The Story
Long ago, in the days when Merlin the wizard still walked the roads of England, a poor ploughman and his wife sat by their fire one winter's evening wishing, as they so often wished, for a child of their own.
"I would be content," said the wife, "with a child no bigger than my husband's thumb, if only we could have one."
Merlin, passing by that very night on his mysterious errands, heard the wish. He smiled to himself — for it was exactly the sort of wish that amused him — and within the year, the woman had a son. He was perfectly formed in every way, healthy and bright-eyed and cheerful. He was also, as his mother had wished, precisely the size of a thumb.
They named him Tom, and loved him without measure.
Now Tom had all the spirit of a boy five times his size. He learned quickly that his smallness, which might have seemed a disadvantage, was often his greatest strength. He could hide where no one could find him, creep where no one could follow, and overhear conversations that were never meant to be heard.
His mother made him a suit of clothes from a thistledown cloak and a feather for a hat, and he had a needle for a sword. He rode atop the family cat as though she were a warhorse, galloping through the kitchen to his mother's great amusement and the cat's great indignation.
One day, Tom's mother was stirring a pudding and Tom was sitting on the rim of the bowl watching, when she turned away for a moment. Tom leaned too far and fell straight in, disappearing beneath the batter. She stirred away without realizing he was there, and when she finally heard his muffled shouts she tipped him out, sputtering and covered in pudding, and they both laughed until they cried.
Another time, Tom was helping his father in the field — or rather, riding in his father's pocket and calling out helpful observations — when a raven swooped down and snatched him up, carrying him off high over the countryside. Tom hollered and squirmed until the raven dropped him in surprise, and he landed, quite by fortune, on the windowsill of a fine manor house.
Inside the house lived a rich lord who had never in his life seen a creature so small and so bold. Tom introduced himself with great dignity, gave a speech about his ploughman father's honest character, and so charmed the lord that the man sent him home with a bag of gold coins — each one larger than Tom's head, which he rolled along the road like a boy playing with barrels.
In time, Tom's adventures brought him to the court of King Arthur himself. The king was so enchanted by the tiny knight that he had a miniature chair carved for him at the Round Table, and Tom sat among the greatest knights of England and traded stories with them. They admired him enormously, for his courage in the face of his small stature was a thing they recognized and respected.
Tom lived many years, bringing laughter and wonder wherever he went, a reminder to all who met him that the measure of a person has nothing to do with their height. And when the great knights told their stories around the fire in the winter evenings, the tale of Tom Thumb was always one of the most beloved.