Part 3

The mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth, for that shines like fire in the dark, and walked in front of them to light them in the long dark passage; when they came to the place where the dead bird lay, the mole thrust his broad nose up to the roof and pushed the earth up so as to make a big hole through which the daylight shone. In the middle of the floor lay a dead swallow, with its pretty wings closely pressed to its sides, and the legs and head drawn in under the feathers; no doubt the poor bird had died of cold. Thumbeline was so sorry for it; she loved all the little birds, for they had twittered and sung so sweetly to her during the whole summer; but the mole kicked it with his short legs and said, “Now it will pipe no more! It must be a miserable fate to be born a little bird! Thank heaven! no child of mine can be a bird; a bird like that has nothing but its twitter and dies of hunger in the winter.”

“Yes, as a sensible man, you may well say that,” said the field-mouse. “What _has_ a bird for all its twittering when the cold weather comes? It has to hunger and freeze, but then it must cut a dash.”

Thumbeline did not say anything, but when the others turned their backs to the bird, she stooped down and stroked aside the feathers which lay over its head, and kissed its closed eyes. “Perhaps it was this very bird which sang so sweetly to me in the summer,” she thought; “what pleasure it gave me, the dear pretty bird.”

The mole now closed up the hole which let in the daylight and conducted the ladies to their home. Thumbeline could not sleep at all in the night, so she got up out of her bed and plaited a large handsome mat of hay and then she carried it down and spread it all over the dead bird, and laid some soft cotton wool which she had found in the field-mouse’s room close round its sides, so that it might have a warm bed on the cold ground.

“Good-bye, you sweet little bird,” said she, “good-bye, and thank you for your sweet song through the summer when all the trees were green and the sun shone warmly upon us.” Then she laid her head close up to the bird’s breast, but was quite startled at a sound, as if something was thumping inside it. It was the bird’s heart. It was not dead but lay in a swoon, and now that it had been warmed it began to revive.

In the autumn all the swallows fly away to warm countries, but if one happens to be belated, it feels the cold so much that it falls down like a dead thing, and remains lying where it falls till the snow covers it up. Thumbeline quite shook with fright for the bird was very, very big beside her, but she gathered up her courage, packed the wool closer round the poor bird, and fetched a leaf of mint which she had herself for a coverlet and laid it over the bird’s head. The next night she stole down again to it and found it alive but so feeble that it could only just open its eyes for a moment to look at Thumbeline who stood with a bit of tinder-wood in her hand, for she had no other lantern.

[Illustration: It was not dead but lay in a swoon]

“Many, many thanks, you sweet child,” said the sick swallow to her; “you have warmed me beautifully. I shall soon have strength to fly out into the warm sun again.”

“Oh!” said she, “it is so cold outside, it snows and freezes, stay in your warm bed, I will tend you.” Then she brought water to the swallow in a leaf, and when it had drunk some, it told her how it had torn its wing on a blackthorn bush, and therefore could not fly as fast as the other swallows which were taking flight then for the distant warm lands. At last it fell down on the ground, but after that it remembered nothing and did not in the least know how it had got into the tunnel.

It stayed there all the winter, and Thumbeline was good to it and grew very fond of it. She did not tell either the mole or the field-mouse anything about it, for they did not like the poor unfortunate swallow.

As soon as the spring came and the warmth of the sun penetrated the ground, the swallow said good-bye to Thumbeline, who opened the hole which the mole had made above. The sun streamed in deliciously upon them, and the swallow asked if she would not go with him, she could sit upon his back and they would fly far away into the green wood. But Thumbeline knew that it would grieve the old field-mouse if she left her like that.

“No, I can’t,” said Thumbeline.

“Good-bye, good-bye, then, you kind pretty girl,” said the swallow, and flew out into the sunshine. Thumbeline looked after him and her eyes filled with tears, for she was very fond of the poor swallow.

“Tweet, tweet,” sang the bird, and flew into the green wood.

Thumbeline was very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm sunshine at all; the corn which was sown in the field near the field-mouse’s house grew quite long, it was a thick forest for the poor little girl who was so very, very small.

“You must work at your trousseau this summer,” said the mouse to her, for their neighbour the tiresome mole in his black velvet coat had asked her to marry him. “You shall have both woollen and linen, you shall have wherewith to clothe and cover yourself when you become the mole’s wife.” Thumbeline had to turn the distaff and the field-mouse hired four spiders to spin and weave day and night. The mole paid a visit every evening and he was always saying that when the summer came to an end, the sun would not shine nearly so warmly; now it burnt the ground as hard as a stone. Yes, when the summer was over he would celebrate his marriage; but Thumbeline was not at all pleased, for she did not care a bit for the tiresome mole. Every morning at sunrise and every evening at sunset she used to steal out to the door, and when the wind blew aside the tops of the cornstalks so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how bright and lovely it was out there, and wished so much to see the dear swallow again; but it never came back; no doubt it was a long way off, flying about in the beautiful green woods.

[Illustration: Fiddle-de-dee said the field mouse]

When the autumn came all Thumbeline’s outfit was ready.

“In four weeks you must be married,” said the field-mouse to her. But Thumbeline cried and said that she would not have the tiresome mole for a husband.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” said the field-mouse; “don’t be obstinate or I shall bite you with my white tooth. You are going to have a splendid husband; the queen herself hasn’t the equal of his black velvet coat; both his kitchen and his cellar are full. You should thank heaven for such a husband!”

So they were to be married; the mole had come to fetch Thumbeline; she was to live deep down under the ground with him, and never to go out into the warm sunshine, for he could not bear it. The poor child was very sad at the thought of bidding good-bye to the beautiful sun; while she had been with the field-mouse she had at least been allowed to look at it from the door.

“Good-bye, you bright sun,” she said as she stretched out her arms towards it and went a little way outside the field-mouse’s house, for now the harvest was over and only the stubble remained. “Good-bye, good-bye!” she said, and threw her tiny arms round a little red flower growing there. “Give my love to the dear swallow if you happen to see him.”

“Tweet, tweet,” she heard at this moment above her head. She looked up; it was the swallow just passing. As soon as it saw Thumbeline it was delighted; she told it how unwilling she was to have the ugly mole for a husband, and that she was to live deep down underground where the sun never shone. She could not help crying about it.

“The cold winter is coming,” said the swallow, “and I am going to fly away to warm countries. Will you go with me? You can sit upon my back! Tie yourself on with your sash, then we will fly away from the ugly mole and his dark cavern, far away over the mountains to those warm countries where the sun shines with greater splendour than here, where it is always summer and there are heaps of flowers. Do fly with me, you sweet little Thumbeline, who saved my life when I lay frozen in the dark earthy passage.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” said Thumbeline, seating herself on the bird’s back with her feet on its outspread wings. She tied her band tightly to one of the strongest feathers, and then the swallow flew away, high up in the air above forests and lakes, high up above the biggest mountains where the snow never melts; and Thumbeline shivered in the cold air, but then she crept under the bird’s warm feathers, and only stuck out her little head to look at the beautiful sights beneath her.

Then at last they reached the warm countries. The sun shone with a warmer glow than here; the sky was twice as high, and the most beautiful green and blue grapes grew in clusters on the banks and hedgerows. Oranges and lemons hung in the woods which were fragrant with myrtles and sweet herbs, and beautiful children ran about the roads playing with the large, gorgeously-coloured butterflies. But the swallow flew on and on, and the country grew more and more beautiful. Under magnificent green trees on the shores of the blue sea stood a dazzling white marble palace of ancient date; vines wreathed themselves round the stately pillars. At the head of these there were countless nests, and the swallow who carried Thumbeline lived in one of them.

“Here is my house,” said the swallow; “but if you will choose one of the gorgeous flowers growing down there I will place you in it, and you will live as happily as you can wish.”

“That would be delightful,” she said, and clapped her little hands.

A great white marble column had fallen to the ground and lay there broken in three pieces, but between these the most lovely white flowers grew. The swallow flew down with Thumbeline and put her upon one of the broad leaves; what was her astonishment to find a little man in the middle of the flower, as bright and transparent as if he had been made of glass. He had a lovely golden crown upon his head and the most beautiful bright wings upon his shoulders; he was no bigger than Thumbeline. He was the fairy of the flowers. There was a similar little man or woman in every flower, but he was the king of them all.

“How very beautiful he is,” whispered Thumbeline to the swallow. The little prince was quite frightened by the swallow, for it was a perfect giant of a bird to him, he who was so small and delicate, but when he saw Thumbeline he was delighted; she was the very prettiest girl he had ever seen. He therefore took the golden crown off his own head and placed it on hers, and asked her name, and if she would be his wife, and then she would be queen of the flowers! Yes, he was certainly a very different kind of husband from the toad’s son, or the mole with his black velvet coat. So she accepted the beautiful prince, and out of every flower stepped a little lady or a gentleman so lovely that it was a pleasure to look at them. Each one brought a gift to Thumbeline, but the best of all was a pair of pretty wings from a large white butterfly; they were fastened on to her back, and then she too could fly from flower to flower. All was then delight and happiness, but the swallow sat alone in his nest and sang to them as well as he could, for his heart was heavy, he was so fond of Thumbeline himself and would have wished never to part from her.

[Illustration: What was her astonishment to find a little man in the middle of the flower]

“You shall not be called Thumbeline,” said the flower-fairy to her; “that is such an ugly name, and you are so pretty. We will call you Maia.”

* * * * *

Of course the Fairy Prince’s story was quite true, and as proof of it there was Thumbeline, or Maia, as she was sometimes called, sitting not very far away in the very front circle of fairies, and having made his bow to the king and queen, the little prince stepped proudly back to his seat by her side, and all the fairies loudly cheered the pretty couple. When the cheering had stopped it was seen that there were several of the company trying to get on the tale-tellers’ stool at once, all anxious to win such cheering. King Oberon’s trumpeter, standing on the steps of the throne, blew loudly and the squabble stopped at once, each of the competitors turning round and expecting to be told that he was the favoured one, but Oberon was too wise for that and bade them all go back to their places and not to come forward again until called upon to do so, and he then turned to Titania and said:

“Our queen shall select the next tale-teller. Who, my Titania, shall it be?”

And the queen pointed out a little fairy dressed all in green with a tiny golden harp in her hand and with a wreath of shamrock round her head, saying:

“Let an Irish fairy tell us something of the doings in her green land.”

The little one in green at once came forward and said that the story she had to tell would not be a pretty one such as that about Thumbeline, but it would be about one of those mischievous changelings who got the fairies such a bad name among some people, and her story would be called

[Illustration: The Irish fairy]

[Illustration: A big laughing potato in their hands]

The Young Piper

There lived on the borders of the county of Tipperary a decently honest couple whose names were Mick Flanigan and Judy Muldoon. These poor people were blessed, as the saying is, with four children, all boys: three of them were as fine, stout, healthy, good-looking children as ever the sun shone upon; and it was enough to make any Irishman proud of his countrymen to see them about one o’clock on a fine summer day standing at their father’s cabin door, with their beautiful flaxen hair hanging in curls about their heads, and their cheeks like two rosy apples, and a big laughing potato smoking in their hands. A proud man was Mick of these fine children, and a proud woman, too, was Judy; and reason enough they had to be so. But it was far otherwise with the remaining one, which was the third eldest: he was the most miserable, ugly, ill-conditioned brat you ever saw: he was so ill-thriven that he never was able to stand alone, or to leave the cradle; he had long, shaggy, matted, curled hair, as black as the soot; his face was of a greenish-yellow colour; his eyes were like two burning coals, and were for ever moving in his head, as if they had had the perpetual motion. Before he was a twelvemonth old he had a mouthful of great teeth; his hands were like kite’s claws, and his legs were no thicker than the handle of a whip, and about as straight as a reaping hook: to make the matter worse, he had the appetite of a cormorant, and the whinge, and the yelp, and the screech, and the yowl was never out of his mouth.

The neighbours all suspected that he was something not right, particularly as it was observed, when people, as they do in the country, got about the fire and began to talk of religion and good things, the brat, as he lay in the cradle, which his mother generally put near the fire-place that he might be snug, used to sit up, as they were in the middle of their talk, and begin to bellow as if the devil was in him in right earnest: this, as I said, led the neighbours to think that all was not right, and there was a general consultation held one day about what would be best to do with him. Some advised one thing, and some another; at last one spoke of sending for the priest, who was a very holy and a very learned man, to see it. To this Judy of course had no objection, but one thing or another always prevented her doing so, and the upshot of the business was that the priest never saw him.

Things went on in the old way for some time longer. The brat continued yelping and yowling, and eating more than his three brothers put together, and playing all sorts of unlucky tricks, for he was mighty mischievously inclined; till it happened one day that Tim Carrol, the blind piper, going his rounds, called in and sat down by the fire to have a bit of chat with the woman of the house. So after some time, Tim, who was no churl of his music, yoked on the pipes, and began to bellows away in high style; when the instant he began, the young fellow, who had been lying as still as a mouse in his cradle, sat up, began to grin and twist his ugly face, to swing about his long tawny arms, and to kick out his crooked legs, and to show signs of great glee at the music. At last nothing would serve him but he should get the pipes into his own hands, and to humour him his mother asked Tim to lend them to the child for a minute. Tim, who was kind to children, readily consented; and as Tim had not his sight, Judy herself brought them to the cradle, and went to put them on him; but she had no occasion, for the youth seemed quite up to the business. He buckled on the pipes, set the bellows under one arm, and the bag under the other, worked them both as knowingly as if he had been twenty years at the business, and lilted up “Sheela na guira” in the finest style imaginable.

All were in astonishment: the poor woman crossed herself. Tim, who, as I said before, was dark, and did not well know who was playing, was in great delight; and when he heard that it was a little prechan not five years old, that had never seen a set of pipes in his life, he wished the mother joy of her son; offered to take him off her hands if she would part with him, swore he was born a piper, a natural _genus_, and declared that in a little time more, with the help of a little good instruction from himself, there would not be his match in the whole county. The poor woman was greatly delighted to hear all this, particularly as what Tim said about natural genus quieted some misgivings that were rising in her mind, lest what the neighbours said about his not being right might be too true; and it gratified her moreover to think that her dear child (for she really loved the whelp) would not be forced to turn out and beg, but might earn decent bread for himself. So when Mick came home in the evening from his work, she up and told him all that had happened, and all that Tim Carrol had said; and Mick, as was natural, was very glad to hear it, for the helpless condition of the poor creature was a great trouble to him. So next day he took the pig to the fair, and with what it brought set off to Clonmel, and bespoke a brand-new set of pipes of the proper size for him.

In about a fortnight the pipes came home, and the moment the chap in his cradle laid eyes on them, he squealed with delight and threw up his legs, and bumped himself in his cradle, and went on with a great many comical tricks; till at last, to quiet him, they gave him the pipes, and he immediately set to and pulled away at “Jig Polthog,” to the admiration of all that heard him.

The fame of his skill on the pipes soon spread far and near, for there was not a piper in the next six counties could come at all near him in “Old Moderagh rue,” or “The Hare in the Corn,” or “The Fox-Hunter’s Jig,” or “The Rakes of Cashel,” or “The Piper’s Maggot,” or any of the fine Irish jigs which make people dance whether they will or no: and it was surprising to hear him rattle away “The Fox Hunt”; you’d really think you heard the hounds giving tongue and the terriers yelping always behind, and the huntsman and the whippers-in cheering or correcting the dogs; it was, in short, the very next thing to seeing the hunt itself.

The best of him was he was noways stingy of his music, and many a merry dance the boys and girls of the neighbourhood used to have in his father’s cabin; and he would play up music for them, that they said used as it were to put quicksilver in their feet; and they all declared they never moved so light and so airy to any piper’s playing that ever they danced to.