"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."
"'No robin or chickadee could build such nests as the swallow'"
"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!"