Then she took it down to the station, going out the back way and round by the road, so that the others should not see her and offer to come with her, and she gave the letter to the Station Master to give to the old gentleman next morning. “Where HAVE you been?” shouted Peter, from the top of the yard wall where he and Phyllis were. “To the station, of course,” said Bobbie; “give us a hand, Pete.” She set her foot on the lock of the yard door. Peter reached down a hand. “What on earth?” she asked as she reached the wall-top--for Phyllis and Peter were very muddy. A lump of wet clay lay between them on the wall, they had each a slip of slate in a very dirty hand, and behind Peter, out of the reach of accidents, were several strange rounded objects rather like very fat sausages, hollow, but closed up at one end. “It's nests,” said Peter, “swallows' nests. We're going to dry them in the oven and hang them up with string under the eaves of the coach-house.” “Yes,” said Phyllis; “and then we're going to save up all the wool and hair we can get, and in the spring we'll line them, and then how pleased the swallows will be!” “I've often thought people don't do nearly enough for dumb animals,” said Peter with an air of virtue. “I do think people might have thought of making nests for poor little swallows before this.” “Oh,” said Bobbie, vaguely, “if everybody thought of everything, there'd be nothing left for anybody else to think about.” “Look at the nests--aren't they pretty?” said Phyllis, reaching across Peter to grasp a nest. “Look out, Phil, you goat,” said her brother. But it was too late; her strong little fingers had crushed the nest. “There now,” said Peter. “Never mind,” said Bobbie. “It IS one of my own,” said Phyllis, “so you needn't jaw, Peter. Yes, we've put our initial names on the ones we've done, so that the swallows will know who they've got to be so grateful to and fond of.” “Swallows can't read, silly,” said Peter. “Silly yourself,” retorted Phyllis; “how do you know?” “Who thought of making the nests, anyhow?” shouted Peter. “I did,” screamed Phyllis. “Nya,” rejoined Peter, “you only thought of making hay ones and sticking them in the ivy for the sparrows, and they'd have been sopping LONG before egg-laying time. It was me said clay and swallows.” “I don't care what you said.” “Look,” said Bobbie, “I've made the nest all right again. Give me the bit of stick to mark your initial name on it. But how can you? Your letter and Peter's are the same. P. for Peter, P. for Phyllis.” “I put F. for Phyllis,” said the child of that name. “That's how it sounds. The swallows wouldn't spell Phyllis with a P., I'm certain-sure.” “They can't spell at all,” Peter was still insisting. “Then why do you see them always on Christmas cards and valentines with letters round their necks? How would they know where to go if they couldn't read?” “That's only in pictures. You never saw one really with letters round its neck.”