CHANTECLER [Amused at PATOU’S violence.] The blackbird in short is wicked, stupid, ugly—­

PATOU
The chief thing about the Blackbird is—­that you can’t tell what he is! 
Is there thought in that head? feeling in that breast?  Hear him! 
“Tew-tew-tew-tew tew—­”

CHANTECLER
But what harm does he do?

PATOU He tew-tew-tews!  And nothing is so mortal to thought and sentiment as that same derisive tew-tewing, disingenuous and non-committal!  Day by day, and that is why I roll my rs, I must witness this debasing of language and ideals.  It’s enough to produce rabies!

CHANTECLER
Come, Patou!—­

PATOU In their objectionable jargon, they have the ha-ha on all of us!  I am no fastidious King Charles, but I dislike, I tell you, being referred to as His Whiskers!—­Oh, to be gone, escape, follow the heels of some poor shepherd without a crust in his wallet, but at least, at evening drinking from the glassy pond, to have—­oh, better than all marrow-bones!—­the fresh illusion of lapping up the stars!

CHANTECLER [Surprised at PATOU’S having lowered his voice to utter the last words.] Why do you drop your voice?

PATOU You see?—­If we speak of stars nowadays we must do it in a whisper! [He lays his head on his paws in deep dejection.]

CHANTECLER
[Comforting him.] Be not downcast!

PATOU [Lifting his head again.] No, it is too silly and too weak!  I’ll shout it if I please! [He howls with the whole power of his lungs.] Stars!—­[Then in a tone of relief.] There, I feel better!

CHICKENS [Passing at the back, mocking.] Stars!—­Ho!  Stars for ours!  Stars! [They go off, fooling and giggling.]

PATOU
Hear them!  Our pullets will be whistling soon like blackbirds!

CHANTECLER [Proudly strutting up and down.] What care I?  I sing, and have on my side the Hens.

PATOU Trust not to the hearts of Hens—­or of crowds.  You are too willing to take the price of your singing in lip-service.

CHANTECLER
But love—­love is glory awarded in kisses!

PATOU Ah!  I, too, was young once, I had my wilding devil’s beauty,—­an inflammatory eye, an inflammable heart.  Well, I was deceived.  For a handsomer dog?—­No, they deceived me for a miserable cur!—­[Roaring in sudden wrath.] For whom?—­For whom, do you suppose?

CHANTECLER
[Retreating.] You alarm me!

PATOU
For a low-down dachshund who trod on his own ears!

THE BLACKBIRD [Who has overheard PATOU’S last words, sticking his head between the bars of his cage.] Still harping on the dachshund, is he?  What’s the odds, old chappie?  You were the goat!—­How does being the goat matter?

PATOU
But you up there, scoffing at everything, who are you, may one ask?

BLACKBIRD
I’m the pet of the poultry yard!