d.

"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 must 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