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—
A Hen
—fields—
Chantecler
—the foremost—
The Hens All Together
—walks ahead!
Chantecler
You may go! [They are again starting, he peremptorily calls them back.] A word! [In a stern voice.] Never when crossing the road stop to peck! [The Hens bow in obedience.] Now let me see you cross!
A Horn
[In the distance.] Honk! Honk! Honk!
Chantecler
[Rushing in front of the Hens and spreading his wings before them.] Not yet!