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. [Illustration: "IN THE VERY HEART OF THE FLOWER STOOD A LITTLE PRINCE"] There lay a 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. "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. The little carpet and the covering the little maid had brought warmed the bird. He would get well now. What a big bird he seemed to Thumbelina! She was almost afraid now, for she was so tiny. She was tiny, but she was brave. Drawing the covering more closely round the poor swallow, she brought her own little pillow, that the bird's head might rest softly. Thumbelina stole out again the next night. "Would the swallow look at her," she wondered. Yes, he opened his eyes and looked at little Thumbelina, who stood there with a tiny torch of tinder-wood.