When autumn came, Thumbelina had everything ready.
“Only four weeks more for the wedding,” cried the mole.
But when he had gone home Thumbelina wept and said she could not marry the ugly mole, who talked about nothing but himself.
“Nonsense!” said the field-mouse, “don’t be obstinate, or I’ll bite you with my sharp teeth. The Queen herself has not such black velvet fur. And his kitchen and cellar are full. Be thankful for your good fortune.”
Well, the wedding day arrived. The mole, dressed in his best black velvet, came to fetch Thumbelina to his house.
“Farewell, thou bright sun!” she cried, running out of the house a little way. “Farewell,” she cried, twining her arms around a little red flower still blooming there; “say farewell to the little swallow for me, if you see him again.”
“Tweet-tweet! tweet-tweet!” suddenly sounded over her head. She looked up; it was the little swallow, just flying by. He stopped when he saw Thumbelina, he was so glad. And Thumbelina told him how she was to marry the mole, and live deep under the earth, where the sun never shone. She could not help weeping as she told of it.
“Come with me,” said the swallow, “I am on my way far off to the warm countries. Sit on my back, and we will fly from the ugly mole and his dark room. Only fly with me, you dear little Thumbelina, who were so good to me when I lay frozen in the dark passage.”
“Yes,” cried Thumbelina, “I will go with you.” And she seated herself on the bird’s back, and bound her girdle to one of his strongest feathers. Then the swallow flew up into the air and away over forest and sea and great high mountains, where the snow always lies, and on, on, on to the beautiful warm countries.