THE GUINEA-HEN [_In the midst of the hubbub._] Are you going? Must you go? Oh, don't go yet!

CHANTECLER [_To the_ PHEASANT-HEN.] Come, my golden Pheasant!

THE GUINEA-HEN [_Running to_ CHANTECLER.] Are you running away?

CHANTECLER To save my song!

THE GUINEA-HEN [_Running to the_ YOUNG GUINEA-c.o.c.k.] My son, I am in such a state--I am in such--

A HEN [_Calling after_ CHANTECLER.] And when shall we see you again?

CHANTECLER [_Before going._] When you have grown teeth! [_Off with the_ PHEASANT-HEN.]

THE GUINEA-HEN [_To the_ YOUNG GUINEA-c.o.c.k.] This has been quite the finest affair of the season! [_Darting madly about among the departing guests._] Au revoir! Mondays in August! Don't forget!

THE MAGPIE [_Announcing._] The Tortoise!

ACT FOURTH

THE NIGHT OF THE NIGHTINGALE

_In the Forest. Evening. Huge trees with thick gnarled roots. At the base of one of the trees, Time or a lightning stroke has hollowed a sort of chamber. Rising slopes carpeted with heather. Rabbit holes. Mosses.

Toadstools. Stretched between two ferns, a great cobweb, spangled with water-drops. At the rise of the curtain_, RABBITS _are discovered on every side among the underbrush, peacefully inhaling the evening air. A time of serene silence and coolness._

SCENE FIRST

_A_ RABBIT _in front of his burrow_, CHOIR OF UNSEEN BIRDS.

A RABBIT It is the hour when with sweet and solemn voices the two warblers, Black-cap of the Gardens, and Red-wing of the Woods, intone the evening prayer.

A VOICE [_Among the branches._] O G.o.d of Birds!

ANOTHER VOICE O G.o.d of Birds! or, rather, for the Hawk Has surely not the same G.o.d as the Wren, O G.o.d of Little Birds!

A THOUSAND VOICES [_Among the leaves._] O G.o.d of Little Birds!

FIRST VOICE Who breathed into our wings to make us light, And painted them with colours of His sky, All thanks for this fair day, for meat and drink-- Sweet sky-born water caught in cups of stone, Sweet hedgerow berries washed of dust with dew, And thanks for these good little eyes of ours That spy the unseen enemies of man, And thanks for the good tools by Thee bestowed To aid our work of little gardeners, Trowels and pruning-hooks of living horn.

THE SECOND VOICE To-morrow we will fight borer and blight, Forgive Thy birds to-night their trespa.s.ses, The stripping of a currant-bush or two!

THE FIRST VOICE Breathe on our bright round eyes and over them The triple curtain of the lids will close.

If Man, the unjust, pay us by casting stones, For filling field and wood and eaves with song, For battling with the weevil for his bread, If he lime twigs for us, if he spread snares, Call to our memory Thy gentle Saint, Thy good Saint Francis, that we may forgive The cruelty of men because a man Once called us brothers, "My brothers, the birds!"

THE SECOND VOICE Saint Francis of a.s.sisi--

A THOUSAND VOICES [_Among the leaves._] Pray for us!

THE VOICE Confessor of the mavis--

ALL THE VOICES Pray for us!

THE VOICE Preacher to the swallows--

ALL THE VOICES Pray for us!

THE VOICE O tender dreamer of a generous dream, Who didst believe so surely in our soul That, ever since, our soul, and ever more, Affirms, defines itself--

ALL THE VOICES Remember us!

THE FIRST VOICE And by the favour of thy prayers obtain The needful daily sup and crumb! Amen.

THE SECOND VOICE Amen!

ALL THE VOICES [_In a murmur spreading to the uttermost ends of the forest._] Amen!

CHANTECLER [_Who, having a moment before stepped from the hollow tree, has stood listening._] Amen!

[_The shade has deepened and taken a bluer tinge. The spiderweb, touched by a moonbeam, looks as if sifting silver dust. The_ PHEASANT-HEN _comes from the tree and follows_ CHANTECLER _with little short feminine steps._]

SCENE SECOND

CHANTECLER, _the_ PHEASANT-HEN, _from time to time the_ RABBITS, _now and then the_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.

CHANTECLER How softly sleeps the moonlight on the ferns! Now is the time--

A LITTLE QUAVERING VOICE Spider at night, Bodeth delight!

THE PHEASANT-HEN Thanks, kind Spider!

CHANTECLER Now is the time--

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Close behind him._] Now is the time to kiss me.

CHANTECLER All those Rabbits looking on make it a trifle--

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Suddenly flaps her wings; the frightened_ RABBITS _start, on all sides white tails disappear into rabbit-holes. The_ PHEASANT-HEN _coming back to_ CHANTECLER.] There! [_They bill._] Do you love my forest?

CHANTECLER I love it, for no sooner had I crossed its verdant border than I got back my song. Let us go to roost. I must sing very early to-morrow.