When the tailor becomes sick and cannot finish the waistcoat for the Mayor, the mice finish it for him.In the time of swords and periwigs 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 snippeted, 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-a little old man in spectacles, with a pinched face, old crooked fingers, and a suit of thread-bare clothes.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-trimmed with gauze and green worsted chenille-for the Mayor of Gloucester.
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