t 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