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THE TOADS [_Retreating, overcome by the conquering song._] Croak! croak!
CHANTECLER Their fate to seethe in the cauldron of a witch! But you, the creatures of the forest come to slake the thirst of their hearts at your song. See them creeping to the lure--
THE TOADS [_From the underbrush._] Croak! croak!
CHANTECLER A doe, look! tiptoeing on delicate hoofs, followed by a wolf who has forgotten to be a wolf--
THE TOADS [_Lost among the gra.s.s._] Croak!
CHANTECLER The squirrel steals down from the lofty tree-tops. The whole vast forest is stirred by a thrill of brotherliness.
THE TOADS [_Out of sight._]--roak!
CHANTECLER The echo alone now repeats--
FAINT DISTANT VOICE --oak!
CHANTECLER Gone! Gone are the Toads!
[_Music holds the night: a song without words, delicate volleys of rapturous notes._]
CHANTECLER The Glow-worms have lighted their small, green lamps. All that is good comes forth, while hate shrinks back to its lair. Now they that shall be eaten lay themselves down in the gra.s.s by the side of them that shall eat them. The Star of a sudden looks nearer to earth, and forsaking her web the Spider draws herself up toward your song, climbing by her own silken thread.
ALL THE FOREST [_In a moan of ecstasy._] Ah!
[_And the forest lies as if under a spell; the moonlight is softer, the tender green fire of the glow-worm shines blinking among the moss; on all sides, between the tree-boles creep, shadow-like, the charmed beasts; eyes shine, moist muzzles point toward the source of the music.
The_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r _stands at his bark window, dreamily nodding; all the_ RABBITS, _with upp.r.i.c.ked ears, sit at their earthen doors._]
CHANTECLER When he sings thus without words, what is he singing, Squirrel?
THE SQUIRREL [_From a tree-top._] The joy of swift motion.
CHANTECLER And what say you, Hare?
THE HARE [_In the coppice._] The thrill of fear!
CHANTECLER You, Rabbit?
ONE OF THE RABBITS The Dew!
CHANTECLER You, Doe?
THE DOE [_From the depths of the woods._] Tears!
CHANTECLER Wolf?
THE WOLF [_In a gentle distant howl._] The Moon!
CHANTECLER And you, Tree with the golden wound, singing Pine?
THE PINE-TREE [_Softly beating time with one of its boughs._] He tells me that my drops of resin in the form of rosin will sing upon the bows of violins!
CHANTECLER And you, Woodp.e.c.k.e.r, what does he say to you?
THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_In ecstasy._] He says that Aristophanes--
CHANTECLER [_Promptly interrupting him._] Never mind! I know! You, Spider?
THE SPIDER [_Swinging at the end of one of her threads._] He sings of the raindrop sparkling in my web like a royal gift.
CHANTECLER And you, Drop of Water, sparkling in her web?
A LITTLE VOICE [_From the cobweb._] Of the Glow-worm!
CHANTECLER And you, Glow-worm?
A LITTLE VOICE [_In the gra.s.s._]Of the Star!
CHANTECLER And you, if one may so far presume as to question you, of what does he sing to you, Star?
A VOICE [_In the sky._] Of the Shepherd!
CHANTECLER Ah, what fountain is it--
THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Who is watching the horizon between the trees._] The darkness is lightening.
CHANTECLER What fountain, in which each finds water for his thirst? [_Listening with greater attention._] To me he speaks of the Day, which arises and shines at my song!
THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Aside._] And speaks of it so eloquently that for once you will forget it!
CHANTECLER [_Noticing a_ BIRD _who having come a little way out of the thicket is beatifically listening._] And how do you, Snipe, translate his poem?
THE SNIPE I don't know. I only know I like it--It is sweet!
THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Who is not lured--she!--into forgetting to watch the sky between the branches, aside._] The night is wearing away!
CHANTECLER [_To the_ NIGHTINGALE, _in a discouraged voice._] To sing! To sing! But how, after hearing the faultless crystal of your note, can I ever be satisfied again with the crude, brazen blare of mine?
THE NIGHTINGALE But you must!
CHANTECLER Shall I find it possible ever again to sing? My song, alas, must seem to me always after this too brutal and too red!
THE NIGHTINGALE I have sometimes thought that mine was too facile, perhaps, and too blue!
CHANTECLER Oh, how can you humble yourself to make such a confession to me?
THE NIGHTINGALE You fought for a friend of mine, the Rose! Learn, comrade, this sorrowful and rea.s.suring fact, that no one, c.o.c.k of the morning or evening Nightingale, has quite the song of his dreams!
