangofChristmaspies;thejackdawswokeupintheCathedraltower;andalthoughitwasthemiddleofthenightthethrostlesandrobinssang;andairwasquitefulloflittletwitteringtunes.
ButitwasallratherprovokingtopoorhungrySimpkin.
Fromthetailor’sshipinWestgatecameaglowoflight;andwhenSimpkincreptuptopeepinatthewindowitwasfullofcandles.
Therewasasnippetingofscissors,andsnappetingofthread;andlittlemousevoicessangloudlyandgaily:
“Four-and-twentytailors
Wenttocatchasnail,
Thebestmanamongstthem
Durstnottouchhertail;
Sheputoutherhorns
Likealittlekyloecow.
Run,tailors,run!
Orshe’llhaveyoualle’ennow!”
Thenwithoutapausethelittlemousevoiceswentonagain:
“Sievemylady’soatmeal,
Grindmylady’sflour,
Putitinachestnut,
Letitstandanhour—”
“Mew!Mew!”interruptedSimpkin,andhescratchedatthedoor.Butthekeywasunderthetailor’spillow;hecouldnotgetin.
Thelittlemiceonlylaughed,andtriedanothertune—
“Threelittlemicesatdowntospin,
Pussypassedbyandshepeepedin.
Whatareyouat,myfinelittlemen?
Makingcoatsforgentlemen.
ShallIcomeinandcutoffyoursthreads?
Oh,no,MissPussy,
You’dbiteoffourheads!”
“Mew!scratch!scratch!”
scuffledSimpkinonthewindow-sill;whilethelittlemiceinsidesprangtotheirfeet,andallbegantoshoutallatonceinlittletwitteringvoices:“Nomoretwist!Nomoretwist!”
Andtheybarredupthewindow-shuttersandshutoutSimpkin.
Simpkincameawayfromtheshopandwenthomeconsideringinhismind.Hefoundthepooroldtailorwithoutfever,sleepingpeacefully.
ThenSimpkinwentontip-toeandtookalittleparcelofsilkoutofthetea-pot;andlookedatitinthemoonlight;andhefeltquiteashamedofhisbadnesscomparedwiththosegoodlittlemice!
Whenthetailorawokeinthemorning,thefirstthingwhichhesaw,uponthepatchworkquilt,wasaskeinofcherry-coloredtwistedsilk,andbesidehisbedstoodtherepentantSimpkin!
Thesunwasshiningonthesnowwhenthetailorgotupanddressed,andcameoutintothestreetwithSimpkinrunningbeforehim.
“Alack,”saidthetailor,“Ihavemytwist;butnomorestrength—nortime—thanwillservetomakemeonesinglebuttonhole;forthisisChristmasDayintheMorning!
TheMayorofGloucestershallbemarriedbynoon—andwhereishischerry-coloredcoat?”
HeunlockedthedoorofthelittleshopinWestgateStreet,andSimpkinranin,likeacatthatexpectssomething.
Buttherewasnoonethere!Notevenonelittlebrownmouse!
Butuponthetable—ohjoy!thetailorgaveashout—there,wherehehadleftplaincuttingsofsilk—therelaythemostbeautifulcoatandembroideredsatinwaistcoatthateverwerewornbyaMayorofGloucester!
Everythingwasfinishedexceptjustonesinglecherry-coloredbuttonhole,andwherethatbuttonholewaswantingtherewaspinnedascrapofpaperwiththesewords—inlittleteenyweenywriting—
NOMORETWIST.
AndfromthenbegantheluckoftheTailorofGloucester;hegrewquitestout,andhegrewquiterich.
HemadethemostwonderfulwaistcoatsforalltherichmerchantsofGloucester,andforallthefinegentlemenofthecountryround.
Neverwereseensuchruffles,orsuchembroideredcuffsandlappets!Buthisbuttonholeswerethegreatesttriumphofitall.
Thestitchesofthosebuttonholesweresoneat—SOneat—Iwonderhowtheycouldbestitchedbyanoldmaninspectacles,withcrookedoldfingers,andatailor’sthimble.
Thestitchesofthosebuttonholesweresosmall—SOsmall—theylookedasiftheyhadbeenmadebylittlemice!
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