WALTER DID NOT COME to school the next day. He did not come the day after that either, which was a rainy Friday.
Spring showers had arrived. All morning it poured, and then all afternoon.
After lunch, classes were sent to watch a nature movie in the gym. This was wonderful for Poco, who had always wanted to know about the feeding habits of the Patagonian mole rat, but a misery for Georgina. She scratched and jiggled and twisted in her seat, and was finally sent to the hall for kicking the person in front of her.
“I’m so worried about Walter,” she whispered to Poco when their classes filed by in opposite directions. “What should we do?”
“Wait,” Poco whispered back. “He needs time to think.”
So they waited—all Friday afternoon at Poco’s house while the rain thundered down; all Saturday night at Georgina’s, where Poco slept over and a drizzle continued. By Sunday morning, which dawned clear, there had still been no word. The friends walked by Walter’s house after breakfast. He wasn’t sitting on his porch or hanging around his yard.
“Should we knock?” Georgina asked.
“Well, all right. Let me do it.” Poco went to the door and gave a timid rap. There was no answer.
“Knock louder,” Georgina insisted. “Maybe Granny will hear.”
Poco rapped a bit harder. “I don’t think anyone’s home. Maybe Walter’s gone to the park.”
“The park!” Georgina shivered. “Do we have to go there?”
“We should go,” Poco said. “We’re his only friends.”
They walked over after lunch, taking the streets they knew he would choose, in case he was already walking back. They reached the park gates without seeing him, and a minute later their hopes were dashed. On her knoll the Little Match Girl huddled alone. They walked across to her anyway. Her dress pockets were filled with rainwater. Grass and weeds had grown over her knees. Poco cleared away a vine that had begun to climb up one arm.
“Why don’t the park workers look after her the way they do the other statues?” she asked. “She is twice as beautiful, even if she is sad.”
“She’s too far away,” Georgina replied. “And the hill is too steep. The workers can’t get their mowers up here. She was put in the wrong place—that’s why she’s left out.”
This seemed to Poco so very unfair that she threaded her arm through the statue’s, if only to give the lonely figure some kindness. And there, as her hand brushed against the Match Girl’s cool, bronze hand, she felt something move. She leaned forward and saw a ring on one of the molded fingers.
“Georgina, look!”
It was made not of bronze but of some brighter metal, though covered with a film of grime. If Poco had not touched it, she would never have known it was there.
“It’s old,” she said. “Look at this design. It reminds me of my mother’s high school ring.” She tried to pull it off, but the ring would not pass over the first molded knuckle.
“Maybe it was always there,” Georgina said, after she had looked closely. “Maybe the sculptor put it on when he made the statue.”
“I don’t think so. It’s a real gold ring. See how it shines when I clean off the dirt? Gold is the only metal that never tarnishes.”
They took turns polishing, using the edges of their shirts. Finally, the gold blazed with its warm, true color. The Match Girl’s face seemed to light up, too, as if she were bending over one of her own matches.
Poco sat back. “Do you ever get the feeling that there’s someone … well …”
“Inside?” Georgina gazed at the statue’s pretty face. She hadn’t thought of it before, but, “The Match Girl looks about the same age as we are.”
“Yes! And now she wants to come out and talk.”
“But she’s afraid because she’s sat on this hill for so long and been kept apart from all the other statues.”
Poco nodded. “That’s why she showed us her ring. She hopes we’ll come to visit her again.”
“Oh, we will!” cried Georgina, addressing the bronze girl. “We promise we won’t let you be alone. You can tell us what really happened in your story. I never did understand why you sat there and froze.”
This was such an enchanting fantasy that the friends kept on with it for nearly an hour, even making up answers the Little Match Girl might give. And though outwardly she never revealed a thing, they began to feel they were getting to know her. Georgina sighed and looked around.
“Where is Walter? I was sure he’d come if we waited.”
“Let’s start walking back. Maybe we’ll see him.”
On the way out of the park, they had a sudden thought and crossed the street to the sandwich shop. The nice waitress was behind the counter.
“Yes? Can I help?” She stepped forward as they entered.
“We are looking for our friend,” Poco explained. “The boy who was with us before. He comes here sometimes to buy candy and we wondered …”
“No, he hasn’t come.” The waitress moved closer. “Not for four days. Is something wrong?”
“We’re not sure.”
“He was coming every day. Not here, of course.” She waved a hand around the store. “To the park. I saw him every afternoon, going in, coming out. He went to the statue or sat by the pond.”
“You could see him from here?” Georgina said in surprise. “I can hardly even see the Little Match Girl.”
Everyone turned and stared out the window. Streams of people were going in at the gate. Inside, the pathways were filling up with Sunday walkers. If Walter came now, they could never pick him out, one small boy lost in the shuffle.
“I’m sure he’s all right,” Poco told the waitress. “The park is a little way from his house. He probably didn’t want to walk in the rain.” She wasn’t going to say what had really happened.
“Oh yes. The rain. But today is nice.”
The swinging doors to the sandwich shop’s back room flew apart. The old man came through and took up his post behind the meat case. He gave the waitress such a threatening look that she moved away and began to wipe the counter. The friends made for the front door. They left without daring even to say good-bye.
“I feel so sorry for that poor waitress,” Georgina said on the way home.
“That man is the meanest-looking person,” Poco agreed. “I guess he must be the owner of the shop.”
“Did you see how she jumped when he came in? She’s scared of him. I would quit that job and go work somewhere else.”
Poco didn’t answer. She was gazing at something in the distance.
“Look!” she cried. “Here he comes!”
“Where!” shouted Georgina, who thought she meant Walter.
“My robin!” Poco cried. “The one who spent the winter here. He just flew into that maple tree. Hello! Hello! I’m so glad to see you! I was beginning to think you hadn’t made it through!” She ran toward the tree.
Georgina looked up and saw not one robin but a large flock coming in for a landing. There must have been twenty red-breasted birds fluttering, changing branches, chirping furiously at one another. No one could possibly have told them apart.
Or could they? As Georgina watched, Poco stopped under the tree. A robin hopped to a low branch and gave out a piercing squawk that made her laugh. Then began one of the loudest, friendliest, and most embarrassing bird conversations that Georgina had ever heard, and she had suffered through quite a few in her time with Poco.
“See you later,” she shouted over the racket. “You know I can’t stand this.”
“I know,” Poco yelled back. “Isn’t he great, though? He knows the funniest jokes.”
“How could you tell it was him?” Georgina couldn’t help asking. “He looks exactly like all the others to me.”
“It’s easy,” Poco said, smiling up at the bird. “Once you get to love a robin, you can spot him anywhere.”