Cock-a-doodle-doo!

[At the sound, the BUTTERFLY flies off. The NET wavers a moment, with an effect of disappointment, then disappears.]

SEVERAL HENS
What?—Eh?—What was it?

A HEN [Who having hopped up on a wheelbarrow can follow the flight of the BUTTERFLY.] He is off and away, over the meadow.

THE BLACKBIRD [With ironical emphasis.] It's Chantecler, practicing knight-errantry!

THE PIGEON [With emotion.] Chantecler!

A HEN
He is coming!

ANOTHER HEN
He is just outside—

THE WHITE HEN [To the PIGEON.] Now you will see. He's a very fine bird indeed.

THE BLACKBIRD [Thrusting his head between the bars.] Easy as possible to make, a Cock!

THE TURKEY [Admiringly.] Admirable amenity!

THE BLACKBIRD You take a melon—a fine specimen, I will grant,—for the trunk. For the legs, two sticks of asparagus,—prize sticks, of course. For the head, a red pepper,—as handsome as you may find. For the eye, a currant,—exceptionally clear and light. For the tail, a sheaf of leeks, with luxuriant blue-green flags. For the ear, a dainty kidney-bean, —extra, superfine!—And there you have him, there's your Cock!

THE PIGEON [Gently.] One thing you have omitted—His heavenly clarion call!

THE BLACKBIRD [Indicating CHANTECLER, who now appears upon the wall.] Yes, but with the exception of that—slight detail, you must own my portrait is a likeness.

THE PIGEON Not at all. Not in the very least. [Contemplating CHANTECLER with a very different eye from the BLACKBIRD'S.] What I see, beneath that quivering hemlet, is Summer's glorious and favoured knight, who, from a groaning wain at evening borrowing its golden harvest-robe has arrayed himself in this, and lifts it from the dust with a gleaming sickle!

CHANTECLER [On the wall, in a long guttural sigh.] Coa—

THE BLACKBIRD When he makes that noise in his throat, he either is in love, or preparing some poetic outburst.

CHANTECLER [Motionless on the wall, with head high.] Blaze forth in glory!—Dazzle—

THE BLACKBIRD
He's letting off hot air!

CHANTECLER
Irradiate the world!

A HEN
Now he pauses—one claw lifted—

CHANTECLER [In a sort of groan of excessive tenderness.] Coa—

THE BLACKBIRD
That, if you please, is ecstasy!

CHANTECLER
Thy gold is of all gold alone beneficent! I worship thee!

THE PIGEON [Under breath.] To whom is he talking?

THE BLACKBIRD [Sneering.] To the sun, sonny, the sun!

CHANTECLER
  O thou that driest the tears of the meanest among weeds
  And dost of a dead flower make a living butterfly—
  Thy miracle, wherever almond-trees
  Shower down the wind their scented shreds,
  Dead petals dancing in a living swarm—
  I worship thee, O Sun! whose ample light,
  Blessing every forehead, ripening every fruit,
  Entering every flower and every hovel,
  Pours itself forth and yet is never less,
  Still spending and unspent—like mother's love!

  I sing of thee, and will be thy high priest,
  Who disdainest not to glass thy shining face
  In the humble basin of blue suds,
  Or see the lightning of thy last farewell
  Reflected in an humble cottage pane!

THE BLACKBIRD [Thrusting out his head.] Can't call it off now, boys, he's started on an ode!

THE TURKEY [Watching CHANTECLER as by a series of stately hops he comes down a pile of hay.] Here he comes, prouder than—

A HEN [Stopping in front of a small tin cone.] See there! The new-fangled drinking-trough! [She drinks.] Handy!

THE BLACKBIRD
Prouder than a drum major chanting as he marches:
  "My country, 'tis of thee!"

CHANTECLER [Beginning to walk about the yard.] Thou smilest on the—

ALL THE HENS [Rushing to the WHITE HEN who is eating something.] What's she eating?

THE WHITE HEN
Corn. Nothing but corn.

CHANTECLER
  Thou smilest on the sunflower craning after thee,
  And burnishest my brother of the vane,
  And softly sifting through the linden-trees
  Strewest the ground with dappled gold,
  So fine there's no more walking where it lies.

  Through thee the earthen pot is an enamelled urn,
  The clout hung out to dry a noble banner,
  The hay-rick by thy favour boasts a golden cape,
  And the rick's little sister, the thatched hive,
  Wears, by thy grace, a hood of gold!

  Glory to thee in the vineyards! Glory to thee in the fields!
  Glory among the grass and on the roofs,
  In eyes of lizards and on wings of swans,—
  Artist who making splendid the great things
  Forgets not to make exquisite the small!

  'Tis thou that, cutting out a silhouette,
  To all thou beamest on dost fasten this dark twin,
  Doubling the number of delightful shapes,
  Appointing to each thing its shadow,
  More charming often than itself.

  I praise thee, Sun! Thou sheddest roses on the air,
  Diamonds on the stream, enchantment on the hill;
  A poor dull tree thou takest and turnest to green rapture,
  O Sun, without whose golden magic—things
  Would be no more than what they are!

THE PIGEON Bravo! I shall have something to tell my mate. We shall long talk of this!

CHANTECLER [Seeing him, with noble courtesy.] Young blue-winged stranger, with new-fledged bill, thanks! Pray lay my duty at her coral feet!

[The PIGEON flies off.]

THE BLACKBIRD
Jolly your admirers, it pays!

CHANTECLER [In a cordial voice, to the whole barnyard.] To work now, all of you, with a will!

[A FLY darts past, buzzing.]

CHANTECLER Busy and resonant Fly, I love thee! Behold her! What is her flight but the heart-whole gift of herself?

THE TURKEY [Loftily.] Yes.—She has dropped considerably in my esteem, however, since that matter of the—

CHANTECLER
Of the what?

THE TURKEY
Of the Fly and the—

CHANTECLER I never thought much of that story. Who knows whether the coach would have reached the top of the hill without the Fly? Do you believe that rude shouts "Gee up! Ge' lang!" were more effective than the hymn to the Sun buzzed by the little Fly? Do you believe in the virtue of a blustering oath? Really believe it was the Coachman who made the coach to go? No, I tell you, no! She did much more than the big whip's noisy cracking, did the little Fly, with the music straight from her buzzing heart!

THE TURKEY
Yes, but all the same—

CHANTECLER [Turning his back on him.] Come, let us make of labour a delight! Come, all of you!—High time, Ganders my worthies, you escorted your geese to the pond.

A GANDER [Lazily.] Is it quite necessary, do