THE OLD HEN
Sooner or later, tadpole becomes toad!

CHANTECLER
True! [To the HENS,_ resuming his tone of command._] Ladies, stand in
line!  Your orders are to peck in the fields.  Off at a quick-step, go!

THE WHITE HEN
[To the GREY HEN.] Are you coming?

THE GREY HEN
Not a word!  I intend to stay behind, to see the Cuckoo. [She hides
behind the basket.]

CHANTECLER
You, little tufted hen, was it just my fancy that you looked sulky
falling into line?

THE TUFTED HEN
[Going up to him.] Cock—­

CHANTECLER
What is it?

THE TUFTED HEN
I, who am nearest to your heart—­

CHANTECLER
[Quickly.] Hush!

THE TUFTED HEN
It annoys me not to be told—­

THE WHITE HEN
[Who has drawn near on the other side.] Cock—­

CHANTECLER
Well?

THE WHITE HEN
[Coaxingly.] I who am your favourite—­

CHANTECLER
[Quickly.] Hush!

THE WHITE HEN
[Caressingly.] I want to know—­

THE BLACK HEN
[Who has softly drawn near.] Cock—­

CHANTECLER
What?

THE BLACK HEN
Your special and tender regard for me—­

CHANTECLER
[Quickly.] Hush!

THE BLACK HEN
Tell me, do—­

THE WHITE HEN
—­the secret—­

THE TUFTED HEN —­of your song? [Going still closer to him, in a voice thrilled with curiosity.] I do believe that you have in your throat a little copper contrivance—­

CHANTECLER
That’s it, that’s what I have, very carefully concealed!

THE WHITE HEN [Same business.] Most likely, like great tenors one has heard of, you gulp raw eggs—­

CHANTECLER
You have guessed!—­A second Ugolino!

THE BLACK HEN [Same business.] My idea is that taking snails out of their shells, you pound them to a paste—­

CHANTECLER
And make them into troches!  Exactly!

ALL THREE HENS
Cock—!

CHANTECLER Off with you all!  Be off! [The HENS hastily start, he calls them back.] A word before you go.  When your blood-bright combs—­now in, now out of sight, now in again—­shall flash among the sage and borage yonder, like poppies playing at hide-and-seek,—­to the real poppies, I enjoin you, do no injury!  Shepherdesses, counting the stitches of their knitting, trample the grass all unaware that it’s a crime to crush a flower—­even with a woman!  But you, my Spouses, show considerate and touching thought for the flowers whose only offence is growing wild.  The field-carrot has her right to bloom in beauty.  Should you spy, as he strolls across some flowery umbel, a scarlet beetle peppered with black dots,—­the stroller take, but spare his strolling-ground.  The flowers of one same meadow are sisters, as I hold, and should together fall beneath the scythe!—­Now you may go. [They are leaving, he again calls them back.] And remember, when chickens go to the—­