"The
wind's changed, and the May storm is comin' on. That boy has got to be
found before night."
But all Mr. Fairbanks's efforts, and the neighbors' who came to his
assistance, could not find the Dickey boy before night or before the
next morning. The long, cold May storm began, the flowering apple-trees
bent under it, and the wind drove the rain against the windows. Mrs.
Rose and Miss Elvira kept the kitchen fire all night, and hot water and
blankets ready. But the day had fairly dawned before they found the
Dickey boy, and then only by the merest chance. Mr. Fairbanks, hurrying
across his orchard for a short cut, and passing Dickey's tree, happened
to glance up at it, with a sharp pang of memory. He stopped short.
There, among the blossoming branches, clung the Dickey boy, like a
little drenched, storm-beaten bird. He had flown to his one solitary
possession for a refuge. He was almost exhausted; his little hands
grasped a branch like steel claws. Mr. Fairbanks took him down and
carried him home. "He was up in his tree," he told his sister, brokenly,
when he entered the kitchen. "He's 'most gone."
But the Dickey boy revived after he had lain a while before a fire and
been rolled in hot blankets and swallowed some hot drink. He looked with
a wondering smile at Mrs. Rose when she bent over him and kissed him
just as she kissed Willy. Miss Elvira loosened her gold watch, with its
splendid, long gold chain, and put it in his hand.
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