The Tailor of Gloucester (4 page)

Authors: Beatrix Potter

BOOK: The Tailor of Gloucester

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“Alack, I am worn to a ravelling,” 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.

“Alack,” 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-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!

The boards were swept and 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 beautifullest 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-coloured button-hole, and where
that button-hole 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!

The
End