The Tale of Mrs TittleMouse by Beatrix Potter

Books at Bedtime by Calming Anxiety The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse by Beatrix Potter Once upon a time there was a woodmouse, and her name was Mrs. Tittlemouse. She lived in a bank under a hedge. Such a funny house. There were yards and yards of sandy passages leading to storerooms and nutsellers and seedsellers, or amongst the roots of the hedge.

There was a kitchen, a parlour, a pantry and a ladder. Also, there was Mrs. Titlmails' bedroom where she slept in a little box bed.

Mrs. Titlmails was a most terribly tidy, particular little mouse, always sweeping and dusting the soft sandy floors. Sometimes a beetle lost its way in the passages. "Shoo, shoe, little dirty feet," said Mrs. Titlmails, clattering her dustpan. And one day a little old woman ran up and down in a red spotty cloak.

"Your house is on fire, Mother Lady Bird, fly away home to your children." Another day, a big bat spider came into shelter from the rain. "Beg pardon? Is this not Miss Muffets?" "Go away, you bold bat spider, leaving ends of cobweb all over my nice clean house."

She bundled the spider out of a window. He let himself down the hedge with a long, thin bit of string. Mrs. Titlmails went on her way to a distant storeroom to fetch cherry stones and thistle downseed for dinner. All along the passage she sniffed and looked at the floor.

"I smell a smell of honey. Is it in the cow slips outside in the hedge?" "I am sure I can see the marks of little dirty feet." Suddenly, round a corner, she met Babity Bumble. "Ziz, biz, biz," said the Bumblebee.

Mrs. Titlmails looked at her severely. She wished that she had a broom. "Good day, Babity Bumble. I should be glad to buy some beeswax. But what are you doing down here?"

"Why do you always come in at a window and say, 'Ziz, biz, biz,' Mrs. Titlmails began to get cross?"

"Ziz, biz, biz," replied Babity Bumble in a peevish squeak. She sideled down a passage and disappeared into a storeroom which had been used for acorns. Mrs. Titlmails had eaten the acorns before Christmas. The storeroom ought to have been empty. But it was full of untidy dry moss.

Mrs. Titlmails began to pull out the moss. Three or four other bees put their heads out and buzzed fiercely. "I am not in the habit of letting lodgings. This is an intrusion," said Mrs. Titlmails. "I will have them turned out. Buzz, buzz, buzz."

"I wonder who would help me?" "Biz, biz, biz." "I will not have Mr. Jackson. He never wipes his feet." Mrs. Titlmails decided to leave the bees until after dinner.

When she got back to the parlour, she heard someone coughing in a fat voice, and there, sat Mr. Jackson himself. He was sitting all over a small rocking chair, twiddling his thumbs and smiling, with his feet on the fender. He lived in a drain below the hedge in a very dirty wet ditch. "How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Dear me, you have got very wet."

"Thank you. Thank you." "Thank you, Mrs. Titlmails. I'll sit while and dry myself," said Mr. Jackson. He sat and smiled, and the water dripped off his coat tails. Mrs. Titlmails went round with a mop.

He sat such a while that he had to be asked if he would take some dinner. "First, she offered cherry stones." "Thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Titlmails. No teeth, no teeth, no teeth," said Mr. Jackson. He opened his mouth, most unnecessarily wide.

He certainly had not a tooth in his head. "Then she offered him some thistle down seed. Tidly, wiggly, wiggly, puff, puff, puff," said Mr. Jackson. And he blew the thistle down all over the room. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Titlmails.

Now what I really, really would like, would be a little dish of honey." "I'm afraid I've not got any, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Titlmails. "Tidly, wiggly, wiggly, Mrs. Titlmails," said the smiling Mr. Jackson. "I can smell it. That is why I can't call."

Mr. Jackson rose pondrously from the table and began to look into the cupboards. Mrs. Titlmails followed him with a dishcloth to wipe his large wet footmarks off the pile of floor. When he had convinced himself that there was no honey in the cupboards, he began to walk down the passage. "Indeed, indeed, you'll stick fast, Mr. Jackson."

"Tidly, wiggly, wiggly, Mrs. Titlmails." "First, he squeezed into the pantry. Tidly, wiggly, wiggly. No honey. No honey, Mrs. Titlmails."

There were three creepy, crawly people hiding in the plate rack. Two of them got away, but the littlest one he caught. Then he squeezed into the ladder. Mrs. Butterfly was tasting the sugar, but she flew away out of the window.

"Tidly, wiggly, wiggly, Mrs. Titlmails. You seem to have plenty of visitors." "And without any invitation," said Mrs. Thomas Sina Titlmails. They went along the sandy padded. "Tidly, wiggly, buzz whizz whizz."

He met Babity round a corner and snapped her up and put her down again. "I do not like Bumblebees. They are all overpressors," said Mr. Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve.

"Get out, you nasty old toad, shrieked Babity Bumble. I shall go distracted," scolded Mrs. Titlmails.

He shut herself up in the nutseller while Mr. Jackson pulled out the bee's nest. He seemed to have no objection to stings. When Mrs. Titlmails ventured to come out, everybody had gone away. But the untidyness was something dreadful.

"Never did I see such a mess, smears of honey and moss and fissile down, and marks of big and little dirty feet.

All over my nice clean house." She gathered up the moss and the remains of the beewax. Then she went out and fetched some twigs to partly close up the front door. "I will make it too small for Mr. Jackson."

She fetched soft soap and flannel and a new scrubbing brush from the storeroom. But she was too tired to do any more. "First, she fell asleep in her chair and then she went on to bed. "Will it ever be tidy again?" said Paul, Mrs. Titlmails.

Next morning, she got up very early and began a spring cleaning which lasted a fortnight. She swept and scrubbed and dusted and she rubbed up the furniture with beeswax and polished her little tin spoons. When it was all beautifully neat and clean, she gave a party to five other little mouss without Mr. Jackson. He smelt the party and came up the bank, but he could not squeeze in at the door.

So they handed him out an acorn cup full of honeydew through the window and he was not at all offended. He sat outside in the sun and said, "Tidley, wittily, wittily. "You're very good health," Mrs. Titlmails.