always are. One white chicken about their size, a naughty-looking
little thing, with her head always down, left her own mother, and
would come dashing in as if she belonged among them; but Mater and her
little ones always found her out, and sent her away.

One day we thought we would name the eleven chickens, as Mater could
not name them herself; and, since then, we know them each and all, and
just how they behave. Annie and Mary are two sober-looking little
creatures, in quakerish feathers of drab and grey. Nat is a white
crower, with beautiful soft feathers, and a long graceful black tail.
Louise has a shaded dress of grey and white, and is almost as modest
and gentle as Luca. Hannah is a little bantam, with tufted head and
large eyes, the smallest but the sprightliest of the family: she
always tumbles in amongst the rest, and gets the first taste of every
thing; and her mother allows her to do it. One of them, named Lise, a
white one, came in the other morning, just as we had finished
breakfast; and, seeing many things spread out to eat, she flew up to
the back of a chair, and, perching herself there, surveyed the whole
table, and was very unwilling to get down. At length, getting a little
alarmed at our efforts to teach her better, she pounced directly down
amidst the cups and dishes, putting her foot into a saucer of tea, and
making a great commotion in her fright. Two, named George and John,
are trying to learn to crow. Little Mary hears the large hens cackle,
and you would laugh loud to hear her try to imitate them. They are
having warm, new dresses made for them; so they let the summer ones
blow about in the breeze for any little girls who want them,
particularly kind and neat and useful little maidens, who love to dust
their mother's books, picture frames, and flower baskets.

If I can send you another brush, my little friend, you must imagine