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.

[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 mus