THE PHEASANT-HEN
Nothing, ever, can make you forget the time?
CHANTECLER
Nothing. I am conscious of darkness as too heavy a weight.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
You are conscious of darkness as--Shall I tell you the truth? You think
you sing for the Dawn, but you sing in reality to be admired,
you--songster, you! [_With contemptuous pity._] Is it possible you are
not aware that your poor notes raise a smile right through the forest,
accustomed to the fluting of the thrush?
CHANTECLER
I know, you are trying now to reach me through my pride, but--
THE PHEASANT-HEN
I doubt if you can get so many as three toadstools and a couple of
sassafras stalks to listen to you, when the ardent oriole flings across
the leafy gloom his melodious pir-piriol!
THE WOODPECKER
[_Reappearing._] From the Greek: Pure, _puros._
CHANTECLER
No more from you, please! [_The_ WOODPECKER _hurriedly withdraws._]
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Insisting._] The echo must make some rather interesting mental
reservations, one fancies, when he hears you sing after hearing the
great Nightingale!
CHANTECLER
[_Turning to leave._] My nerves, my dear girl, are not of the very
steadiest to-night.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Following._] Did you ever hear him?
CHANTECLER
Never.
THE PHEASANT-HEN
His song is so wonderful that the first time--[_She stops short, struck
by an idea._] Oh!
CHANTECLER
What is it?
THE PHEASANT-HEN
[_Aside.
Pages:
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152