“Leave me to manage that,” said Ole-Luk-Oie. “I will soon make you
small enough.” And then he touched Hjalmar with his magic wand,
whereupon he became less and less, until at last he was not longer than a
little finger. “Now you can borrow the dress of the tin soldier. I think it will
just fit you. It looks well to wear a uniform when you go into company.”
“Yes, certainly,” said Hjalmar; and in a moment he was dressed as neatly
as the neatest of all tin soldiers.
“Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mamma’s thimble,” said
the little mouse, “that I may have the pleasure of drawing you to the
wedding.”
“Will you really take so much trouble, young lady?” said Hjalmar. And
so in this way he rode to the mouse’s wedding.
First they went under the floor, and then passed through a long passage,
which was scarcely high enough to allow the thimble to drive under, and the
whole passage was lit up with the phosphorescent light of rotten wood.
“Does it not smell delicious?” asked the mouse, as she drew him along.
“The wall and the floor have been smeared with bacon-rind; nothing can be
nicer.”
Very soon they arrived at the bridal hall. On the right stood all the little
lady-mice, whispering and giggling, as if they were making game of each
other. To the left were the gentlemen-mice, stroking their whiskers with
their fore-paws; and in the centre of the hall could be seen the bridal pair,
standing side by side, in a hollow cheese-rind, and kissing each other, while
all eyes were upon them; for they had already been betrothed, and were
soon to be married. More and more friends kept arriving, till the mice were
nearly treading each other to death; for the bridal pair now stood in the
doorway, and none could pass in or out.
The room had been rubbed over with bacon-rind, like the passage, which
was all the refreshment offered to the guests. But for dessert they produced
a pea, on which a mouse belonging to the bridal pair had bitten the first
letters of their names. This was something quite uncommon. All the mice
