“Natheless, Sir Poet,” Richard said soft, “when the kitten is grown to be a cat, haply he 'll mend his ways.”
“Sire, a cat is a cat,” quoth Will.
The King flushed and tapped his foot on the floor, but when his mother would have risen up in anger, he stayed her with:—
“Patience, Madame; Dan Chaucer shall have his turn.” And to Will he said: “So, friend, what though thou tweak my tail, I 'll not use my claws,” and held out his hand, the which Will Langland kissed and returned to his place by the wall, with a smile, very sad, a-shining out of his eyes.
“Sire,” said Chaucer, “I 've a fable; 't is not yet told in this company, nor writ neither.”
Thereupon he began to speak concerning a poor widow that had a barnyard and a cock,—
"His comb was redder than the fine coral,
And battled as it were a castle wall."
Anon, Master Chaucer was this very Chaunteclere, a-strut in barnyard. And immediately that uneasy silence that held the court was lifted, and all men tiptoed to see,—and had well-nigh drowned the voice of Chaunteclere in their laughter. Then was the poet suddenly transformed unto Dame Pertelote, the hen,—
"... discreet, and debonnaire,
And companable,"—
that hearkened the dream of her lord and counselled him to eat elderberry and ivy and other such herbs for to cure his digestion.—And the Queen and her ladies might not stint the tears that rolled adown their faces for joy of this tale.