The only sound in Mary Sprague's studio is a soft scritch as she sweeps a pastel stick across rag paper pinned on a drawing wall, her gestures revealing the feathery form of an emerging personality. The rooster's chest puffs in gusty fury, his scarlet comb a plume of belligerent energy. Rarely has a fowl been in such a foul mood.
Or so big. This bruiser is as big as the artist herself--a sturdy five feet tall. Her eyes are soft green and good-humored, framed by blondish hair. The rooster, by contrast, is clearly seething, his eyes narrowed, beady and red-rimmed under great gray tufts of eyebrow.