“You poor little creature，” said the field-mouse， who was really a good old field-mouse， “come into my warm room and dine with me.” She was very pleased with Tiny， 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 Tiny did all 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.

　　But Tiny 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. Tiny was obliged to sing to him， “Lady-bird， lady-bird， fly away home，” and many other pretty songs. And the mole fell in love with her because she had such a sweet voice； but he said nothing yet， for he was very 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 Tiny 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， and was lying just where the mole had made his passage. The mole took a piece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth， and it 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 lay the dead bird， the mole pushed his broad nose through the ceiling， the earth gave way， so that there was a large hole， and the daylight shone into the passage. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow， his beautiful wings pulled close to his sides， his feet and his head drawn up under his feathers； the poor bird had evidently died of the cold. It made little Tiny 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 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， for when winter comes he must either starve or be frozen to death. Still birds are very high bred.”

　　Tiny said nothing； but when the two others had turned their backs on the bird， she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers which covered the head， and kissed the closed eyelids. “Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly in the summer，” she said； “and how much pleasure it gave me， you dear， pretty bird.”

　　The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone， and then accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny could not sleep； so she got out of bed and wove a large， beautiful carpet of hay； then she carried it to the dead bird， and spread it over him； with some down from the flowers which she had found in the field-mouse's room. It was as soft as wool， and she spread some of it on each side of the bird， so that he might lie warmly in the cold earth. “Farewell， you pretty little bird，” said she， “farewell； thank you for your delightful singing during the summer， when all the trees were green， and the warm sun shone upon us. Then she laid her head on the bird's breast， but she was alarmed immediately， for it seemed as if something inside the bird went ”thump， thump.“ It was the bird's heart； he was not really dead， only benumbed with the cold， and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn， all the swallows fly away into warm countries， but if one happens to linger， the cold seizes it， it becomes frozen， and falls down as if dead； it remains where it fell， and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much； she was quite frightened， for the bird was large， a great deal larger than herself，- she was only an inch high. But she took courage， laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow， and then took a leaf which she had used for her own counterpane， and laid it over the head of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to see him. He was alive but very weak； he could only open his eyes for a moment to look at Tiny， who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood in her hand， for she had no other lantern. ”Thank you， pretty little maiden，“ said the sick swallow； ”I have been so nicely warmed， that I shall soon regain my strength， and be able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.”

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