Thumbelina

Once upon a time, a woman longed more than anything in the world to have a child of her own. One day she went to a fairy and confided her wish. The fairy gave her a barleycorn, unlike any that grows in fields or is fed to chickens, and told her to plant it in a flowerpot. The woman went home and did exactly as she was told.

By morning, a large and beautiful flower had bloomed in the pot — its petals closed tight as a bud, red and yellow striped like a tulip. The woman leaned forward and kissed the petals softly. At her touch, the flower burst open with a small pop. And there, sitting at the very center on the green cushion of the flower, was a tiny little girl, delicate and perfectly formed, no bigger than the woman's thumb. And so she was named Thumbelina.

The woman made her a cradle from a polished walnut shell, with violet petals for a mattress and a rose petal for a blanket. Each night she slept in her walnut shell, and each day she played on the table, where a plate of water surrounded by flowers served as her world. She could row across it in a tulip petal boat, using two white horsehairs as oars. She had the sweetest voice in the world, and she sang so beautifully that even the birds outside the window paused to listen.

One night, a large and ugly toad crept through the broken window. She looked at Thumbelina sleeping in her walnut cradle and thought: what a lovely wife she would make for my son. She seized the shell and carried it to the wet bank of the stream where she lived.

"Here," she said to her son, who was even larger and uglier than his mother, "here is a wife for you." Her son only opened his mouth wide and said: "Croak, croak, croak."

The toads placed the walnut shell on a broad lily pad in the middle of the stream so that Thumbelina could not escape while they prepared the wedding. Thumbelina sat on the pad and wept, for she did not want to live in the cold mud and marry the horrible toad.

The little fishes swimming below had heard everything. They lifted their heads above the water and looked at the tiny girl. They felt sorry for her and decided she should not be given to the toad. They nibbled at the stalk of the lily pad until it broke free, and the current carried Thumbelina away downstream, far beyond the reach of the toads.

The lily pad floated on and on, and Thumbelina drifted past meadows and forests and villages she could not name. A pretty white butterfly fluttered down and allowed her to tie her sash to it, so that the journey became even swifter and more beautiful. But then a large cockchafer beetle came flying past, caught sight of her, and swooped down and seized her in his claws, carrying her up into a tree.

He thought her quite lovely at first, but the other beetles looked at her and said she had no antennae, only two legs, and looked altogether too much like a human — really quite common. The cockchafer, embarrassed by their judgement, released her and set her down in a daisy below.

All summer long Thumbelina lived alone in the forest, weaving a bed of grass blades and hanging it under a dock leaf. She ate the pollen from flowers and drank the dew from the leaves every morning. The summer was long and beautiful, but autumn came quickly after, and then winter — cold, bitter winter. The snow fell thick. Every leaf dried to a brown scrap. She had only a dry leaf for a blanket and shivered terribly.

Near the edge of the forest she came across a field mouse's door — a small hole in the ground under the stubble of a harvested field. She knocked and begged for a single grain of barley, for she had not eaten in two days.

"You poor little creature," said the field mouse, who was actually a kind soul. "Come inside and warm yourself. You may stay with me through the winter." Thumbelina was grateful beyond words, and kept the mouse's little house swept clean and told her stories, in exchange for which the mouse gave her food and shelter.

But the field mouse's neighbor was a mole — a very rich mole who wore a fine black velvet coat and lived in a long dark tunnel underground. He came to visit often that winter, and he took a great liking to Thumbelina, though she found him tiresome. He was blind, as moles are, and cared nothing for sunshine or flowers or the singing of birds.

One day the mole led them through a passage he had dug between his tunnel and the field mouse's home. In the middle of this tunnel lay a swallow — a real swallow with sleek brown wings — lying still and cold. "There is a dead bird," said the mole, nudging it with his snout. "How stupid to be a bird, always flying and singing and then freezing to death in winter."

That night, Thumbelina crept back alone to where the swallow lay. She wove a blanket of hay and laid it carefully over his body, tucking it warmly around his wings. As she pressed her ear to his small chest, she thought she heard the faintest beat. She came back every night that winter, warming him with tiny blankets, and slowly, slowly, the swallow revived. By the time spring came and the earth thawed, the swallow was well enough to fly. He stretched his great wings and looked down at Thumbelina with warm bright eyes.

"Come with me," he said. "You saved my life. I will carry you far away to the warm lands."

But Thumbelina felt she could not leave the field mouse, who had been kind to her. The swallow flew away, and Thumbelina watched him go with a full and aching heart.

All spring and summer she worked indoors spinning, while the mole planned their wedding. He had decided to marry her and take her underground forever, where there was no sun, no flowers, and no singing birds. As the summer ended and the wedding day approached, Thumbelina stood at the entrance of the tunnel for what she thought might be the last time. She raised her face to the sun and sang a soft goodbye.

Then she heard it — above her, calling her name — the swallow. He had come back.

"Fly with me now," he said urgently. "Winter is coming, and I must go to the warm countries. Come with me this time."

Without hesitation, Thumbelina climbed onto his back, her feet resting lightly on his folded wings, her sash tied around one of his feathers. The swallow rose into the air, up and up, above the field, above the forest, above the clouds, and flew south over mountains and lakes and seas shining like silver.

At last they came to a warm and golden land where orange trees blossomed and the air smelled of spices. The swallow set her gently on a large white flower growing in a meadow — and there, to her astonishment, sitting in the center of the flower, was a tiny man no bigger than herself, with wings as transparent as dragonflies and a crown of gold.

He was the spirit of the flower, the king of all the flower-folk, and he had never seen anyone so lovely in all his long years. He knelt before her and asked if she would be his queen. Thumbelina said yes, and all the flower-folk came out to see their new queen, bringing her gifts of flower-petal dresses and jewels of dew. And most importantly of all, they gave her a pair of delicate silver wings, so that she could fly from flower to flower for the rest of her days.

As for the swallow, he flew back north to his nest under the eaves of a poet's window. And when spring came, the poet heard his song and wrote it all down — the whole story of Thumbelina — so that the world would never forget.