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THE BLACKBIRD [_Looking at him from a distance._] What do you know about it, pocket panther?
THE CAT I saw a Pheasant-hen exciting his admiration, and I saw that he would go.
THE BLACKBIRD It's when you're sound asleep that you see everything!
THE GRAND-DUKE [_To_ SCOPS.] Very well, then, let us suppose him going.
SCOPS Chantecler, for all his fame, has retained his bluff country squire's frankness. When he sees this--
THE BLACKBIRD [_Prompting._] Tea-fight--
SCOPS And the contortions of those--
THE BLACKBIRD [_Same business._] Sn.o.bs--
SCOPS In the presence of those--
THE BLACKBIRD [_Same business._] Big guns--
SCOPS He is sure to say things which they are equally sure to take up.
THE GRAND-DUKE [_Thrilled._] And do you believe that a c.o.c.k-fight--?
SCOPS Such is my fond hope.
THE CAT But listen, Scops. Suppose Chantecler should win?
SCOPS Know, Angora, that there will be among those fancy c.o.c.ks a genuine game-c.o.c.k, lean, with tawny wing, the same who--
THE BLACKBIRD [_Seeing the_ OWLS _puff out their feathers for joy._] Sensation among the audience!
SCOPS The same who has defeated the most famous champions--the White Pile.
And as this victor in Flemish and English encounters wears at his heels, for the defter dispatching of his enemy, two razors fastened there by the ingenuity of man, by tomorrow night Chantecler will be dead, and his eyes picked out of their sockets.
THE SCREECH-OWL [_Enthusiastically._] We will go and gloat over his corpse!
THE GRAND-DUKE [_Risen to his full height, formidable._] And his comb, which looked above his forehead like an incarnate bit of scarlet dawn, we will take his comb,--our dearest dream at length fulfilled!--and we will eat it!
ALL [_With a yell, which ends in their ferocious cackling and rocking._] And we will eat it,--eat it, ha, ha!
THE GRAND-DUKE [_Spreading his wings._] Hush! [_Dead silence._]
SCOPS And after that--
THE BLACKBIRD [_Hopping._] It's quite a tidy proposition as it stands--
SCOPS What?
THE BLACKBIRD Your scheme! By Jingo, if I were the sort of bird to take things solemnly, I would go straight to the c.o.c.k and tell him. But I will do nothing of the sort. [_He concludes, with four little hops._] For I know--that all this--will turn out--beautifully!
SCOPS [_Ironically._] Beautifully indeed! [_He continues in growing excitement._] And after that, if those absurd c.o.c.ks of far-fetched breeds have not by to-morrow evening gone back to their cages, we will eat them all, no longer good for anything!
THE GRAND-DUKE [_In his neighbour's ear._] And after that we will eat the Blackbird for dessert.
THE BLACKBIRD [_Who has not caught the last sentence._] What did he say?
SCOPS [_Quickly._] Nothing! [_In a still increasing frenzy of glee._] And after that--
[_In the distance: c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo! Instant silence. _SCOPS_ stops short and collapses, as if mown down. All the puffed _OWLS_ appear suddenly to have grown thin._]
ALL [_Looking at one another and blinking._] What is it? What was that?
[_They hastily spread their wings and call to one another for flight._]
Grand-Duke! Minor! Minimus!
THE BLACKBIRD [_Hopping from one to the other._] Going? So soon? Why, what's your hurry?
VOICE [_Of one of the_ NIGHT-BIRDS _calling to another._] Nyctalis!
THE BLACKBIRD It's hours before daybreak. Oceans of time, you have!
AN OWL Asio, are you coming?
ANOTHER OWL [_Calling._] Nictea!
ANOTHER [_Fluttering up to him._] Yes, my dear! [_They all stagger and trip over their wings._]
THE BLACKBIRD What makes them stumble?
THE NIGHT-BIRDS [_Winking and blinking with marked evidences of pain._] Oh, how it hurts! Ow! Ow!
THE BLACKBIRD Lightning opthalmia, I declare! [_One by one the_ OWLS _fly off._]
THE GRAND-DUKE [_The last to go, spins on himself with a cry of pain and rage._] How does he contrive, that pernicious c.o.c.k, to have a voice that fairly puts out your eyes! [_He heavily flaps off._]
VOICES OF THE NIGHT-BIRDS [_In the distance._] Strix!
THE BLACKBIRD [_Looking after them among the branches, and later in the blue s.p.a.ce over the valley._] They are calling one another!
VOICE IN THE DISTANCE Scops!
THE BLACKBIRD [_Bending over the valley, where the dark wings are dwindling and fading._] They wheel--waver--dip--
VOICES [_Dying in the distance._] Owl of the Wall! Of the Belfry! Of the Yew!
THE BLACKBIRD Gone! [_He looks about, gives a hop, and with an immediate return to levity._] But it's supper-time.--Now for a bite of cold gra.s.shopper!
[_The_ PHEASANT-HEN _suddenly flies over the brushwood tangle, dropping beside him._] You!
