Tom Thumb – An English Folk Tale

Tom Thumb

Once upon a time, a poor woodcutter and his wife lived in a small cottage beside a great forest. They had a warm fire, a wooden table and a little garden by the door, but the cottage was very quiet because they had no child.

One evening, the woodcutter’s wife looked at the empty chair beside the fire and sighed. “I would be happy with a child no bigger than my thumb,” she said, “if only we had one to love.”

Not long afterward, their wish came true. A tiny boy was born to them, so small that he could rest in the palm of his mother’s hand. His father stared at him in wonder while his mother wrapped him carefully in a soft scrap of cloth. “We shall call him Tom Thumb,” she said.

Tom was tiny, but he was lively, cheerful and full of ideas. He slept in a walnut shell, drank from a thimble and pulled a folded leaf over himself at night like a blanket. His parents loved him dearly, and Tom loved them just as much.

As Tom grew older, he stayed no taller than his father’s thumb. That never seemed to bother him. He fetched pins for his mother, counted seeds in the garden and shouted advice whenever his father repaired a stool or sharpened an axe. “Careful with that hammer, Father!” called Tom.

His father laughed. “Thank you, Tom. I have only been using one for thirty years.”

“I thought you might need reminding,” said Tom.

One morning, the woodcutter prepared to take the horse and cart into the forest. Tom scrambled onto the table. “Take me with you, Father. I can help.”

His father smiled. “You are too small to chop wood.”

“I know,” said Tom. “But chopping is not the only useful thing in the world.”

His mother packed him a crumb of bread for his dinner, and his father tucked him safely inside his coat pocket. Then they set off along the bumpy road and into the forest, where tall trees crowded together and the ground smelled of damp leaves and moss.

The woodcutter worked hard all morning. His axe went chop, chop, chop and branches crashed onto the forest floor. Tom watched from the pocket until, by midday, the cart was piled high with wood. “Put me beside the horse’s ear,” Tom called. “I can guide him home.”

His father laughed. “You?”

“Unless the horse has a better idea.”

So the woodcutter gently placed Tom where the horse could hear his tiny voice. “Left a little,” called Tom. “Now right. Straight ahead. Mind that stone!”

The horse flicked his ear and obeyed every word. Soon the cart was rolling neatly along the forest path with no one sitting at the reins, while the woodcutter walked behind.

Two strangers nearby stopped and stared. “Look at that cart,” said one. “There is nobody driving it.”

Then they heard a tiny voice calling, “Keep going! Not into the bush!”

The strangers crept closer and spotted Tom beside the horse’s ear. One man’s eyes widened. “A little fellow like that could make us rich,” he whispered. “People would pay good money to see him.”

They hurried over to the woodcutter and offered to buy Tom. The woodcutter’s smile vanished at once. “No,” he said firmly. “Tom is my son. He is not for sale.”

Tom leaned close to his father’s ear. “Let them take me,” he whispered. “I will come home again.”

The woodcutter stared at him and shook his head, but Tom promised that he had a plan. At last, very reluctantly, his father agreed. The strangers placed Tom on the brim of a hat and carried him away, while the woodcutter watched them disappear between the trees.

Tom sat quietly and studied the path. Thick weeds grew beside the track, and twisted roots pushed up through the soil. When they reached a particularly tangled stretch of forest, he pointed ahead. “Please put me down. My legs have gone stiff.”

One man frowned. “You are hardly bigger than my finger. How can your legs be stiff?”

“They are very small legs,” said Tom. “They stiffen quickly.”

The men laughed and set him on the ground. That was all Tom needed. He dashed beneath a leaf, scrambled over a root and slipped into a narrow crack in the earth before either man could grab him. “Come back!” shouted one.

A finger poked into the crack, then a stick. Tom wriggled deeper and pressed himself flat against the soil. The men searched and grumbled until the light began to fade, but Tom stayed as quiet as a beetle. Finally, they gave up and tramped away.

Tom waited until their footsteps disappeared before climbing out. The forest looked very different now. In the fading light, every tree seemed enormous and every root looked like a fallen trunk to someone no bigger than a thumb.

He found an empty snail shell beneath a fern and curled up inside it. “This will do nicely,” he murmured.

Before he could fall asleep, however, he heard footsteps and low voices.

Two robbers were creeping along the path, whispering about a grand house nearby. “There is silver on the table,” said one. “And coins in the cupboard,” said the other.

Tom poked his head out of the shell. “I can help you.”

The robbers froze and stared around until they noticed the tiny boy standing beside the shell. When Tom told them he was small enough to squeeze through almost any gap, they grinned and carried him to the grand house.

They pushed Tom through a narrow opening beside a window. Inside, moonlight stretched across the floor, and silver plates and spoons gleamed on a table. “Pass them out!” whispered one robber from outside.

Tom looked at the silver, then towards the stairs. “DO YOU WANT THE BIG SILVER PLATE?” he shouted.

“Shhh!” hissed the robbers.

“OR SHALL I GET THE COINS FIRST?”

A dog barked upstairs. A floorboard creaked, and someone called, “Who is there?” The robbers ran so fast they nearly fell over each other. Tom bit his lip to stop himself laughing, then slipped back through the window before anyone came downstairs.

By now he could hardly keep his eyes open, so when he found a barn, he crawled into a soft pile of hay and fell asleep. Unfortunately, morning brought a hungry cow.

The cow began munching the hay, and Tom woke just as the straw around him lifted into the air and a huge mouth appeared above him. “Oh, no,” he said.

A moment later, down he went with the cow’s breakfast.

It was warm, dark and terribly squashy inside. Tom pushed at the hay around him and shouted, “No more breakfast, please! There is quite enough in here already!”

A farm girl milking nearby heard the voice and dropped her pail. The farmer came running. “What happened?”

“The cow spoke!”

The farmer stared at the cow. “Moooo,” said the cow.

“That sounded like a cow to me.”

Then Tom shouted again. “I said NO MORE HAY!”

The farmer jumped backwards. The cow coughed once, then twice, and on the third cough Tom shot out into the straw with hay sticking from his hair.

Nobody moved until Tom stood up, brushed himself down and bowed politely. “Good morning,” he said. “I have had better breakfasts.”

Before anyone could catch him, he darted beneath the barn gate and hurried back towards the forest.

Tom wanted nothing more than to find the road home, but after a while he heard something behind him. Pad, pad, pad. He stopped, and the sound stopped too. Tom walked again, and the soft footsteps returned. Slowly, he turned around and saw a hungry wolf standing between the trees.

The wolf lowered his nose and sniffed. “What have we here?” he growled. “A tiny bite wearing boots.”

Tom swallowed hard, but he stood his ground. “You could eat me,” he said, “but you would hardly notice.”

The wolf licked his lips. “A bite is a bite.”

“I know somewhere with cakes,” said Tom. “And cheese. And sausages.”

The wolf’s ears lifted. “Where?”

Tom described his parents’ cottage and the little opening beside the door. The wolf did not wait to hear another word. He raced away between the trees, and Tom followed as fast as his tiny legs could carry him.

When Tom finally reached the cottage, the wolf had already squeezed inside. He had found the cakes, then the cheese and then the sausages. He ate and ate until his stomach was round as a barrel.

At last, the wolf tried to crawl back outside. He pushed, wriggled, huffed and puffed, but he was much too full to fit through the opening.

Tom climbed onto a shelf and shouted, “Father! Mother! Wake up! I am home!”

The woodcutter and his wife rushed into the kitchen. “Tom!” they cried. Then they saw the wolf.

The woodcutter grabbed his axe. With one careful blow, he killed the wolf, then lifted Tom safely down from the shelf.

Tom’s mother held him close. “My dear little boy,” she said. “We thought we had lost you.”

His father smiled with tears in his eyes. “You are worth more than all the silver in the world.”

Tom grinned. “I told you I would come home.”

That evening, Tom sat in his walnut shell beside the fire and told his parents about the strangers, the robbers, the cow and the wolf. His father listened with growing amazement until Tom finally reached the end. “That is quite enough adventure for one little boy,” he said.

Tom glanced towards the dark forest beyond the window. “For now,” he said.