Then he tried to be very agreeable. He invited the field-mouse and
Thumbelina to walk along the underground passage 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 passage.
A little bird lay in the passage, 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.
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