As many of you know, genealogy has been a big interest most of my life. This week I learned that this lady, Nancy Luce (1811-1890) of Tisbury, Massachusetts, is a distant cousin of mine. Described as “a strange woman who exalted barnyard fowl to the level of human intelligence and lived and died with hens as her sole companions far removed from all mankind, she shared her home with her feathered friends, and when death severed the tie between them she gave them a decent burial in a graveyard of their own, hard by her dwelling, where she had marble slabs erected to their memory to mark their resting places. All of her hens were given wonderfully fantastic names [e.g. Teedie Tainie, Letoogie Tickling, Tealsay Meedoolsay, Levendy Ludandy, Tweedle Tedel, Bebee Pinky, Beauty Linna, and Ada Queetie], and were not only the objects of her daily affection and care, but the theme of her writings.” According to one tale, “after the death in quick succession of her nearest relatives she shut herself up with a goat as a companion and when the creature died her wildy extravagant grief was something strange to see. She turned for solace to her hens, never quitting their society." She was also described as “a quaintly pathetic and interesting personality” who “was an attraction to every curious sight-seer who visited the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Her isolated home became a place of pilgrimage for distinguished men as well as idle tourists.” Pictures of her, her hens, and her lonely home adorned Martha’s Vineyard guide books. There was much speculation as to whether Nancy was thoroughly demented or had wit enough to turn her condition, the unchosen fame thrust upon her, into a source of revenue, eking out a livelihood for herself and her hens by selling photographs and her writings to her unbidden guests. Her writings were a reflection of her soul, and a dozen little pamphlets were printed at intervals for sale to visitors. A complete edition or her works were collected and printed in 1888. Nancy sometimes underwent malicious teasing from visitors and the mad pranks of island youth. She was a pious woman and physically frail, said to have lived only on the milk from her Jersey cow, which she named “Susannah Allen” and referred to as “the nicest cow I ever knew.” She often emphasized her desire to be buried with her hens, and she once wrote that as soon as she died, her neighbor “must chop of [sic] every head of the hens, quick and short, put them out of misery quick. They must not suffer no sufferings, nor crueld in no way, nor mourn for me, this must be seen to.” She even asked that the bones of her hens be carefully taken up and placed in her coffin with her corpse, up against her heart.