Yes, little Thumbelina was happy. She ate honey from the flowers,
and drank dew out of the golden buttercups and danced and sang the
livelong day.
But summer passed 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 passed 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.
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