CHANTECLER
I fall back, blinded by the red light bathing me, dazzled at having, I,
the Cock, made the Sun to rise!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Then the whole secret of your song—?

CHANTECLER Is that I dare assume that the East without me must rest in idleness!  I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song!  I think of light and not of glory!  Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness.  And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
What he says sounds slightly mad!—­You are responsible for the rising
of—­

CHANTECLER That which opens flower, eye, soul, and window!  Certainly!  My voice dispenses light!  And when the sky is grey, the reason is that I have sung badly.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But when you sing by day?

CHANTECLER
I am practising, or else promising the ploughshare, the hoe, the harrow,
the scythe, not to neglect my duty of waking them.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
But what wakens you?

CHANTECLER
The fear of forgetting.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
And you believe that at the sound of your voice the whole world is
suffused—?

CHANTECLER
I have no clear idea of the whole world.  But I sing for my own valley,
and desire that every Cock may do the same for his.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Still—­

CHANTECLER
But here I stand, explaining, perorating, and forgetting altogether to
make my dawn.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
His dawn!

CHANTECLER Ah, what I say sounds mad?  I will make the dawn before your very eyes!  And the wish to please you adding its ardour to the ordinary forces of my soul, I shall rise in singing, as I feel, to unusual heights, and the dawn will rise more fair to-day than ever it rose before!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
More fair?

CHANTECLER Assuredly,—­in just the measure that strength is added to the song by the knowledge of listeners, boldness to the exploit by the consciousness of lovely watching eyes—­[Taking his stand upon a hillock at the back, overlooking the valley.] Now, Madam!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Gazing at his outline against the sky.] How beautiful he is!

CHANTECLER Look attentively at the sky.  Already it has paled.  The reason is that a short while back, with my earliest crow I ordered the sun to stand in readiness just below the horizon.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
He is so beautiful that what he says almost seems possible!

CHANTECLER [Talking toward the horizon.] Ha, Sun, I feel you just behind there, stirring—­and I laugh with pride and joy amidst my scarlet wattles—­[Rising on tiptoe suddenly, in a voice of startling loudness.] Cock-a-doodle-doo!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
What great breath lifts his breast-feathers?

CHANTECLER [Toward the east.] Obey!—­I am the Earth, and I am Labour!  My comb is the pattern of a forge fire, and the voice of the furrow rises to my throat! [Whispering mysteriously.] Yes, yes, month of July—­