"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.
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