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. TIGER-LILIES. I like not lady-slippers, Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, Nor yet the flaky roses, Red, or white as snow; I like the chaliced lilies, The heavy Eastern lilies, The gorgeous tiger-lilies, That in our gardens grow. For they are tall and slender; Their mouths are dashed with carmine; And when the wind sweeps by them, On their emerald stalks They bend so proud and graceful-- They are Circassian women, The favorites of the Sultan, Adown our garden walks!