THE PIGEON We can hear him crowing from our dove-cote.  The One he is whose song is more an ornament to the landscape than the white hamlet to the hill!  The One he is whose cry pierces the blue horizon like a gold-threaded needle stitching the hill-tops to the sky!  The Cock he is!  When you would praise him, call him the Cock!

THE BLACKBIRD [Hopping up and down in his cage.] Tick-tock!—­who sets all hearts a-beating, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!

A HEN
Our Cock!

THE BLACKBIRD [Thrusting his head between the bars of his cage.] My, thy, his, her, our, your, and their Cock!

THE TURKEY [To the PIGEON.] He will soon be coming in from his usual round in the fields.

THE PIGEON
You have the honour of his acquaintance, sir?

THE TURKEY [Importantly.] I have known him from a baby.  This chick—­for to me he is still a chick!—­used to come to me for his bugle lesson.

THE PIGEON
Ah, indeed?  You give lessons in—­

THE TURKEY
Certainly.  A bird who can gobble is qualified to teach crowing.

THE PIGEON
Where was he born?

THE TURKEY [Indicating an old covered basket, badly battered and broken.] In that old basket.

THE PIGEON
And is the hen who brooded him still living?

THE TURKEY
[Again indicating the basket.] She is there.

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 Cock!

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 Cock?

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 Peacock’s absence, the Turkey spreads his tail!