ttle birds; all the summer they had
sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But the mole pushed it aside
with his crooked legs and said: "He will sing no more now. How miserable
it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none of my
children will ever be birds, for they can do nothing but cry 'Tweet,
tweet,' and must always die of hunger in the winter."

"Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!" exclaimed the field
mouse. "What is the use of his twittering if, when winter comes, he must
either starve or be frozen to death? Still, birds are very high bred."

Thumbelina said nothing, but when the two others had turned their backs
upon the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers
which covered his head, and kissed the closed eyelids. "Perhaps this was
the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer," she said; "and how
much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty bird."

The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone, and
then accompanied the ladies home. But during the night Thumbelina could
not sleep; so she got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of
hay. She carried it to the dead bird and spread it over him, with some
down from the flowers which she had found in the field mouse's room. It
was as soft as wool, and she spread some of it on each side of the bird,
so that he might lie warmly in the cold earth.

"Farewell, pretty little bird," said she, "farewell. Thank you for your
delightful singing during the summer, when all the trees were green and
the warm sun shone upon us." Then she laid her head on the bird's
breast, but she was alarmed, for it seemed as if something inside the
bird went "thump, thump." It was the bird's heart; he was not really
dead, only benumbed with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to
life. In autumn all the swallows fly away into warm countries; but if
one happens to linger, the cold seizes it, and it becomes chilled and
falls down as if dead. It remains where it fell, and the cold snow
covers it.

Thumbelina trembled very much; she was quite frightened, for the bird
was large, a great deal larger than herself (she was only an inch high).
But she took courage, laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow,
and then took a leaf which she had used for her own counterpane and laid
it over his head.

The next night she again stole out to see him. He was alive, but very
weak; he could only open his eyes for a moment