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.

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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.

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But it was all rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin!

Particularly he was vexed with some little shrill voices from behind a wooden lattice.  I think that they were bats, because they always have very small voices—­especially in a black frost, when they talk in their sleep, like the Tailor of Gloucester.

They said something mysterious that sounded like—­

    “Buz, quoth the blue fly, hum, quoth the bee,
     Buz and hum they cry, and so do we!”

and Simpkin went away shaking his ears as if he had a bee in his bonnet.

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From the tailor’s shop 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——­”

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“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 your threads? 
     Oh, no, Miss Pussy, you’d bite off our heads!”

“Mew!  Mew!” cried Simpkin.  “Hey diddle dinketty?” answered the little mice—­

    “Hey diddle dinketty, poppetty pet! 
     The merchants of London they wear scarlet;
     Silk in the collar, and gold in the hem,
     So merrily march the merchantmen!”