buried at the spot where the mole had built his gallery.
Neighbor mole then took a bit of touchwood in his mouth, for it shines just like fire in the dark, and went before to light them through the dark passage; and when he came to the spot where the dead bird lay, he gave the earth a push with his snout, so that the mould rolled down and made a large opening, through which the daylight fell.
Ellie could now see the dead bird quite well—it was a swallow. Its pretty wings were pressed close to its body, and its feet and head drawn back under the feathers.
“The poor bird is certainly frozen to death,” said Ellie; and she was heartily sorry for the poor animal, for she loved birds dearly, because they had sung to her the whole summer long.
But the mole gave it a push with his foot, and said, “There is an end of all his fine singing now! It really must be a wretched existence to be a bird! Thank heaven, my children won’t be birds. Why, such a poor
