"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.