t trouble her head about him, for he was only a
mole. He came and paid them a visit in his black-velvet coat.

'He is so rich and so accomplished,' the field-mouse told her.

'His house is twenty times larger than mine; he possesses great
knowledge, but he cannot bear the sun and the beautiful flowers, and
speaks slightingly of them, for he has never seen them.'

Thumbelina had to sing to him, so she sang 'Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly
away home!' and other songs so prettily that the mole fell in love with
her; but he did not say anything, he was a very cautious man. A short
time before he had dug a long passage through the ground from his own
house to that of his neighbour; in this he gave the field-mouse and
Thumbelina permission to walk as often as they liked. But he begged them
not to be afraid of the dead bird that lay in the passage: it was a real
bird with beak and feathers, and must have died a little time ago, and
now laid buried just where he had made his tunnel. The mole took a piece
of rotten wood in his mouth, for that glows like fire in the dark, and
went in front, lighting them through the long dark passage. When they
came to the place where the dead bird lay, the mole put his broad nose
against the ceiling and pushed a hole through, so that the daylight
could shine down. In the middle of the path lay a dead swallow, his
pretty wings pressed close to his sides, his claws and head drawn under
his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of cold. Thumbelina was
very sorry, for she was very fond of all little birds; they had sung
and twittered so beautifully to her all through the summer. But the mole
kicked him with his bandy legs and said:

'Now he can't sing any more! It must be very miserable to be a little
bird! I'm thankful that none of my little children are; birds always
starve in winter.'

'Yes, you speak like a sensible man,' said the field-mouse. 'What has
a bird, in spite of all his singing, in the winter-time? He must starve
and freeze, and that must be very pleasant for him, I must say!'

Thumbelina did not say anything; but when the other two had passed on
she bent down to the bird, brushed aside the feathers from his head,
and kissed his closed eyes gently. 'Perhaps it was he that sang to me so
prettily in the summer,' she thought. 'How much pleasure he did give me,
dear little bird!'

The mole closed up the hole again which let in the light, and then
escorted the ladies home. But Thumbe