“You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.”
Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble, was made comfortable with her.
“Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.”
But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers. Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it, for he was a cautious, sensible fellow.
Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his passage.
Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!”
“Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man, may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!”
Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes.
“Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!”
And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground. “Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!” And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to life as the warmth penetrated to him.