THE PIGEON Where?

THE TURKEY In that old basket.

THE PIGEON [_More and more interested._] Of what breed is she?

THE TURKEY She is just a good old-fashioned Gascon hen, born in the neighbourhood of Pau.

THE BLACKBIRD [_Thrusting out his head._] She is the one Henry the Fourth wished to see cooking in every Frenchman's pot!

THE PIGEON How proud she must be of having hatched such a c.o.c.k!

THE TURKEY Yes, proud with a lowly foster-mother's pride. Her beloved chick is coming to his inches, that is all she seems to understand or care about.

And when you tell her this, her clouded reason gives a momentary gleam-- [_Calling towards the basket._] Hey, old lady, he is growing!

ALL THE HENS He is growing!

[_The lid of the basket is suddenly lifted, and a bristling aged hen's head appears._]

THE PIGEON [_To the_ OLD HEN, _gently and feelingly._] Does it make you happy, mother, to think of him grown to a big fine c.o.c.k?

THE OLD HEN [_Nodding, sententiously._] Happy?--Wednesday's crops do credit to Tuesday! [_She disappears, the lid drops._]

THE TURKEY She opens now and then, like that, and ping! shoots at us some such pearl of homely lore--

THE PIGEON [_To the_ WHITE HEN.] White Hen!

THE TURKEY --not always wholly without point!

THE OLD HEN [_Reappearing for an instant._] In the Peac.o.c.k's absence, the Turkey spreads his tail!

[_The_ TURKEY _turns quickly around, the lid has already dropped._]

THE PIGEON [_To the_ WHITE HEN.] Is it a fact that Chantecler is never hoa.r.s.e, never the very least husky?

THE WHITE HEN [_Keeping on with her pecking._] Perfectly true.

THE PIGEON [_With growing enthusiasm._] Ah, you must be proud c.o.c.k who will be numbered among Ill.u.s.trious Animals and his name remembered five, ten, fifteen years!

THE TURKEY Very proud. Very proud. [_To a_ CHICK.] Who are the Ill.u.s.trious Animals?

Tell them off!

THE CHICK [_Reciting a lesson._] Noah's Dove--Saint Rocco's Poodle--The--the Horse of Cali--

THE TURKEY Cali--?

THE CHICK [_Trying to remember._] Cali--

THE PIGEON This c.o.c.k, now--this c.o.c.k of yours--Is it true that his song attunes, inspires, encourages, makes labour light, and keeps off birds of prey?

THE WHITE HEN [_Pecking._] Perfectly true.

THE CHICK [_Still hunting for his word._] Cali--Cali--

THE PIGEON White Hen, is it true that by his song, defender of the warm and sacred egg, he has frequently kept the lissome weasel from--

THE BLACKBIRD [_Looking out between the bars._]--messing his shirtfront with omelette?

THE WHITE HEN Perfectly true.

THE CHICK Cali--

THE TURKEY [_Helping him._] Gu?

THE CHICK Gu--

THE PIGEON Is it true--?

THE CHICK [_Jumping for joy at having found._] Gula!

THE PIGEON --true that, as report says, he has a secret for his amazing singing, a secret whereby his crow becomes the brilliant burst of red which makes the poppies of the field feel themselves contemptible imitations?

THE WHITE HEN [_Weary of this questioning._] Perfectly true.

THE PIGEON That secret, that great secret, is it known to anyone?

THE WHITE HEN No.

THE PIGEON He has not even told his Hen?

THE WHITE HEN [_Correcting him._] His Hens.

THE PIGEON [_Slightly shocked._] Ah, he has more than one?

THE BLACKBIRD He crows, remember, you only coo.

THE PIGEON Well, then, he has not even told his favourite?

THE TUFTED HEN [_Promptly._] No, he has not!

THE WHITE HEN [_As promptly._] No, he has not!

THE BLACK HEN [_As promptly._] No, he has not!

THE BLACKBIRD [_Thrusting out his head._] Hush!--An aerial drama! The b.u.t.terfly, absorbed in his head of blossom, banquets, all oblivious of--

[_A great green gauze b.u.t.terfly-net appears above the wall, softly coming towards the_ b.u.t.tERFLY _settled on one of the flowers._]

A HEN What is that?