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 you think?
CHANTECLER [Going briskly towards him, with a look that forbids discussion.] Quite! And let there be no idle quacking and paltering! [The GANDERS go off in haste.] You, Chicken, your task, as you know, is to pick off slugs, your full number before evening being thirty-two.—You, Cockerel, go practise your crow. Four hundred times cry Cock-a-doodle-doo in hearing of the echo!
THE COCKEREL [Slightly mortified.] The echo—?
CHANTECLER That is what I was doing to limber up my glottis before I was rid of the egg-shell sticking to my tail!
A HEN [Airily.] None of this is particularly interesting!
CHANTECLER Everything is interesting! Pray go and sit on the eggs you have been entrusted with! [To another HEN.] You, walk among the roses and verbenas, and gobble every creature threatening them. Ha, ha! If the caterpillar thinks we will make him a gift of our flowers he can stroke his belly—with his back! [To another.] You, hie to the rescue of cabbages in old neglected corners, where the grasshopper lays siege to them with his vigorous battering-ram! [To the remaining HENS.] You—[Catching sight of the OLD HEN, whose shaking, senile