"She has no feelers," said another.
Some said she was too thin, others that she was too fat, and then they all buzzed and hummed together, "How ugly she is, how ugly she is!"
But all the time little Thumbelina was the prettiest, daintiest little maiden that ever lived.
And now the c.o.c.kchafer who had flown off with little Thumbelina thought he had been rather foolish to admire her.
He looked at her again. "Pretty? No, after all she was not very pretty." He would have nothing to do with her, and away he and all the other chafers flew. Only first they carried little Thumbelina down from the tree and placed her on a daisy. She wept because she was so ugly--so ugly that the chafers could not live with her. But all the time, you know, she was the prettiest little maiden in the world.
She was living all alone in the wood now, but it was summer and she could not feel sad or lonely while the warm golden sunshine touched her so gently, while the birds sang to her, and the flowers bowed to her.
Yes, little Thumbelina was happy. She ate honey from the flowers, and drank dew out of the golden b.u.t.tercups and danced and sang the livelong day.
But summer pa.s.sed away and autumn came. The birds began to whisper of flying to warmer countries, and the flowers began to fade and hang their heads, and as autumn pa.s.sed away, winter came, cold, dreary winter.
Thumbelina shivered with cold. Her little frock was thin and old.
She would certainly be frozen to death, she thought, as she wrapped herself up in a withered leaf.
Then the snow began to fall, and each snowflake seemed to smother her.
She was so very tiny.
Close to the wood lay a corn-field. The beautiful golden grain had been carried away long ago, now there was only dry short stubble. But to little Thumbelina the stubble was like a great forest.
She walked through the hard field. She was shaking with cold. All at once she saw a little door just before her. She looked again--yes, it was a door.
The field-mouse had made a little house under the stubble, and lived so cosily there. She had a big room full of corn, and she had a kitchen and pantry as well.
"Perhaps I shall get some food here," thought the cold and hungry little maiden, as she stood knocking at the door, just like a tiny beggar child. She had had nothing to eat for two long days. Oh, she was very hungry!
"What a tiny thing you are!" said the field-mouse, as she opened the door and saw Thumbelina. "Come in and dine with me."
How glad Thumbelina was, and how she enjoyed dining with the field-mouse.
She behaved so prettily that the old field-mouse told her she might live with her while the cold weather lasted. "And you shall keep my room clean and neat, and you shall tell me stories," she added.
That is how Thumbelina came to live with the field-mouse and to meet Mr. Mole.
"We shall have a visitor soon," said the field-mouse. "My neighbor, Mr. Mole, comes to see me every week-day. His house is very large, and he wears a beautiful coat of black velvet. Unfortunately, he is blind.
If you tell him your prettiest stories he may marry you."
Now the mole was very wise and very clever, but how could little Thumbelina ever care for him? Why, he did not love the sun, nor the flowers, and he lived in a house underground. No, Thumbelina did not wish to marry the mole.
However she must sing to him when he came to visit his neighbor the field-mouse. When she had sung "Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home,"
and "Boys and girls come out to play," the mole was charmed, and thought he would like to marry the little maiden with the beautiful voice.
Then he tried to be very agreeable. He invited the field-mouse and Thumbelina to walk along the underground pa.s.sage he had dug between their houses. Mr. Mole was very fond of digging underground.
As it was dark the mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth and led the way. The tinder-wood shone like a torch in the dark pa.s.sage.
A little bird lay in the pa.s.sage, a little bird who had not flown away when the flowers faded and the cold winds blew.
It was dead, the mole said.
When he reached the bird, the mole stopped and pushed his nose right up through the ceiling to make a hole, through which the daylight might shine.
There lay the swallow, his wings pressed close to his side His little head and legs drawn in under his feathers. He had died of cold.
"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 pa.s.sage 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 he could not tell her how he had come to the underground pa.s.sage.
All winter the swallow stayed there, and Thumbelina was often in the long pa.s.sage, with her little torch of tinder-wood. But the mole and the field-mouse did not know how Thumbelina tended and cared for the swallow.
At last spring came, and the sun sent its warmth down where the swallow lay in the underground pa.s.sage.
Little Thumbelina opened the hole which the mole had made in the ceiling, and the sunshine streamed down on the swallow and the little girl.
How the swallow longed to soar away, up and up, to be lost to sight in the blue, blue sky!
"Come with me, little Thumbelina," said the swallow, "come with me to the blue skies and the green woods."