THE TUFTED HEN
--of your song? [_Going still closer to him, in a voice thrilled with
curiosity._] I do believe that you have in your throat a little copper
contrivance--

CHANTECLER
That's it, that's what I have, very carefully concealed!

THE WHITE HEN
[_Same business._] Most likely, like great tenors one has heard of, you
gulp raw eggs--

CHANTECLER
You have guessed!--A second Ugolino!

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