"My dear," said Mrs. Flicker, one bright day, as Mr. Flicker came flying home in high feather, "we have made a mistake—a horrible mistake."

Now, Mr. Flicker was a very polite bird, but he was so used to his wife's little peccadilloes that, though sometimes he listened patiently to her tale of woe, at other times he just tossed his head, absolutely without fear of what man might do to him. On this particular day the warblers were whistling and flashing in and out of willow trees across the stream, the wild grape and strawberry and the sweet clover made the air fragrant, the sun shone out gaily from a cloudless sky, far and wide on the earth lay greens upon greens, and overhead stretched heaven's blue—a June day—why should Mr. Flicker fear? With Mrs. Flicker it was different; she had laid the eggs, she had patiently kept them warm; she was now watching her little baby Flickers jealously; what wonder that she grew morbid and fearful, and exaggerated every small annoyance! Mr. Flicker saw now that she was trembling with excitement, as she said again, "We have made a horrible mistake."

"What about?" asked he.

"Do you know," she said, solemnly, "what kind of a tree this is in which we have put our nest?"

"A very good tree, indeed," said Mr. Flicker, bristling, for he had selected the tree; "a remarkably fine tree, with this hollow limb in the midst of so much foliage."

"But, my dear, it is a cherry tree."

"So much the better," said the gay Mr. Flicker; "most birds like cherry trees."

"Yes, and boys like cherry trees!"

"Well, and what of that?"

It will plainly be seen that Mr. Flicker was no logician, but then, he could fly far, far away toward the heavenly blue, while logicians—the very wisest of them—"on their feet must go plodding and walking."

"What of that!" mocked Mrs. Flicker, nervously. "Well, there have been boys in this tree this very morning, picking cherries, and I am worn out with fluttering and fussing and calling, to attract their attention from the nest."

Mr. Flicker thought he knew boys, and while he might be considered a fair and generous-minded bird in most things, it is a lamentable fact that he never could quite understand why Nature in her infinite wisdom had thought it necessary to produce anything so incongruous as a boy. But, as has been said, Mr. Flicker's reasoning powers were limited. He was sober now—boys always sobered him. But after all, he had the spirit and digestion of a bird, and even the fussy Mrs. Flicker fussed only in a bird-like manner. So they talked it over and hoped for the best, especially as the babies showed signs of the greatest precocity and bade fair to fly away in a few days and be safe from harm.

The next day as Mr. Flicker was returning from his favorite ant-hill, he was startled by the frightened screams of his wife, and for some time after he reached the nest she could do nothing but scream and cry and hop distractedly from branch to branch. Mr. Flicker followed her about and tried to comfort her, though he felt that this was no imaginary grievance.

"What is it, my love; what is it?" he begged softly.

"Go look in the nest," said she.

He flew to the nest, and then his cries and shrieks rose above hers, and they hopped from branch to branch like demented bird-folk. Mr. Flicker, when quite himself, was gay and trustful and debonair, but he was, besides all this, a proud and natural parent, and when he found that one of his precious babies was missing, his grief, though loud, was sincere. Mrs. Flicker told him how a dreadful, hideous boy, with frightful sprawling legs and arms had climbed the tree to pick cherries—how he had found the nest in spite of all that she could do—how he had pushed his long arm down into the hollow limb and taken out and examined one baby after another, and had then run off with one, putting the others back in the nest.

"Oh, help! help!" suddenly cried poor Mrs. Flicker, "here they come again! They will take all the others. What shall we do?"

Mr. Flicker looked, and, true enough, there they were, coming over the hill through the orchard—two boys, and another. The agonized cries sounded through all the trees, coming not so much from the Flickers themselves as from the friendly cat-birds and robins and cedar waxwings and sparrows who, forgetting the slights they had received from the Flickers, joined in a noble effort to attract the attention of the intruders and keep them away from the cherry tree. On they came, however, paying not the slightest heed to the medley of cries about them—two boys and a gray insignificant person who seemed to be directing the cruel expedition. Straight to the cherry tree they made their way, up went the sprawling boy, and before the crazy birds could tell what had happened, the three were making their way back through the orchard again. The cat-birds followed them and the others kept up their cries for some time afterward.

At first Mrs. Flicker refused to return to her empty nest, but as night came on she grew calmer and decided not to abandon her home. She knew she could lay more eggs and raise another family, but she would not believe that there could ever again be such brave and beautiful babies as her stolen ones. As she at last came to the nest, she heard a soft little familiar call, and peeping in—lo! there were the babies just as she had left them except that the stolen one had been returned and lay cuddled safe and warm beside the others! There was a happy Flicker family in the old cherry tree that night.

Not long after this the cherries disappeared, and the baby Flickers, one by one, took their flying lessons and flew away on their own strong wings. Then the nest was molested no more. And when the banks of the creek were bright with golden-rod and asters, and the milkweed pods were bursting, the Flickers started on their southern journey. Of course the next summer is a long way off, and no one can tell what may happen. But it might be that even if the Flickers cannot forgive, they can forget—which is the better, after all, if you can do but one. And when the April days come round again, remembering only the fragrant air and the fat ant-hills of the orchard, they may return again to the cherry tree. Who knows?

Nell Kimberly McElhone.