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ll me stories," she added.

That is how Thumbelina came to live with the field-mouse and to meet Mr.
Mole.

"We shall have a visitor soon," said the field-mouse. "My neighbor, Mr.
Mole, comes to see me every week-day. His house is very large, and he
wears a beautiful coat of black velvet. Unfortunately, he is blind. If
you tell him your prettiest stories he may marry you."

Now the mole was very wise and very clever, but how could little
Thumbelina ever care for him. Why, he did not love the sun, nor the
flowers, and he lived in a house underground. No, Thumbelina did not
wish to marry the mole.

However she must sing to him when he came to visit his neighbor, the
field-mouse. When she had sung, "Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home," and
"Boys and girls, come out to play," the mole was charmed, and thought he
would like to marry the little maiden with the beautiful voice.

Then he tried to be very agreeable. He invited the field-mouse and
Thumbelina to walk along the underground passage he had dug between
their houses. Mr. Mole was very fond of digging underground.

As it was dark the mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth and led
the way. The tinder-wood shone like a torch in the dark passage.

A little bird lay in the passage, a little bird who had not flown away
when the flowers faded and the cold winds blew.

It was dead, the mole said.

When he reached the bird, the mole stopped and pushed his nose right
up through the ceiling to make a hole, through which the daylight might
shine.

 [Illustration: "IN THE VERY HEART OF THE FLOWER STOOD A LITTLE PRINCE"]

There lay a swallow, his wings pressed close to his side, his little
head and legs drawn in under his feathers. He had died of cold.

"Poor little swallow!" thought Thumbelina. All wild birds were her
friends. Had they not sung to her and fluttered round her all the long
glad summer days?

But the mole kicked the swallow with his short legs. "That one will sing
no more," he said roughly. "It must be sad to be born a bird and to be
able only to sing and fly. I am thankful none of my children will be
birds," and he proudly smoothed down his velvet coat.

"Yes," said the field-mouse, "what can a bird do but sing? When the cold
weather comes it is useless."

Thumbelina said nothing. Only when the others moved on, she stooped down
and stroked the bird gently with her tiny hand, and kissed its closed
eyes.

That night the little maiden could not sleep. "I will go to see the poor
swallow again," she thought.

She got up out of her tiny bed. She wove a little carpet out of hay.
Down the long underground passage little Thumbelina walked, carrying the
carpet. She reached the bird at last, and spread the carpet gently round
him. She fetched warm cotton and laid it over the bird.

"Even down on the cold earth he will be warm now," thought the gentle
little maiden.

"Farewell," she said sadly, "farewell, little bird! Did you sing to me
through the long summer days, when the leaves were green and the sky was
blue? Farewell, little swallow!" and she stooped to press her tiny
cheeks against the soft feathers.

As she did so, she heard--what could it be? pit, pat, pit, pat! Could
the bird be alive? Little Thumbelina listened still. Yes, it was the
beating of the little bird's heart that she heard. He had not been dead
after all, only frozen with cold. The little carpet and the covering the
little maid had brought warmed the bird. He would get well now.

What a big bird he seemed to Thumbelina! She was almost afraid now, for
she was so tiny. She was tiny, but she was brave. Drawing the covering
more closely round the poor swallow, she brought her own little pillow,
that the bird's head might rest softly.

Thumbelina stole out again the next night. "Would the swallow look at
her," she wondered.

Yes, he opened his eyes and looked at little Thumbelina, who stood there
with a tiny torch of tinder-wood.

"Thanks, thanks, little Thumbelina," he twittered feebly. "Soon I shall
grow strong and fly out in the bright sunshine once more; thanks,
thanks, little maiden."

"Oh! but it is too cold, it snows and freezes, for now it is winter,"
said Thumbelina. "Stay here and be warm, and I will take care of you,"
and she brought the swallow water in a leaf.

And the little bird told her all his story--how he had tried to fly to
the warm countries, and how he had torn his wing on a blackthorn bush
and fallen to the ground. But he could not tell her how he had come to
the underground passage.

All winter the swallow stayed there, and Thumbelina was often in the
long passage, with her little torch of tinder-wood. But the mole and the
field-mouse did not know how Thumbelina tended and cared for the
swallow.

At last spring came, and the sun sent its warmth down where the swallow
lay in the underground passage.

Little Thumbelina opened the hole which the mole had made in the
ceiling, and the sunshine streamed down on the swallow and the little
girl.

How the swallow longed to soar away, up and up, to be lost to sight in
the blue, blue sky!

"Come with me, little Thumbelina," said the swallow, "come with me to
the blue skies and the green woods."

But Thumbelina remembered how kind the field-mouse had been to her when
she was cold and hungry, and she would not leave her.

"Farewell! farewell! then, little maiden," twittered the swallow as he
flew out and up, up into the sunshine.

Thumbelina loved the swallow dearly. Her eyes were full of tears as she
watched the bird disappearing till he was only a tiny speck of black.

And now sad days came to little Thumbelina.

The golden corn was once more waving in the sunshine above the house of
the field-mouse, but Thumbelina must not go out lest she lose herself
among the corn.

Not go out in the bright sunshine! Oh, poor little Thumbelina!

"You must get your wedding clothes ready this summer," said the
field-mouse. "You must be well provided with linen and worsted. My
neighbor the mole will wish a well-dressed bride."

The mole had said he wished to marry little Thumbelina before the cold
winter came again.

So Thumbelina sat at the spinning-wheel through the long summer days,
spinning and weaving with four little spiders to help her.

In the evening the mole came to visit her. "Summer will soon be over,"
he said, "and we shall be married."

But oh! little Thumbelina did not wish the summer to end.

Live with the dull old mole, who hated the sunshine, who would not
listen to the song of the birds--live underground with him! Little
Thumbelina wished the summer would never end.

The spinning and weaving were over now. All the wedding clothes were
ready. Autumn was come.

"Only four weeks and the wedding-day will have come," said the
field-mouse.

And little Thumbelina wept.

"I will not marry the tiresome old mole," she said.

"I shall bite you with my white tooth if you talk such nonsense," said
the field-mouse. "Among all my friends not one of them has such a fine
velvet coat as the mole. His cellars

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