AU the lady cockchafers said this．and yet Thumbelina was pretty af-ter a11．The cockchafer who had run off with her thought SO too．but as a11 the others said she was ugly，he got at last to believe she really was SO，and would have nothing more to do with her；she might go where she liked，he said．
They flew down from the tree with her and placed her on a daisy；there she sat and cried because she was so ugly that even the cockchafers would have nothing to do with her．And yet she was the loveliest little thing you can imagine，as fine and delicate as the most beautiful rose—leaf．
All through the summer poor Thumbelina lived alone in the forest．She plaited herself a bed of grass—stalks and hung it up under a large dock——leaf SO that the rain could not fall upon her；she gathered honey from the flowers for her food．and drank the dew which lay flesh every morning on the leaves．Thus summer and autumn passed away；but now winter had come，the long，cold winter．All the birds that had sung prettily flew away，the lowers withered，the trees shed their leaves．the large dock—leaf she had lived under shriveled up and became a yellow，withered stalk，and she felt horribly cold．for her clothes were in rags and she her-self was so small and delicate that she was bound to freeze to deam．Poor little Thumbelina!And now it began to snow，and every snowflake which fell upon her was just as if one were to cast a whole spadeful of snow upon one of US，for we are big and she was but a thumb long．Shewrapped herself up in a withered leaf，but it did not warm her atjlashe shivered with cold．Close to the wood was a large corn—field，but the corn had longsince been cut and carried away；only the bare，dry stubble stood up onthe frozen ground．To her indeed it was just like another great wood；oh，how she shivered as she went through it!And thus she CalTle to the field——mouse’S door．It was a little hole right under the stubble．There dwelt thefield—mouse，quite warlil and cosy；she had a whole room full of corn，and a nice kitchen and larder．Poor Thumbelina stood outside the door，like a beggar—girl，and begged for a little barley—corn，for she had nothad anything to eat for two days．
“You poor little creature!”said the field—mouse，for，at bottom，itwas a kind—hearted field—mouse，“Come into my warm room and dinewith me!”Afterwards，as she thought well of Thumbelina，she said，“You arequite welcome to stay with me all the winter，but you must keep my roomnice and clean and tell me stories，for I atn very fond of stories．"Thumbelina did all the good old mouse required of her，and had avery nice time of it．
“We shall soon be having a visitor．”said the field—mouse oneday，“my neighbor always visits me once a week．He is better housed e—ven than I am，for he has vast halls and goes about in a beautiful black fur coat；if only you could have him for a husband，you would be well pro—vided for，but unfortunately he cannot see．Now mind，tell him the veryprettiest stories you know．’’
But Thumbelina did not trouble her head about it at all，for she knewho the neighbor was—he was only a mole．So he came and paid them a visit in his rich black fur coat；he was very rich and learned，said the field—mouse，his house moreover was ten times as large as hers；but he abso．1utely could not endure the sun and the pretty flowers；having never seen them，he spoke slightingly of them．
Thumbelina had to sing to him，and she sang“Fly away，Cockcha—fer!”and“The Blackcap tripe the meadow along”．The mole fell in love with her because of her sweet voice，but he said nothing at the time，for he was a very discreet person．
He had recently dug himself a long passage under the earth from his own house to theirs，and he gave the field—mouse and Thumbelina per．mission to walk in it whenever they liked．At the saine time he told them not to be frightened at the dead bird which lay in the passage；it was a whole bird with feathers and beak complete，which certainly must have died quite recently，when the winter began，and had been buried just where he was making his passage．
The mole took a piece of touchwood in his mouth，for it shines like fire in the dark，and went in front to light them though the long．dark pas．sage．When they came to the dead bird，the mole put his broad nose through the earth above till there was a large hole．Through this light shone on the body of a dead swallow，with its pretty wings folded down to its sides，and its head and legs drawn in beneath its feathers：me poor bird had certainly died of cold．
Thumbelina was very sorry for it，she was fond of all little birds；had they not sung and twittered for her SO prettily all through the summer?But the mole gave a kick at it with his short legs and said，“It will chirp n。m。re n。w．h。w miserable it must be t。be b。m a little bir Heaven，none of my children will be that!Birds like that have nothing inthe world but their‘Kwee—wit!Kwee—wit!’and must starve to deathin the winter，stupid things!”
“You may well say that，sensible creature as you are，’’remarked thefield—mouse．“ has a bird to show for itself when the wintercomesfor all its Kwee—witting?It must starve and freeze to death!Very romantic，I dare say!”
Thumbelina said nothing，but when the other tWO had turned their backs on the dead bird，she bent down over it，brushed aside the featherswhich lay over its head，and kissed its closed eyes．“Perhaps it was thisvery one which sang SO prettily tO me in the summer．”She thought，“what joy it gave me，the lovely，darling bird!”
The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shoneand escorted the ladies home．But at night Thumbelina could not sleep，SOshe rose from her bed，plaited a large and pretty rug of hay，and took itdown with her and spread it round the dead bird，laying some soft wool，which she had found in the field—mouse’S room，at the sides of thebird，that it might lie warm on the cold earth．
“Farewell，you pretty little bird!”said she，“farewell，and thank youfor your pretty songs in the summer—time．when all the ees were greenand the sun shone SO warmly upon US!”
