So the leaf swam away
with her farther and farther, till it brought her to other lands. A
graceful little white butterfly constantly fluttered round her and at
last alighted on the leaf. The little maiden pleased him, and she was
glad of it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her, and the
country through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon
the water till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdle
and tied one end of it round the butterfly, fastening the other end of
the ribbon to the leaf, which now glided on much faster than before,
taking Thumbelina with it as she stood. Presently a large cockchafer flew by. The moment he caught sight of her
he seized her round her delicate waist with his claws and flew with her
into a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly
flew with it, for he was fastened to it and could not get away. Oh, how frightened Thumbelina felt when the cockchafer flew with her to
the tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful white butterfly
which she had fastened to the leaf, for if he could not free himself he
would die of hunger. But the cockchafer did not trouble himself at all
about the matter. He seated himself by her side, on a large green leaf,
gave her some honey from the flowers to eat, and told her she was very
pretty, though not in the least like a cockchafer. [Illustration: Glided on much faster than before....]

After a time all the cockchafers who lived in the tree came to pay
Thumbelina a visit. They stared at her, and then the young lady
cockchafers turned up their feelers and said, "She has only two legs! how ugly that looks." "She has no feelers," said another. "Her waist is
quite slim. Pooh! she is like a human being." "Oh, she is ugly," said all the lady cockchafers. The cockchafer who had
run away with her believed all the others when they said she was ugly. He would have nothing more to say to her, and told her she might go
where she liked. Then he flew down with her from the tree and placed her
on a daisy, and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly that even
the cockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while she
was really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as tender
and delicate as a beautiful rose leaf. During the whole summer poor little Thumbelina lived quite alone in the
wide forest. She wove herself a bed with blades of grass and hung it up
under a broad leaf, to protect herself from the rain. She sucked the
honey from the flowers for food and drank the dew from their leaves
every morning. So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came the winter--the
long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly had
flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large
shamrock under the shelter of which she had lived was now rolled
together and shriveled up; nothing remained but a yellow, withered
stalk. She felt dreadfully cold, for her clothes were torn, and she was
herself so frail and delicate that she was nearly frozen to death. It
began to snow, too; and the snowflakes, as they fell upon her, were like
a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for we are tall, but she was
only an inch high. She wrapped herself in a dry leaf, but it cracked in
the middle and could not keep her warm, and she shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had been living was a large cornfield, but
the corn had been cut a long time; nothing remained but the bare, dry
stubble, standing up out of the frozen ground. It was to her like
struggling through a large wood. Oh! how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door of a
field mouse, who had a little den under the corn stubble. There dwelt
the field mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of corn, a
kitchen, and a beautiful dining room. Poor Thumbelina stood before the
door, just like a little beggar girl, and asked for a small piece of
barleycorn, for she had been without a morsel to eat for two days. "You poor little creature," said the field mouse, for she was really a
good old mouse, "come into my warm room and dine with me." She was pleased with Thumbelina, so she said, "You are quite welcome to
stay with me all the winter, if you like; but you must keep my rooms
clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I shall like to hear them very
much." And Thumbelina did all that the field mouse asked her, and found
herself very comfortable. "We shall have a visitor soon," said the field mouse one day; "my
neighbor pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I am; he has
large rooms, and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only
have him for a husband, you would be well provided for indeed. But he
is blind, so you must tell him some of your prettiest stories." Thumbelina did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for he
was a mole. However, he came and paid his visit, dressed in his black
velvet coat. "He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger than
mine," said the field mouse. He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly of
the sun and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them. Thumbelina was obliged to sing to him, "Ladybird, ladybird, fly away
home," and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her
because she had so sweet a voice; but he said nothing yet, for he was
very prudent and cautious. A short time before, the mole had dug a long
passage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the field mouse
to his own, and here she had permission to walk with Thumbelina whenever
she liked. But he warned them not to be alarmed at the sight of a dead
bird which lay in the passage. It was a perfect bird, with a beak and
feathers, and could not have been dead long. It was lying just where the
mole had made his passage. The mole took in his mouth a piece of
phosphorescent wood, which glittered like fire in the dark. Then he went
before them to light them through the long, dark passage. When they came
to the spot where the dead bird lay, the mole pushed his broad nose
through the ceiling, so that the earth gave way and the daylight shone
into the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a swallow, his beautiful wings pulled
close to his sides, his feet and head drawn up under his feathers--the
poor bird had evidently died of the cold. It made little Thumbelina very
sad to see it, she did so love the little birds; all the summer they had
sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But the mole pushed it aside
with his crooked legs and said: "He will sing no more now. How miserable
it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none of my
children will ever be birds, for they can do nothing but cry 'Tweet,
tweet,' and must always die of hunger in the winter." "Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!" exclaimed the field
mouse. "What is the use of his twittering if, when winter comes, he must
either starve or be frozen to death?