a fever, tossing and turning in
his four-post bed; and still in his dreams he mumbled--"No more twist! no
more twist!"

All that day he was ill, and the next day, and the next; and what should
become of the cherry-coloured coat? In the tailor's shop in Westgate
Street the embroidered silk and satin lay cut out upon the
table--one-and-twenty button-holes--and who should come to sew them, when
the window was barred, and the door was fast locked?

But that does not hinder the little brown mice; they run in and out
without any keys through all the old houses in Gloucester!

[Illustration]

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
Christmas 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. The moon climbed up over the roofs and
chimneys, and looked down over the gateway into College Court. There were
no lights in the windows, nor any sound in the houses; all the city of
Gloucester was fast asleep under the snow.

And still Simpkin wanted his mice, and he mewed as he stood beside the
four-post bed.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

First and loudest the cocks cried out: "Dame, get up, and bake your pies!"

"Oh, dilly, dilly, dilly!" sighed Simpkin.

And now in a garret there were lights and sounds of dancing, and cats came
from over the way.

"Hey, diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle! All the cats in
Gloucester--except me," said Simpkin.

Under the wooden eaves the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies;
the jack-daws woke up in the Cathedral tower; and although it was the
middle of the night the throstles and robins sang; the air was quite full
of little twittering tunes.

[I