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funnier than ever. They broke out into fresh twitters.

    This was too much. It was bad enough feeling scared and confused without being laughed at. I felt two tears prick my eyes.
    The cheeky fork-tail must have noticed, because he suddenly became very polite and said, ‘Swallows here, Swinburne speaking, how may I help you?’
    ‘I don’t really know,’ I answered, but then I had an idea. ‘Maybe you could help me find somewhere to lay my eggs.’
    ‘How about the henhouse?’ suggested one of the swallows.
    ‘No, not the henhouse,’ said Swinburne. ‘We all know what happens to the eggs in the henhouse.’
    ‘
I
don’t,’ I admitted. ‘What does happen to them?’
    ‘They get boiled up for the farmer’s breakfast,’ said Swinburne.
    ‘Or scrambled,’ said another.
    All the swallows started joining in:
    ‘Poached.’
    ‘Fried.’
    ‘Coddled.’
    ‘Made into cakes.’
    ‘Omelettes.’
    ‘Mayonnaise.’
    This sounded terrible. I thought about the Comps. ‘Do these “farmer” creatures do their egg-hunting in gangs?’ I asked.
    Instead of answering, Swinburne broke into another peal of twittery laughter, and the others joined in. I think this time they thought I was
trying
to be funny.
    ‘How about the barn – that’s where we lay our eggs,’ said Swinburne. ‘Come on and we’ll show you.’
    The swallows flew off together, swooping and snapping at flies. Feeling as bewildered as ever I ran after them till they reached a strange
thing.
It was rather like a huge reddish rock, but I’d never seen such a straight, square rock before.
    The swallows flew through an opening right
into
the thing. I hesitated outside, but Swinburne flew out again and said, ‘Come on! This is the barn!’ so I followed him in.
    It was dim inside the barn. I couldn’t see the swallows at first, but there was a terrible din coming from above my head: ‘Tweetatweet! Tweetatweetit!’
    ‘What’s been keeping you, Swinburne? Can’t you hear they’re starving?’ came a voice. I looked up and saw a lot of saucers of mud on a high ledge. Swinburne and another swallow were perched on one of the mud saucers, out of which poked four noisy wide-open beaks.
    ‘Meet my wife, Swoop,’ said Swinburne. ‘Swoop, this is … er …’ ‘Hypsilophodon,’ I prompted him, ‘but you can call me H for short.’

    Swoop said nothing and gave me a funny look.
    ‘Don’t mind her,’ said Swinburne. ‘She’s been suspicious of outsiders ever since the cat caught two of our babies last year.’
    I didn’t ask what a cat was – I was afraid Swinburne would laugh at me again.
    ‘Anyway,’ went on Swinburne, after he had popped some flies into the open beaks, ‘this is the nesting place I was telling you about. The cat can’t climb up here.’
    ‘But neither can I,’ I complained. (Swoop looked relieved.)
    ‘How silly of me – so you can’t. What about the hay loft then?’ Swinburne pointed with a wing to a platform at the other end of the barn.
    ‘But how do I get up there?’ I asked.
    ‘Try the stairs,’ said Swinburne.
    Do you know what stairs are? I didn’t, and they looked nasty and hard and steep, but when I tried it was easy enough to get up them.
    At the top I found a mound of yellow stuff which was a real treat – warm and soft to lie on, and with such a good smell that I wondered if it might be good to eat too. I nibbled a little. It wasn’t bad, though not a patch on horsetails.
    So that’s where I am now – lying on a bed of hay (which is what the yellow stuff is called). I’m much too tired for egg-laying, so I’ll have a sleep and think about eggs in the morning.
    What a day!

Sunday
    The days have different names here, I’ve discovered. They’re not named after dinosaurs like they are back home. Today is named after the sun. Most peculiar.
    The main news is that I’VE LAID MY EGGS. Just wait till I tell you where! But first I must tell you about this morning.
    I woke with a start. The swallows