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- Стр. 4/8
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If
you
could
only
get
him
for
a
husband
you
would
be
well
taken
care
of
,
but
he
ca
n't
see
anything
.
You
must
tell
him
the
very
best
stories
you
know
.
"
Thumbelina
did
not
like
this
suggestion
.
She
would
not
even
consider
the
neighbor
,
because
he
was
a
mole
.
He
paid
them
a
visit
in
his
black
velvet
coat
.
The
field
mouse
talked
about
how
wealthy
and
wise
he
was
,
and
how
his
home
was
more
than
twenty
times
larger
than
hers
.
But
for
all
of
his
knowledge
he
cared
nothing
at
all
for
the
sun
and
the
flowers
.
He
had
nothing
good
to
say
for
them
,
and
had
never
laid
eyes
on
them
.
As
Thumbelina
had
to
sing
for
him
,
she
sang
,
"
May-bug
,
May-bug
,
fly
away
home
,
"
and
"
The
Monk
goes
afield
.
"
The
mole
fell
in
love
with
her
sweet
voice
,
but
he
did
n't
say
anything
about
it
yet
,
for
he
was
a
most
discreet
fellow
.
He
had
just
dug
a
long
tunnel
through
the
ground
from
his
house
to
theirs
,
and
the
field
mouse
and
Thumbelina
were
invited
to
use
it
whenever
they
pleased
,
though
he
warned
them
not
to
be
alarmed
by
the
dead
bird
which
lay
in
this
passage
.
It
was
a
complete
bird
,
with
feather
and
beak
.
It
must
have
died
quite
recently
,
when
winter
set
in
,
and
it
was
buried
right
in
the
middle
of
the
tunnel
.
The
mole
took
in
his
mouth
a
torch
of
decayed
wood
.
In
the
darkness
it
glimmered
like
fire
.
He
went
ahead
of
them
to
light
the
way
through
the
long
,
dark
passage
.
When
they
came
to
where
the
dead
bird
lay
,
the
mole
put
his
broad
nose
to
the
ceiling
and
made
a
large
hole
through
which
daylight
could
fall
.
In
the
middle
of
the
floor
lay
a
dead
swallow
,
with
his
lovely
wings
folded
at
his
sides
and
his
head
tucked
under
his
feathers
.
The
poor
bird
must
certainly
have
died
of
the
cold
.
Thumbelina
felt
so
sorry
for
him
.
She
loved
all
the
little
birds
who
had
sung
and
sweetly
twittered
to
her
all
through
the
summer
.
But
the
mole
gave
the
body
a
kick
with
his
short
stumps
,
and
said
,
"
Now
he
wo
n't
be
chirping
any
more
.
What
a
wretched
thing
it
is
to
be
born
a
little
bird
.
Thank
goodness
none
of
my
children
can
be
a
bird
,
who
has
nothing
but
his
'
chirp
,
chirp
'
,
and
must
starve
to
death
when
winter
comes
along
.
"
"
Yes
,
you
are
so
right
,
you
sensible
man
,
"
the
field
mouse
agreed
.
"
What
good
is
all
his
chirp-chirping
to
a
bird
in
the
winter
time
,
when
he
starves
and
freezes
?
But
that
's
considered
very
grand
,
I
imagine
.
"
Thumbelina
kept
silent
,
but
when
the
others
turned
their
back
on
the
bird
she
bent
over
,
smoothed
aside
the
feathers
that
hid
the
bird
's
head
,
and
kissed
his
closed
eyes
.
"
Maybe
it
was
he
who
sang
so
sweetly
to
me
in
the
summertime
,
"
she
thought
to
herself
.
"
What
pleasure
he
gave
me
,
the
dear
,
pretty
bird
.
"
The
mole
closed
up
the
hole
that
let
in
the
daylight
,
and
then
he
took
the
ladies
home
.
That
night
Thumbelina
could
not
sleep
a
wink
,
so
she
got
up
and
wove
a
fine
large
coverlet
out
of
hay
.
She
took
it
to
the
dead
bird
and
spread
it
over
him
,
so
that
he
would
lie
warm
in
the
cold
earth
.
She
tucked
him
in
with
some
soft
thistledown
that
she
had
found
in
the
field
mouse
's
room
.
