` His house is twenty times larger than mine ; he possesses great knowledge , but he can not bear the sun and the beautiful flowers , and speaks slightingly of them , for he has never seen them . ' Thumbelina had to sing to him , so she sang ` Lady-bird , lady-bird , fly away home ! ' and other songs so prettily that the mole fell in love with her ; but he did not say anything , he was a very cautious man . A short time before he had dug a long passage through the ground from his own house to that of his neighbour ; in this he gave the field-mouse and Thumbelina permission to walk as often as they liked . But he begged them not to be afraid of the dead bird that lay in the passage : it was a real bird with beak and feathers , and must have died a little time ago , and now laid buried just where he had made his tunnel . The mole took a piece of rotten wood in his mouth , for that glows like fire in the dark , and went in front , lighting them through the long dark passage . When they came to the place where the dead bird lay , the mole put his broad nose against the ceiling and pushed a hole through , so that the daylight could shine down . In the middle of the path lay a dead swallow , his pretty wings pressed close to his sides , his claws and head drawn under his feathers ; the poor bird had evidently died of cold . Thumbelina was very sorry , for she was very fond of all little birds ; they had sung and twittered so beautifully to her all through the summer . But the mole kicked him with his bandy legs and said : ` Now he ca n't sing any more ! It must be very miserable to be a little bird ! I 'm thankful that none of my little children are ; birds always starve in winter . ' ` Yes , you speak like a sensible man , ' said the field-mouse . ` What has a bird , in spite of all his singing , in the winter-time ? He must starve and freeze , and that must be very pleasant for him , I must say ! ' Thumbelina did not say anything ; but when the other two had passed on she bent down to the bird , brushed aside the feathers from his head , and kissed his closed eyes gently . ` Perhaps it was he that sang to me so prettily in the summer , ' she thought . ` How much pleasure he did give me , dear little bird ! ' The mole closed up the hole again which let in the light , and then escorted the ladies home . But Thumbelina could not sleep that night ; so she got out of bed , and plaited a great big blanket of straw , and carried it off , and spread it over the dead bird , and piled upon it thistle-down as soft as cotton-wool , which she had found in the field-mouse 's room , so that the poor little thing should lie warmly buried .
` Farewell , pretty little XXXXX ! '
bed bird ceiling ground home path piece singing summer time