Well, the mole had dug a long passage through the earth from his house to
the field-mouse’s, and he told Thumbelina and the field-mouse they might
walk in the passage whenever they chose.
“Don’t be afraid of the dead bird lying there,” said he; “come with me
and I’ll show you where it is.” He led the way with a bit of rotted wood
in his mouth to light up the long dark passage. When he came to the
place, he thrust his broad nose through the ceiling to make a hole so
that the daylight might shine down. And there in the middle of the floor
lay a dead swallow, with his beautiful wings pressed close against his
sides and his feet and head drawn in under the feathers. The poor thing
looked as if he had died of cold.
Thumbelina was very sorry for him, but the mole gave the bird a push
with his crooked legs and said, “Now he can’t pipe any more. I’m glad I
was not born a bird, and that none of my children can ever be birds. A
bird can do nothing but say ‘tweet tweet’ in summer and starve in winter.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried the field-mouse, “you may well say you are better
off to be a mole. You are clever, you can build and make underground
passages where you may keep snug and warm in the winter. Of what use is
all this ‘tweet tweet’ to a bird when the frost comes?”
But Thumbelina did not agree with them at all. When they turned their
backs on the bird she bent down, gently moved the feathers aside, and
kissed him on the closed eyes.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “it was this very bird that sang so sweetly to me
in the wood. He did far more for me than the mole does. How much pleasure
he gave me, the dear, beautiful bird!”
The mole now closed up the hole and escorted the ladies home.
But that night Thumbelina could not sleep for thinking of the dead bird.
So she got out of her bed and wove a soft blanket of hay. She carried
this out into the dark passage and spread it over the poor bird. As she
did so she laid her hand on the bird’s heart. It was beating! He was not
dead at all! only numb with cold.
When he grew warm through and through he opened his eyes and looked at
Thumbelina. At first she trembled, she was so frightened, for the bird
was very large to her, who was only an inch in height. But she was too
kind to run away from him.
“Thank you, pretty child,” said the sick swallow in a weak voice. “Now
that I am warm I shall get strong again and be able to fly on my way.”
“Oh, stay where you are,” said Thumbelina, “it is so cold outside. It
snows and freezes. Stay in your warm bed and I will nurse you.”
She brought the swallow water in the petal of a flower. When he had drunk
he told her all about himself. He had set out for the south, the warm
countries, with the other swallows; but as he flew he caught one of his
wings in a thorn bush and tore it. After this he could not fly so fast as
the others, so the winter overtook him and he could not stand the cold.
It benumbed him so that he fell to the ground. He could remember nothing
more after this, until he opened his eyes and found Thumbelina at his
side.
The whole winter Thumbelina nursed the swallow. And when the spring came
and the sun was warm, she opened the hole in the ceiling and let the
sunshine pour in on him.
“I am strong enough now to fly out into the sunshine,” said the swallow.
“Sit on my back and let us fly far into the green wood.”
But Thumbelina would not do this; she knew that the old field-mouse
would be lonely without her.
“No, I cannot,” said she.
“Farewell then, you pretty, good child,” said the swallow, and he flew
off into the sunshine. Thumbelina looked after him, and the tears came
into her eyes, she was so sorry to part with him.
“Tweet-tweet,” he sang, as she lost sight of him in the green wood.