“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—­

          Nomore 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]

This is a Tale about a tail—­a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin.

He had a brother called Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins:  they lived in a wood at the edge of a lake.