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! 

  

  

       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. 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                

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