_] Here he comes, prouder than--
A HEN
[_Stopping in front of a small tin cone._] See there! The new-fangled
drinking-trough! [_She drinks._] Handy!
THE BLACKBIRD
Prouder than a drum major chanting as he marches:
"My country, 'tis of thee!"
CHANTECLER
[_Beginning to walk about the yard._]
Thou smilest on the--
ALL THE HENS
[_Rushing to the_ WHITE HEN _who is eating something._] What's she
eating?
THE WHITE HEN
Corn. Nothing but corn.
CHANTECLER
Thou smilest on the sunflower craning after thee,
And burnishest my brother of the vane,
And softly sifting through the linden-trees
Strewest the ground with dappled gold,
So fine there's no more walking where it lies.
Through thee the earthen pot is an enamelled urn,
The clout hung out to dry a noble banner,
The hay-rick by thy favour boasts a golden cape,
And the rick's little sister, the thatched hive,
Wears, by thy grace, a hood of gold!
Glory to thee in the vineyards! Glory to thee in the fields!
Glory among the grass and on the roofs,
In eyes of lizards and on wings of swans,--
Artist who making splendid the great things
Forgets not to make exquisite the small!
'Tis thou that, cutting out a silhouette,
To all thou beamest on dost fasten this dark twin,
Doubling the number of delightful shapes,
Appointing to each thing its shadow,
More charming often than itself.
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