There was an ominous growl of thunder, and amazed at himself, Freckles snatched up his wheel and raced toward the swamp.  He was worried to find his boots lying at the cabin door; the children playing on the woodpile told him that “mither” said they were so heavy she couldn’t walk in them, and she had come back and taken them off.  Thoroughly frightened, he stopped only long enough to slip them on, and then sped with all his strength for the Limberlost.  To the west, the long, black, hard-beaten trail lay clear; but far up the east side, straight across the path, he could see what was certainly a limp, brown figure.  Freckles spun with all his might.

Face down, Sarah Duncan lay across the trail.  When Freckles turned her over, his blood chilled at the look of horror settled on her face.  There was a low humming and something spatted against him.  Glancing around, Freckles shivered in terror, for there was a swarm of wild bees settled on a scrub-thorn only a few yards away.  The air was filled with excited, unsettled bees making ready to lead farther in search of a suitable location.  Then he thought he understood, and with a prayer of thankfulness in his heart that she had escaped, even so narrowly, he caught her up and hurried down the trail until they were well out of danger.  He laid her in the shade, and carrying water from the swamp in the crown of his hat, he bathed her face and hands; but she lay in unbroken stillness, without a sign of life.

She had found Freckles’ boots so large and heavy that she had gone back and taken them off, although she was mortally afraid to approach the swamp without them.  The thought of it made her nervous, and the fact that she never had been there alone added to her fears.  She had not followed the trail many rods when her trouble began.  She was not Freckles, so not a bird of the line was going to be fooled into thinking she was.

They began jumping from their nests and darting from unexpected places around her head and feet, with quick whirs, that kept her starting and dodging.  Before Freckles was halfway to the town, poor Mrs. Duncan was hysterical, and the Limberlost had neither sung nor performed for her.

But there was trouble brewing.  It was quiet and intensely hot, with that stifling stillness that precedes a summer storm, and feathers and fur were tense and nervous.  The birds were singing only a few broken snatches, and flying around, seeking places of shelter.  One moment everything seemed devoid of life, the next there was an unexpected whir, buzz, and sharp cry.  Inside, a pandemonium of growling, spatting, snarling, and grunting broke loose.

The swale bent flat before heavy gusts of wind, and the big black chicken swept lower and lower above the swamp.  Patches of clouds gathered, shutting out the sun and making it very dark, and the next moment were swept away.  The sun poured with fierce, burning brightness, and everything was quiet.  It was at the first growl of thunder that Freckles really had noticed the weather, and putting his own troubles aside resolutely, raced for the swamp.