Chantecler
No, I could not.
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.