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!”