THIRD TOAD Null! FOURTH [_Contemptuously._] And his old-fashioned pretense of inspiration! FIFTH TOAD And the name he has adopted: Bul-bul! ALL THE TOADS [_Puffing with laughter._] Bul-bul! THE BIG TOAD This is the way he goes on: [_Parodying the song of the_ NIGHTINGALE.] Tio! Tio! SECOND TOAD His solitary idea is an old silver trill copied from the bubbling spring. [_He imitates in grotesque fashion the singing of the_ NIGHTINGALE.] Tio! Tio! CHANTECLER But-- THE BIG TOAD [_Quickly._] Do not attempt, you, the Renovator of Art, to defend that ancient high authority on sentimental gargling! SECOND TOAD That superannuated tenor quavering out his cavatinas to the glory of minor poetry and the edification of fogydom! THIRD TOAD The Harp that twanged through Tara’s hall, and insists on twanging still! CHANTECLER [_Indulgently._] But why should he not, after all, if he enjoys it? THE BIG TOAD Endeavouring to impose on a suffering and surfeited public the musty old fashion of ingenious fioritura! CHANTECLER Audiences nowadays, of course, look for a different sort of thing. THIRD TOAD Your song has exposed the artificiality of his. ALL [_In an explosion._] Down with Bul-bul! CHANTECLER [_Whom the_ TOADS _have gradually surrounded._] Gentlemen and honored Batrachians, my voice, it is true, gives forth natural notes-- THE BIG TOAD Yes, notes which lend us wings-- CHANTECLER [_Modestly._] Oh! ALL [_Waggling their bodies as if about to fly._] Wings! THE BIG TOAD Their secret being that they sing Life! CHANTECLER That is true. SECOND TOAD Yes, my dear fellow, Life! CHANTECLER [_With careless complacency._] My crest for that reason is flesh and blood! ALL THE TOADS [_Clapping their little hands._] Good, very good! THE BIG TOAD That formula is a programme. SECOND TOAD Since we are assembled around a table, why should we not offer to the Chief-- CHANTECLER [_Modestly, hanging back from the suggested honour._]Gentlemen-- SECOND TOAD --to the Chief of whom we stood in notable need, a banquet? ALL [_Beating enthusiastically upon the toadstool._] A banquet! THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Looking out from the tree._] What is the matter? CHANTECLER [_In spite of all, rather flattered._] A banquet! THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Slightly ironical._] Shall you accept? CHANTECLER You see, my dear--the new tendencies--Art,--the thinking contingency of the Forest--[_Indicating the_ TOADS.] Yes, I have lent wings to--[_In a light and careless tone._] It’s all up with the Nightingale, you see. Musty old method! Antiquated trill! This is the way he goes on--[_To the_ TOADS.] How was it you said he went on? ALL THE TOADS [_Comically._] Tio! Tio! CHANTECLER [_To the_ PHEASANT-HEN, _with pitying indulgence._] He goes on like this: Tio! Tio! And I believe I need not scruple to accept-- A VOICE [_In the tree above him breaks forth in a long note, limpid, and heart-moving._] Tio! [_Silence._] CHANTECLER [_Startled, raising his head._] What was that?