for. But he cannot see you. You will have to tell him all the prettiest stories you know."
But Thumbeline did not care for all this. She would not have the neighbor, for he was a mole. He came on a visit in his black, velvety fur coat. "He is very rich and very learned," said the field-mouse; "his house is twenty times bigger than mine, and he possesses a great deal of knowledge, but he does not like the sun and beautiful flowers. He speaks contemptuously of them, for he has never seen them." Thumbeline had to sing, and she sang both "Cockchafer, fly, fly away" and "The monk goes in the meadows," so that the mole fell in love with her all on account of her beautiful voice, but he did not say anything, he was such a prudent person.
He had just dug a long passage through the ground from his house to theirs, and the field-mouse and Thumbeline had permission to take their walks there whenever they liked. But he asked them not to be afraid of the dead bird which lay in the passage. It must have died quite lately, when the winter began, and had been buried just where the mole had dug his passage.
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THE MOLE HAD DUG A PASSAGE FROM HIS HOUSE TO THEIRS, AND THE FIELD-MOUSE AND THUMBELINE HAD PERMISSION TO TAKE THEIR WALKS THERE.
The mole took a piece of decayed wood in his mouth, for this shines like fire in the dark, and went before them, lighting them on their way through the long, dark passage. When they came to where the dead bird lay, the mole put his broad nose up against the roof and pushed the soil up, so that he made a great hole, through which the daylight could fall. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, with his beautiful wings firmly pressed to his sides, while his legs and the head were drawn up under his feathers. The poor bird must have died of cold. Thumbeline was very sorry for this, for she loved little birds so much; they had sung and twittered for her so beautifully all the summer. But the mole pushed him aside with his short legs and said: "He won't sing
