THE TAILOR OF NEVERMINDWHERE
EVERMINDWHERE is a land lying so many miles east of Fancy and west of Facts, having a King, Queen, and all other public inconveniences including taxes. And once—miles and miles ago—there came a tailor to Nevermindwhere. With such magnificence did he roll into the King's city that none would have taken him for a tailor had he not immediately sent his servant to inquire for a shop fit for sewing and such.
The King, thinking from the elegant carriage and liveried outriders that some mighty potentate was about to visit him, had set out to welcome the stranger, but hearing, just in time, of the sewing shop, ordered the royal coach to turn—which it did, with such abruptness that the Chief Prime Minister rolled into the dust.
Ah, 'twas ill luck to be a tailor in those days and a more down-trodden, meek-mannered despised lot of men were not to be found upon the face of the earth—'twas the fashion to despise 'em. Indeed there was a pretty little custom among the gentry of collecting unpaid tailor bills—some even went so far as to have them made into books with comical verses noted upon them. So you can imagine the indignation of the King.
And "Such airs!" sniffed the Princess of Nevermindwhere who was riding beside her father. "But is he not handsome!" she murmured to herself. "A tailor, a rogue of a tailor!" fumed the King, "an arrogant knave who must be set in his place!"
