her. She looked again--yes, it
was a door.

The field-mouse had made a little house under the stubble, and lived
so cosily there. She had a big room full of corn, and she had a
kitchen and pantry as well.

"Perhaps I shall get some food here," thought the cold and hungry
little maiden, as she stood knocking at the door, just like a tiny
beggar child. She had had nothing to eat for two long days. Oh, she
was very hungry!

"What a tiny thing you are!" said the field-mouse, as she opened the
door and saw Thumbelina. "Come in and dine with me."

How glad Thumbelina was, and how she enjoyed dining with the
field-mouse.

She behaved so prettily that the old field-mouse told her she might
live with her while the cold weather lasted. "And you shall keep my
room clean and neat, and you shall tell 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.

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