THE GREAT BIG TREASURY OF BEATRIX POTTER

               Once upon a time there were
               four little Rabbits, and their names
               were—
                    Flopsy,
                         Mopsy,
                              Cotton-tail,
                                   and Peter.

               They lived with their Mother in a
               sand-bank, underneath the root of a
               very big fir-tree.

               "Now, my dears," said old Mrs.
               Rabbit one morning, "you may go into
               the fields or down the lane, but don't
               go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your
               Father had an accident there; he was
               put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor."

               "Now run along, and don't get into
               mischief. I am going out."

               Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket
               and her umbrella, and went through
               the wood to the baker's. She bought a
               loaf of brown bread and five currant
               buns.

               Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who
               were good little bunnies, went down
               the lane to gather blackberries;

               But Peter, who was very naughty,
               ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's
               garden, and squeezed under the gate!

               First he ate some lettuces and some
               French beans; and then he ate some
               radishes;

               And then, feeling rather sick, he
               went to look for some parsley.

               But round the end of a cucumber
               frame, whom should he meet but Mr.
               McGregor!

               Mr. McGregor was on his hands
               and knees planting out young
               cabbages, but he jumped up and ran
               after Peter, waving a rake and calling
               out, "Stop thief."

               Peter was most dreadfully
               frightened; he rushed all over the
               garden, for he had forgotten the way
               back to the gate.

               He lost one of his shoes among the
               cabbages, and the other shoe
               amongst the potatoes.

               After losing them, he ran on four
               legs and went faster, so that I think he
               might have got away altogether if he
               had not unfortunately run into a
               gooseberry net, and got caught by the
               large buttons on his jacket. It was a
               blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

               Peter gave himself up for lost, and
               shed big tears; but his sobs were
               overheard by some friendly sparrows,
               who flew to him in great excitement,
               and implored him to exert himself.

               Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve,
               which he intended to pop upon the
               top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out
               just in time, leaving his jacket behind him.

               And rushed into the toolshed, and
               jumped into a can. It would have been
               a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had
               not had so much water in it.

               Mr. McGregor was quite sure that
               Peter was somewhere in the toolshed,
               perhaps hidden underneath a flower-
               pot. He began to turn them over
               carefully, looking under each.

               Presently Peter sneezed—
               "Kertyschoo!" Mr. McGregor was after
               him in no time,

               And tried to put his foot upon
               Peter, who jumped out of a window,
               upsetting three plants. The window
               was too small for Mr. McGregor, and
               he was tired of running after Peter. He
               went back to his work.

               Peter sat down to rest; he was out
               of breath and trembling with fright,
               and he had not the least idea which
               way to go. Also he was very damp
               with sitting in that can.

               After a time he began to wander
               about, going lippity—lippity—not
               very fast, and looking all around.

               He found a door in a wall; but it
               was locked, and there was no room
               for a fat little rabbit to squeeze
               underneath.

               An old mouse was running in and
               out over the stone doorstep, carrying
               peas and beans to her family in the
               wood. Peter asked her the way to the
               gate, but she had such a large pea in
               her mouth that she could not answer.
               She only shook her head at him. Peter
               began to cry.

               Then he tried to find his way
               straight across the garden, but he
               became more and more puzzled.
               Presently, he came to a pond where
               Mr. McGregor filled his water-cans. A
               white cat was staring at some
               goldfish; she sat very, very still, but
               now and then the tip of her tail
               twitched as if it were alive. Peter
               thought it best to go away without
               speaking to her; he has heard about
               cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.

               He went back towards the toolshed,
               but suddenly, quite close to him,
               he heard the noise of a hoe—
               scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch.
               Peter scuttered underneath the bushes.
               But presently, as nothing happened, he
               came out, and climbed upon a
               wheelbarrow, and peeped over. The
               first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor
               hoeing onions. His back was turned
               towards Peter, and beyond him was
               the gate!

               Peter got down very quietly off the
               wheelbarrow, and started running as
               fast as he could go, along a straight
               walk behind some black-currant bushes.

               Mr. McGregor caught sight of him
               at the corner, but Peter did not care.
               He slipped underneath the gate, and
               was safe at last in the wood outside
               the garden.

               Mr. McGregor hung up the little
               jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow
               to frighten the blackbirds.

               Peter never stopped running or
               looked behind him till he got home to
               the big fir-tree.

               He was so tired that he flopped
               down upon the nice soft sand on the
               floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his
               eyes. His mother was busy cooking;
               she wondered what he had done with
               his clothes. It was the second little
               jacket and pair of shoes that Peter
               had lost in a fortnight!

               I am sorry to say that Peter was not
               very well during the evening.

               His mother put him to bed, and
               made some camomile tea; and she
               gave a dose of it to Peter!

               "One table-spoonful to be taken at
               bed-time."

               But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail
               had bread and milk and blackberries
               for supper.

               "I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;
               And entertain a score or two of tailors."
               [Richard III]

               My Dear Freda:

               Because you are fond of fairytales, and have been ill, I
               have made you a story all for yourself—a new one that
               nobody has read before.

               And the queerest thing about it is—that I heard it in
               Gloucestershire, and that it is true—at least about the
               tailor, the waistcoat, and the
                              "No more twist!"
               Christmas

               In the time of swords and peri wigs
               and full-skirted coats with flowered
               lappets—when gentlemen wore
               ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of
               paduasoy and taffeta—there lived a
               tailor in Gloucester.

               He sat in the window of a little
               shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged
               on a table from morning till dark.

               All day long while the light lasted
               he sewed and snippetted, piecing out
               his satin, and pompadour, and
               lutestring; stuffs had strange names,
               and were very expensive in the days of
               the Tailor of Gloucester.

               But although he sewed fine silk for
               his neighbours, he himself was very,
               very poor. He cut his coats without
               waste; according to his embroidered
               cloth, they were very small ends and
               snippets that lay about upon the
               table—"Too narrow breadths for
               nought—except waistcoats for mice,"
               said the tailor.

               One bitter cold day near
               Christmastime the tailor began to
               make a coat (a coat of cherry-
               coloured corded silk embroidered
               with pansies and roses) and a cream-
               coloured satin waistcoat for the
               Mayor of Gloucester.

               The tailor worked and worked, and
               he talked to himself: "No breadth at
               all, and cut on the cross; it is no
               breadth at all; tippets for mice and
               ribbons for mobs! for mice!" said the
               Tailor of Gloucester.

               When the snow-flakes came down
               against the small leaded window-
               panes and shut out the light, the tailor
               had done his day's work; all the silk
               and satin lay cut out upon the table.

               There were twelve pieces for the
               coat and four pieces for the waistcoat;
               and there were pocket-flaps and cuffs
               and buttons, all in order. For the
               lining of the coat there was fine
               yellow taffeta, and for the button-
               holes of the waistcoat there was
               cherry-coloured twist. And everything
               was ready to sew together in the
               morning, all measured and
               sufficient—except that there was
               wanting just one single skein of
               cherry-coloured twisted silk.

               The tailor came out of his shop at
               dark. No one lived there at nights but
               little brown mice, and THEY ran in and
               out without any keys!

               For behind the wooden wainscots
               of all the old houses in Gloucester,
               there are little mouse staircases and
               secret trap-doors; and the mice run
               from house to house through those
               long, narrow passages.

               But the tailor came out of his shop
               and shuffled home through the snow.
               And although it was not a big house,
               the tailor was so poor he only rented
               the kitchen.

               He lived alone with his cat; it was
               called Simpkin.

               "Miaw?" said the cat when the
               tailor opened the door, "miaw?"

               The tailor replied: "Simpkin, we
               shall make our fortune, but I am
               worn to a ravelling. Take this groat
               (which is our last fourpence), and,
               Simpkin, take a china pipkin, but a
               penn'orth of bread, a penn'orth of
               milk, and a penn'orth of sausages.
               And oh, Simpkin, with the last penny
               of our fourpence but me one
               penn'orth of cherry-coloured silk. But
               do not lose the last penny of the
               fourpence, Simpkin, or I am undone
               and worn to a thread-paper, for I
               have NO MORE TWIST."

               Then Simpkin again said "Miaw!"
               and took the groat and the pipkin,
               and went out into the dark.

               The tailor was very tired and
               beginning to be ill. He sat down by the
               hearth and talked to himself about
               that wonderful coat.

               "I shall make my fortune—to be
               cut bias—the Mayor of Gloucester is
               to be married on Christmas Day in the
               morning, and he hath ordered a coat
               and an embroidered waistcoat—"

               Then the tailor started; for
               suddenly, interrupting him, from the
               dresser at the other side of the kitchen
               came a number of little noises—

               Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip!

               "Now what can that be?" said the
               Tailor of Gloucester, jumping up from
               his chair. The tailor crossed the
               kitchen, and stood quite still beside
               the dresser, listening, and peering
               through his spectacles.

               "This is very peculiar," said the
               Tailor of Gloucester, and he lifted up
               the tea-cup which was upside down.

               Out stepped a little live lady mouse,
               and made a courtesy to the tailor!
               Then she hopped away down off the
               dresser, and under the wainscot.

               The tailor sat down again by the
               fire, warming his poor cold hands.
               But all at once, from the dresser, there
               came other little noises—

               Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip!

               "This is passing extraordinary!"
               said the Tailor of Gloucester, and
               turned over another tea-cup, which
               was upside down.

               Out stepped a little gentleman
               mouse, and made a bow to the tailor!

               And out from under tea-cups and
               from under bowls and basins, stepped
               other and more little mice, who
               hopped away down off the dresser
               and under the wainscot.

               The tailor sat down, close over the
               fire, lamenting: "One-and-twenty
               buttonholes of cherry-coloured silk!
               To be finished by noon of Saturday:
               and this is Tuesday evening. Was it
               right to let loose those mice,
               undoubtedly the property of Simpkin?
               Alack, I am undone, for I have no
               more twist!"

               The little mice came out again and
               listened to the tailor; they took notice
               of the pattern of that wonderful coat.
               They whispered to one another about
               the taffeta lining and about little
               mouse tippets.

               And then suddenly they all ran
               away together down the passage
               behind the wainscot, squeaking and
               calling to one another as they ran
               from house to house.

               Not one mouse was left in the
               tailor's kitchen when Simpkin came
               back. He set down the pipkin of milk
               upon the dresser, and looked
               suspiciously at the tea-cups. He
               wanted his supper of little fat mouse!

               "Simpkin," said the tailor, "where is
               my TWIST?"

               But Simpkin hid a little parcel
               privately in the tea-pot, and spit and
               growled at the tailor; and if Simpkin
               had been able to talk, he would have
               asked: "Where is my MOUSE?"

               "Alack, I am undone!" said the
               Tailor of Gloucester, and went sadly
               to bed.

               All that night long Simpkin hunted
               and searched through the kitchen,
               peeping into cupboards and under the
               wainscot, and into the tea-pot where
               he had hidden that twist; but still he
               found never a mouse!

               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!"

               "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!

               [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.

               In the middle of the lake there is an
               island covered with trees and nut
               bushes; and amongst those trees
               stands a hollow oak-tree, which is the
               house of an owl who is called Old
               Brown.

               One autumn when the nuts were
               ripe, and the leaves on the hazel
               bushes were golden and green—
               Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all the
               other little squirrels came out of the
               wood, and down to the edge of the
               lake.

               They made little rafts out of twigs,
               and they paddled away over the
               water to Owl Island to gather nuts.

               Each squirrel had a little sack and a
               large oar, and spread out his tail for a
               sail.

               They also took with them an
               offering of three fat mice as a present
               for Old Brown, and put them down
               upon his door-step.

               Then Twinkleberry and the other
               little squirrels each made a low bow,
               and said politely—

               "Old Mr. Brown, will you
               favour us with permission to
               gather nuts upon your island?"

               But Nutkin was excessively
               impertinent in his manners. He
               bobbed up and down like a little
               red CHERRY, singing—

                    "Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote!
                    A little wee man, in a red red coat!
                    A staff in his hand, and a stone in his throat;
                    If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat."

               Now this riddle is as old as the hills;
               Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever
               to Nutkin.

               He shut his eyes obstinately and
               went to sleep.

               The squirrels filled their little sacks
               with nuts, and sailed away home in
               the evening.

               But next morning they all came
               back again to Owl Island; and
               Twinkleberry and the others brought
               a fine fat mole, and laid it on the
               stone in front of Old Brown's
               doorway, and said—

               "Mr. Brown, will you favour us with
               your gracious permission to gather
               some more nuts?"

               But Nutkin, who had no respect,
               began to dance up and down, tickling
               old Mr. Brown with a NETTLE and
               singing—

                         "Old Mr. B! Riddle-me-ree!
                         Hitty Pitty within the wall,
                         Hitty Pitty without the wall;
                         If you touch Hitty Pitty,
                         Hitty Pitty will bite you!"

               Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and
               carried the mole into his house.

               He shut the door in Nutkin's face.
               Presently a little thread of blue SMOKE
               from a wood fire came up from the
               top of the tree, and Nutkin peeped
               through the key-hole and sang—

                         "A house full, a hole full!
                         And you cannot gather a bowl-full!"

               The squirrels searched for nuts all
               over the island and filled their little
               sacks.

               But Nutkin gathered oak-apples—
               yellow and scarlet—and sat upon a
               beech-stump playing marbles, and
               watching the door of old Mr. Brown.

               On the third day the squirrels got
               up very early and went fishing; they
               caught seven fat minnows as a
               present for Old Brown.

               They paddled over the lake and
               landed under a crooked chestnut tree
               on Owl Island.

               Twinkleberry and six other little
               squirrels each carried a fat minnow;
               but Nutkin, who had no nice
               manners, brought no present at all.
               He ran in front, singing—

                    "The man in the wilderness said to me,
                    `How may strawberries grow in the sea?'
                    I answered him as I thought good—
                    `As many red herrings as grow in the wood."'

               But old Mr. Brown took no interest
               in riddles—not even when the answer
               was provided for him.

               On the fourth day the squirrels
               brought a present of six fat beetles,
               which were as good as plums in
               PLUM-PUDDING for Old Brown. Each
               beetle was wrapped up carefully in a
               dockleaf, fastened with a pine-needle-
               pin.

               But Nutkin sang as rudely as ever—

                    "Old Mr. B! riddle-me-ree!
                    Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
                    Met together in a shower of rain;
                    Put in a bag tied round with a string,
                    If you'll tell me this riddle,
                    I'll give you a ring!"