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A poor woodman sat in his cottage one night, smoking his pipe by

the fireside, while his wife sat by his side spinning. 'How

lonely it is, wife,' said he, as he puffed out a long curl of

smoke, 'for you and me to sit here by ourselves, without any

children to play about and amuse us while other people seem so

happy and merry with their children!' 'What you say is very

true,' said the wife, sighing, and turning round her wheel; 'how

happy should I be if I had but one child! If it were ever so

small--nay, if it were no bigger than my thumb--I should be very

happy, and love it dearly.' Now--odd as you may think it--it came

to pass that this good woman's wish was fulfilled, just in the

very way she had wished it; for, not long afterwards, she had a

little boy, who was quite healthy and strong, but was not much

bigger than my thumb. So they said, 'Well, we cannot say we have

not got what we wished for, and, little as he is, we will love

him dearly.' And they called him Thomas Thumb.