to look at Thumbelina,
who stood by, holding a piece of decayed wood in her hand, for she had
no other lantern. "Thank you, pretty little maiden," said the sick
swallow; "I have been so nicely warmed that I shall soon regain my
strength and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine."

"Oh," said she, "it is cold out of doors now; it snows and freezes. Stay
in your warm bed; I will take care of you."

She brought the swallow some water in a flower leaf, and after he had
drunk, he told her that he had wounded one of his wings in a thornbush
and could not fly as fast as the others, who were soon far away on their
journey to warm countries. At last he had fallen to the earth, and could
remember nothing more, nor how he came to be where she had found him.

All winter the swallow remained underground, and Thumbelina nursed him
with care and love. She did not tell either the mole or the field mouse
anything about it, for they did not like swallows. Very soon the
springtime came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the swallow bade
farewell to Thumbelina, and she opened the hole in the ceiling which
the mole had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully that the
swallow asked her if she would go with him. She could sit on his back,
he said, and he would fly away with her into the green woods. But she
knew it would grieve the field mouse if she left her in that manner, so
she said, "No, I cannot."

"Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden," said the
swallow, and he flew out into the sunshine.

* * * * *

Thumbelina looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was
very fond of the poor swallow.

"Tweet, tweet," sang the bird, as he flew out into the green woods, and
Thumbelina felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm
sunshine. The corn which had been sowed in the field over the house of
the field mouse had grown up high into the air and formed a thick wood
to Thumbelina, who was only an inch in height.

[Illustration: Nothing must be wanting when you are the wife of the mole
...]

"You are going to be married, little one," said the field mouse. "My
neighbor has asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like
you! Now we will prepare your wedding clothes. They must be woolen and
linen. Nothing must be wanting when you are the wife of the mole."

Thumbelina had to turn the spindle, and the field mouse hired four
spiders, who wer