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The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter
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The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter
BY BEATRIX POTTER
CONTENTS
THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT
THE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTER
THE TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKIN
THE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNY
THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE
THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE
THE PIE AND THE PATTY-PAN
THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER
THE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBIT
THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET
THE TALE OF TOM KITTEN
THE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK
THE ROLY-POLY PUDDING
THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES
THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE
THE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOES
THE TALE OF MR. TOD
THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND
GINGER AND PICKLES
THE TALE OF
PETER RABBIT
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.
THE TAILOR OF
GLOUCESTER
"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 failytales, 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!
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
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!"
Which was ridiculous of Nutkin,
because he had not got any ring to
give to Old Brown.
The other squirrels hunted up and
down the nut bushes; but Nutkin
gathered robin's pin-cushions off a
briar bush, and stuck them full of
pine-needle-pins.
On the fifth day the squirrels
brought a present of wild honey; it
was so sweet and sticky that they
licked their fingers as they put it down
upon the stone. They had stolen it out
of a bumble BEES' nest on the tippity
top of the hill.
But Nutkin skipped up and down,
singing--
"Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!
As I went over Tipple-tine
I met a flock of bonny swine;
Some yellow-nacked, some yellow backed!
They were the very bonniest swine
That e'er went over the Tipple-tine."
Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes
in disgust at the impertinence of
Nutkin.
But he ate up the honey!
The squirrels filled their little sacks
with nuts.
But Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock,
and played ninepins with a crab apple
and green fir-cones.
On the sixth day, which was
Saturday, the squirrels came again for
the last time; they brought a new-laid
EGG in a little rush basket as a last
parting present for Old Brown.
But Nutkin ran in front laughing,
and shouting--
"Humpty Dumpty lies in the beck,
With a white counterpane round his neck,
Forty doctors and forty wrights,
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights!"
Now old Mr. Brown took an interest
in eggs; he opened one eye and shut it
again. But still he did not speak.
Nutkin became more and more
impertinent--
"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!
Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's
kitchen door;
All the King's horses, and all the King's men,
Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,
Off the King's kitchen door!"
Nutkin danced up and down like a
SUNBEAM; but still Old Brown said
nothing at all.
Nutkin began again--
"Authur O'Bower has broken his band,
He comes roaring up the land!
The King of Scots with all his power,
Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!"
Nutkin made a whirring noise to
sound like the WIND, and he took a
running jump right onto the head of
Old Brown! . . .
Then all at once there was a
flutterment and a scufflement and a
loud "Squeak!"
The other squirrels scuttered away
into the bushes.
When they came back very
cautiously, peeping round the tree--
there was Old Brown sitting on his
door-step, quite still, with his eyes
closed, as if nothing had happened.
* * * * * * * *
BUT NUTKIN WAS IN HIS WAISTCOAT POCKET!
This looks like the end of the story;
but it isn't.
Old Brown carried Nutkin into his
house, and held him up by the tail,
intending to skin him; but Nutkin
pulled so very hard that his tail broke
in two, and he dashed up the
staircase, and escaped out of the attic
window.
And to this day, if you meet Nutkin
up a tree and ask him a riddle, he will
throw sticks at you, and stamp his
feet and scold, and shout--
"Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k!"
THE TALE OF
BENJAMIN BUNNY
[For the Children of Sawrey
from Old Mr. Bunny]
One morning a little rabbit sat on a
bank.
He pricked his ears and listened to
the trit-trot, trit-trot of a pony.
A gig was coming along the road; it
was driven by Mr. McGregor, and
beside him sat Mrs. McGregor in her
best bonnet.
As soon as they had passed, little
Benjamin Bunny slid down into the
road, and set off--with a hop, skip,
and a jump--to call upon his
relations, who lived in the wood at the
back of Mr. McGregor's garden.
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