It was the tenth day of April. Phyllis knew the date because it chanced to be her birthday. She was just eight years old.

The sun shone very warm and bright, and the buds were growing big and red on the horse-chestnut-trees.

"I shall go down to the brook to look for pussy-willows this afternoon," said the little girl.

Phyllis was sitting in the window of the barn loft with the sun shining full upon her. All was very quiet and the little girl was half asleep.

Suddenly, with a flash of blue wings and a funny little twitter, a bird darted right across her face. Phyllis sat up straight, and, leaning out of the window, looked up at the eaves.

There she saw the merry twitterer, with several of his companions, who seemed very busy and very talkative.

They darted here and there, they skimmed through the air so swiftly that Phyllis could only catch a gleam of blue. They wheeled and circled and darted. All the time they twittered, twittered, twittered.

"What are they up to?" said Phyllis, leaning farther out and looking more closely.

For an instant one of the birds clung to the eaves and seemed to be pecking away at a bit of mud which was stuck to the eaves.

Phyllis noticed the deeply forked tail of the bird. Its back and wings and tail were steel blue. Its throat and chest were bright chestnut, becoming paler near the back of the body.

"Oh, I know you," laughed Phyllis. "I have no fear of frightening you, for you are a swallow.

"How does it happen that you are so fearless? You are scarcely more afraid of us than our chickens. Why do you build so near our homes? You are even more tame than the robin!"

The swallow twittered in a way which made Phyllis feel that he was laughing at her. He darted so near that had she been quick enough she might have caught him.

"We are not afraid of you!" laughed the swallow, darting close again and then whirling away.

"What a funny bird!" said Phyllis.

In a moment the bird was back with a bit of mud in his mouth. He plastered it up against the rest of the mud under the eaves. Then he flew again near Phyllis.

"I suppose there was a time," said the bird, "when all swallows built their nests on the sides and ledges of caves or cliffs. But that was hundreds of years ago, before men came and made barns with such comfortable places for building.

"To be sure there are swallows to this day who prefer the bank of a brook or the side of a cave for their nesting-place. But we barn swallows like the eaves best."

"You, too, are an early bird," said Phyllis. "Where did you spend the winter?"

There was a great twittering among the returning swallows just then and Phyllis was obliged to wait for a reply. Back came the bird after a moment.

"We went south last October," he said. "Late in September we gathered in great flocks in the marshes.

"For days we stayed there waiting for the entire company to gather. At length on one of the blue October days we flew southward.

"There were hundreds of birds in the flock. We looked like a small cloud, as we skimmed and darted through the air. As we flew, the flock was a half mile long.

"We spent the winter in South America. There are delicious insects there. But for all that we love the north country best.

"By and bye Mother Nature whispered to us. She said that it was nest-building time in the northland. Such a twittering and fluttering there was when this news came.

"That very afternoon we started north. Day after day we flew. We met other great flocks as we travelled, who joined us.

"Day after day we flew northward. We did not stop to eat, but caught our food on the wing.

"Now we lunched on moths and flies. Again we dined on grasshoppers. Any insect foolish enough to trust itself in the air at the time we passed served as food.

"We arrived here only a few days ago. It is not yet very warm, but here under the eaves on the sunny side of the barn it is quite comfortable.

"We are so busy with this nest-building and settling for the summer. You see we swallows do not live alone. There are always flocks of us together.

"We should be lonely if we lived only in pairs. That is the reason that we build a whole little village of nests under your eaves."

"You build very queer nests," said Phyllis. "They are neither like the robin's nor the chickadee's nests."

"No, indeed, no robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow. You see we make the soft mud from the brookside into little balls and carry it in our bills. With it we mix straws and grasses. This holds the clay together. When the outer clay wall is finished we line the nest with soft grasses and feathers."

"I notice there are a great many chicken feathers in the barnyard. I shall line my nest with the softest, fluffiest feathers that I can find there.

"By and bye my little mate will sit in the dear clay nest and over four or five or possibly six little eggs."

"I shall never be able to see them," sighed Phyllis. "They are up so high. Tell me about them."

"Oh, my eggs are beautiful," said the swallow. "They are white with just a little rose tint. They are spotted with fine dots of brown and purple, and are about three-quarters of an inch long.

"We shall probably have three broods of birdlings this summer. What a happy, happy time we shall have!"

All this time the swallow was darting and wheeling and circling about Phyllis in a most graceful manner.

"Are you never still?" asked Phyllis, at last. "I do not believe you even stop to eat."

"I do not," said the swallow, darting after a big blue fly. "I eat on the fly." And then he burst into a giggling twitter.

"I catch nearly all my food on the wing. No one can complain—as they do of the robin—of our destroying fruit.

"We do not care for fruit at all. I would rather have a dozen nice fat flies than all the cherries in the world!"

"Well," laughed Phyllis, "I'd rather have a dozen ripe cherries than all the flies in the world!"

"Tastes differ," twittered the swallow.

THE SWALLOWS

Once upon a time some Eskimo children were playing in the wet clay by the seashore. They were making tiny toy houses of the clay. These houses they fastened high on the face of the cliff.

The children chattered and laughed. They ran gaily to and fro in their happy play.

The people of the village heard their merry voices. Their busy mother paused with her long bone needle between her fingers. She looked up and smiled at her little ones.

"How happy my children are to-day!" she said, and she hummed a little tune to herself.

"They are very wise children!" said a neighbour. "They say so many wonderful things. Indeed, they seem to know more of some things than even the wise men of the village!"

"Yes, they are quite wonderful," said the mother. "I sometimes listen to their chatter and watch their nimble little fingers, and I wonder who taught them all they know."

"Oh," said another woman, "they do not seem so extraordinary to me. In fact, they look to me like little birds, flitting about in their dark dresses."

"They do look like birds!" said the mother, gazing at the children.

"I do believe they are birds," said the neighbour.

"But the voices are my children's voices," said the mother, looking again in wonder.

"And they are still building tiny clay houses on the cliffs!" said the other woman.

"But those toy clay houses are birds' nests," said the neighbour, "and those little figures darting back and forth are no longer children. They have changed to birds!"

"Yes," said the mother, peering from under her hand. "Yes, those are birds building their funny clay nests on the cliffs yonder.

"But the birds have the happy twittering voices of my children. You were right. They were wonderful children!

"Ah, well, my only wish is that they may remain near us. They will cheer us and keep us from becoming lonely!"

"Surely that is a reasonable wish—since they are your own little ones," said the neighbour. "I, too, hope that the little birds will remain near our village!"

And indeed the mother's wish was granted. Even to this day the little swallows do not fear man.

In fact, they still choose to build their nests near the camps of the people. They still fix their tiny toy houses on the faces of the sea cliffs.

ALL ABOUT THE BARN SWALLOW

SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS

Comes north about first or second week in April. Remains until late September or October—builds and travels in flocks or companies—winters in South or Central America.

Song—a constant twitter.

Head and upper parts except forehead steel blue—tail feathers marked with white—forehead and throat clear chestnut colour—chest and lower body paler chestnut.

Food—chiefly insects caught while on the wing.

Nest—built chiefly of mud—chooses under eaves or cavelike places for building—mud mixed with grasses and (one authority also asserts) a sticky saliva from the bird's mouth.

Eggs—white, tinted a delicate rose, and speckled finely with brown and purple.—Two or three broods in a season.