THE PEACOCK
[_To the birds nearest to him._] He is vexed because of those Cocks whom
I introduced. [_To_ CHANTECLER, _ironically._] What, my dear sir, do you
say to these resplendent gentlemen?
CHANTECLER
I say, my dear sir, that these resplendent gentlemen are manufactured
wares, the work of merchants with highly complex brains, who to fashion
a ridiculous Chicken have taken a wing from that one, a topknot from
this. I say that in such Cocks nothing remains of the true Cock. They
are Cocks of shreds and patches, idle bric-a-brac, fit to figure in a
catalogue, not in a barnyard with its decent dunghill and its dog. I say
that those befrizzled, beruffled, bedeviled Cocks were never stroked and
cherished by Nature's maternal hand. I say that it's all Aviculture, and
Aviculture is flapdoodle! And I say that those preposterous parrots,
without style, without beauty, without form, whose bodies have not even
kept the pleasing oval of the egg they were hatched from, look like so
many desperate fowls escaped from some hen-coop of the Apocalypse!
A COCK
My dear sir--
CHANTECLER
[_With rising spirit._] And I add that the whole duty of a Cock is to be
an embodied crimson cry! And when a Cock is not that, it matters little
that his comb be shaped like a toadstool, or his quills twisted like a
screw, he will soon vanish and be heard of no more, having been nothing
but a variety of a variety!
A COCK
I protest--
CHANTECLER
[_Going from one to the other.
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