The thunder sounded nearer; and a second flash of lightning seemed searching Baree out where he stood shivering under a canopy of great spruce.
This was his second storm.

The first had frightened him terribly, and he had crawled far back into the shelter of the windfall.

The best he could find now was a hollow under a big root, and into this he slunk, crying softly.

It was a babyish cry, a cry for his mother, for home, for warmth, for something soft and protecting to nestle up to.

And as he cried, the storm burst over the forest.
Baree had never before heard so much noise, and he had never seen the lightning play in such sheets of fire as when this June deluge fell.