“She has no feelers,” said another.
Some said she was too thin, others that she was too fat, and then they all buzzed and hummed together, “How ugly she is, how ugly she is!” But all the time little Thumbelina was the prettiest little maiden that ever lived.
And now the cockchafer who had flown off with little Thumbelina thought he had been rather foolish to admire her.
He looked at her again. “Pretty? No, after all she was not very pretty.” He would have nothing to do with her, and away he and all the other chafers flew. Only first they carried little Thumbelina down from the tree and placed her on a daisy. She wept because she was so ugly—so ugly that the chafers could not live with her. But all the time, you know, she was the prettiest little maiden in the world.
She was living all alone in the wood now, but it was summer and she could not feel sad or lonely while the warm golden sunshine touched her so gently, while the birds sang to her, and the flowers bowed to her.
Yes, little Thumbelina was happy. She ate honey from the flowers, and drank dew out of the golden buttercups and danced and sang the livelong day.
But summer passed away and autumn came. The birds began to whisper of flying to warmer countries, and the flowers began to fade and hang their heads, and as autumn passed away, winter came, cold, dreary winter.
Thumbelina shivered with cold. Her little frock was thin and old. She would certainly be frozen to death, she thought, as she wrapped herself up in a withered leaf.
Then the snow began to fall, and each snow-flake seemed to smother her. She was so very tiny.
Close to the wood lay a corn-field. The beautiful golden grain had been carried away long ago, now there was only dry short stubble. But to little Thumbelina the stubble was like a great forest.