The Guinea-hen
Oh, let not that distress you!
Chantecler
A plain red-pepper comb, an ordinary garlic clove ear—
The Guinea-hen
Of course, of course, we will excuse you. You came in your business suit!
Chantecler
Nay, my best! Pardon if my best combines merely the green of all April with the gold of all October! I stand abashed. I am the Cock, just the Cock, without further addition. The Cock such as he is still found in some old-fashioned barnyard. A Cock shaped like a Cock, whose outline persists in the vane on the steeple-top in the artist’s eye, and the humble toy which a child’s hand finds among shavings in a little wooden box.
An Ironical Voice
[From among the group of gorgeous prodigies.] The Gallic Cock, in short?
Chantecler
[Gently, without even turning.] Sure as I am of my aboriginal claim to this soil, I make no point of assuming the name. But, now you mention it, I recognise that when one simply says the Cock, that is the Cock he means!
The Blackbird
[Low to Chantecler.] I have seen your adversary!
Chantecler
[Catching sight of the Pheasant-hen approaching.] Be still! She must know nothing of this!
The Pheasant-hen
[Coquettishly.] Did you come for the sake of seeing me?
Chantecler
[Bowing.] I am weak, you remember!