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 Thumbelina could not sleep that night;
so she got out of bed, and plaited a great big blanket of straw, and
carried it off, and spread it over the dead bird, and piled upon it
thistle-down as soft as cotton-wool, which she had found in the
field-mouse's room, so that the poor little thing should lie warmly
buried.

'Farewell, pretty little bird!' she said. 'Farewell, and thank you for
your beautiful songs in the summer, when the trees were green, and the
sun shone down warmly on us!' Then she laid her head against the
bird's heart. But the bird was not dead: he had been frozen, but now
that she had warmed him, he was coming to life again.

In autumn the swallows fly away to foreign lands; but there are some
who are late in starting, and then they get so cold that they drop
down as if dead, and the snow comes and covers them over.

[Illustration: Thumbelina Brings Thistle-down for the Swallow]

Thumbelina trembled, she was so frightened; for the bird was very
large in comparison with herself--only an inch high. But she took
courage, piled up the down more closely over the poor swallow, fetched
her own coverlid and laid it over his head.