CHANTECLER [In the convolvulus, more and more deeply interested.] You don’t mean it!  What, all of them?—­Yes?—­No—­Oh!—­Well, well!—­Is that so?

THE WOODPECKER [Who has timidly come back, aside.] Oh, that an ant of the heaviest might weigh down his tongue!

CHANTECLER
[Talking into the flower.] So soon?  The Peacock out of fashion?

THE WOODPECKER [Trying to get CHANTECLER’S attention behind the PHEASANT-HEN’S back.] Pst!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Turning around, furious.] You!—­You had better! [The WOODPECKER alertly retires, bumping his head.]

CHANTECLER [In the flower.] An elderly Cock?—­I hope that the Hens—? [With intonations more and more expressive of relief.] Ah, that’s right! that’s right! that’s right! [He ends, with evident lightening of the heart.] A father! [As if answering a question.] Do I sing?  Yes, but far away from here, at the water-side.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
Oh!

CHANTECLER [With a tinge of bitterness.] Golden Pheasants will not long allow one to purchase glory by too strenuous an effort, and so I go off by myself, and work at the Dawn in secret.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Approaching from behind with threatening countenance.] Oh!

CHANTECLER
As soon as the beauteous eye which enthralls me—­

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Pausing.] Oh!

CHANTECLER
—­closes, and in her surpassing loveliness she sleeps—­

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Delighted.] Ah!

CHANTECLER
I make my escape.

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Furious.] Oh!

CHANTECLER I speed through the dew to a distant place, to sing there the necessary number of times, and when I feel the darkness wavering, when only one song more is needed, I return and noiselessly getting back to roost, wake the Pheasant-hen by singing it at her side.—­Betrayed by the dew?  Oh, no! [Laughing.] For with a whisk of my wing I brush my feet clear of the tell-tale silveriness!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
[Close behind him.] You brush your—?

CHANTECLER
[Turning.] Ouch! [Into the convolvulus.] No nothing!  I—­Later!—­Ouch!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [Violently.] So!  So!  Not only you keep up an interest in the fidelity of your old flames—­

CHANTECLER
[Evasively.] Oh!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
You furthermore—­

CHANTECLER
I—­

THE BEE
[Inside the morning-glory.] Vrrrrrrr!

CHANTECLER
[Placing his wing over the flower.] I—­

THE PHEASANT-HEN
You deceive me to the point of remembering to brush off your feet!

CHANTECLER
But—­

THE PHEASANT-HEN
This clodhopper, see now, whom I picked up off his haystack—­and to rule
alone in his soul is apparently quite beyond my power!