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!