"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!"