to any other hens; runs away from us, when we invite her to dinner, no
matter how nice it is; and never will get acquainted, all we can do.
But Luca we love as we should a gentle, timid little girl. Sometimes,
when we open the door, there she stands patiently waiting, and looks
up at us with her bright eye so pleasantly, that we must stop, if ever
so busy, and feed her. Occasionally we hear a gentle sound on the
door-step, which we all know; then some one is sure to exclaim,
"There's Luca," and run to get her something nice to eat. The little
chickens, with Mater their mother, all come rushing, tapping,
perching, chirping at the door, and tease and tap-tap and "yip-p
yip-p" until we quite weary of them. If the door stands open, they fly
up the steps, walk in, look round the room, and pick up any thing they
can find, until we send them away. The moment their tin pan appears,
they are all in a flying huddle, tumble over each other, fly to the
pan, to our shoulders, or anywhere, to get the first mouthful. Old
Mater is ravenous and impolite as the rest, except that she always
waits for her children to get a few mouthfuls first; but not another
hen or chicken must come near them. Luca, patient gentle Luca, often
stands and waits modestly behind; and, if she gets nothing, makes a
little mournful sound,--that is all.

Some _flocks_ of russet, black and brown hens, crowers, and chickens,
who live close by, are a great annoyance to Mater, and to all of us.
They come shooting into the yard like little steam-engines, and snatch
all they can of the dinner to which they were not invited; and, if
driven away a dozen times, rush back, the first chance, to get and
devour all they can. Why, they have been into the house, and eaten a
pie which was set to cool, pecked at the apples, Pony's oats, and any
thing they could find to eat! What would you have said then? Even
Mater's _children_ never did such impertinent things, hungry as they