“I took pity on the little hen in her loneliness, and singled her out from the flock for special attention.  She very soon knew my voice, would come at my call, and used to slip through a gap in the fence and pay me a visit every day.  If the kitchen door were open she walked in without ceremony; if closed, she flew to the window, tapped on the glass with her bill, flapped her wings, and gave us clearly to understand that she wished to be admitted.  Once inside, she set up a shrill cackling till I attended to her wants, and scolded me at the top of her voice if I kept her long waiting.  When she had eaten more cracked corn and Indian meal than you would think so small a body could contain, she walked about in a slow, contented way, and was ready for all the petting we chose to give her.

“She was a pretty creature, with a speckled coat and a comb the color of red coral:  very small, but lively and vigorous, and exhibiting in all her movements both grace and stateliness.  She would nestle in my lap, take a ride on my shoulder, and walk the length of my arm to peck at a bit of cake in my hand, regarding me all the while with a queer sidelong glance, and croaking out her satisfaction and content.  When she was ready to go she walked to the kitchen door, and asked in a very shrill voice to be let out.  She continued these visits till late in the fall, when she was shut up with the rest of our neighbor’s flock for the winter.

“One bitter cold day in January we heard a faint cackle outside, and, opening the kitchen door, found our poor widow in a sorry plight.  One foot was frozen, her feathers were all rough and dirty, her wings drooping, her bright comb changed to a dull red.  How she escaped from the hen-house, surmounted the high fence, and hobbled or flew to our door, we did not know; but there she was, half-dead with hunger and cold.

“We did what we could for her.  I bathed and bandaged the swollen foot, and made a warm bed for her in a box in the shed, from which she did not offer to stir for many days.  I fed her with bits of bread soaked in warm milk, and Charlie said, nursed and tended her as if she had been a sick baby.  She was very gentle and patient, poor thing! and allowed me to handle her as I pleased, always welcomed my coming with a cheerful little cackle, and, as she got stronger, trotted after me about the shed and kitchen like a pet kitten.

“In the spring, when she was quite well again, I restored her to her rightful owner.  Perhaps she had grown weary of her solitary life, for she seemed delighted to rejoin her old companions; but every day she made us a visit, and at night came regularly to roost in the shed.

“One morning we heard two voices instead of one outside our window, and behold!  Mrs. Bantam had taken another mate—­a fine handsome fellow, so graceful in form and brilliant in plumage that we at once pronounced him a fit companion to our favorite hen.  They were evidently on the best of terms, croaking and cackling to each other, and exchanging sage opinions about us as we watched them from the open door.  I am sure she must have told him all about her long illness the previous winter, and pointed me out as her nurse, for he nodded and croaked and cast sidelong looks of friendly regard in my direction.