THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Appears, soberly nodding his red cap._] Tiri-para! sings the small sedge-warbler to the reeds. Incontrovertibly from the Greek. _Para,_ along, and the word water is understood. [_Disappears._]

CHANTECLER He has Greek on the brain!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Reverting to her idea._] Am I the whole, whole world to you?

CHANTECLER Of course you are, only--

THE PHEASANT-HEN In my green-sleeved Oriental robe, I look to you--how do I look?

CHANTECLER Like a living commandment ever to worship that which comes from the East.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Exasperated._] Will you stop thinking of the light of day, and think only of the light in my eyes?

CHANTECLER I shall never forget, however, that there was a morning when we believed equally in my Destiny, and that in the radiant hour of dawning love you forgot, and allowed me to forget, your gold for the gold of the Dawn!

THE PHEASANT-HEN The Dawn! Always the Dawn! Be careful, Chantecler I shall do something rash! [_Going toward the Back._]

CHANTECLER You will infallibly do as you like.

THE PHEASANT-HEN In the glade not long ago I met the--[_She catches herself and stops short, intentionally._]

CHANTECLER [_Looks at her, and in an angry cry._] The Pheasant? [_With sudden violence._] Promise me that you will never again go to the glade!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_a.s.sured of her power over him, with a bound returns to his side._] And you, promise that you will love me more than the Light!

CHANTECLER [_Sorrowfully._] Oh!

THE PHEASANT-HEN That you will not sing--

CHANTECLER More than one song, we have settled that point. [_Rat-tat-tat, from the_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.] Come in!

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Appearing and pointing with his bill at the net._] The snare! The farmer placed it there. He declared he would capture the Pheasant-hen.

THE PHEASANT-HEN He flatters himself!

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r And that he would keep you on his farm.

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Indignant._] Alive? [_To_ CHANTECLER, _in a tone of reproach._] Your farm!

CHANTECLER [_Seeing a_ RABBIT _who has returned to the edge of his hole._] Ah, there comes a Rabbit!

THE RABBIT [_Showing the snare to the_ PHEASANT-HEN.] You know if you put your foot on that spring--

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_In a tone of superiority._] I know all about snares, my little man. If you put your foot on that spring, the thing shuts. I am afraid of nothing but dogs. [_To_ CHANTECLER.] On your farm, which you secretly yearn for.

CHANTECLER [_In a voice of injured innocence._] I?

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_To the_ RABBIT, _giving him a light tap with her wing to send him home._] Afraid of nothing but dogs. And since you put me in mind of it, I think I must go and perplex their noses, by tangling my tracks all among the gra.s.s and underwoods.

CHANTECLER That's it, you go and fool the dogs!

THE PHEASANT-HEN [_Starts of, then returns._] You are homesick for that wretched old farm of yours?

CHANTECLER I? I? [_She goes off. He repeats indignantly._] I? [_Watching her out of sight, then, dropping his voice, to the_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.] She is not coming back, is she?

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Who from his high window in the tree can look off._] No.

SCENE THIRD

CHANTECLER, THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.

CHANTECLER [_Eagerly._] Keep watch! They are going to talk with me from home.

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Interested._] Who?

CHANTECLER The Blackbird.

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r I thought he hated you.

CHANTECLER He came near it, but the Blackbird cast of mind admits of compromise, and it amuses him to keep me informed.

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r Is he coming?

CHANTECLER [_Who is a different bird since the_ PHEASANT-HEN'S _exit, light-hearted, boyishly cheerful._] No, but the blue morning-glory opening in his cage amid the wistaria, communicates by subterranean filaments with this white convolvulus trembling above the pool. [_Going to the convolvulus._] So that by talking into its chalice--[_He plunges his bill into one of the trembling milky trumpets._] h.e.l.lo!

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Nodding to himself._] From the Greek, _allos_, another.

He talks with another.

CHANTECLER h.e.l.lo! The Blackbird, please!

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Keeping watch._] Most imprudent, this is! To choose among the convolvuli exactly the one which--

CHANTECLER [_Lighter and lighter of mood, returning to the_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.] But it's the only one open all night! When the Blackbird answers, the Bee who sleeps in the flower wakes up and we--

THE BEE [_Inside the convolvulus._] Vrrrrrrrrr!

CHANTECLER [_Briskly running to the flower and listening at the horn-shaped receiver._] Ah? This morning, did you say?

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r [_Filled with curiosity._] What is it?

CHANTECLER [_In a voice of sudden emotion._] Thirty chicks have been born!

[_Listening again._] Briffaut, the hunting-dog, is ill? [_As if something interfered with his hearing._] I believe it is the Dragon-flies, deafening us with the crackling of their wings--[_Shouting._]

Will you be so kind, young ladies, as not to cut us off? [_Listening._]

And big Julius obliges Patou to go with him on his hunting expeditions?

[_To the_ WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.] Ah, you ought to know my friend Patou! [_Burying his bill again in the flower._] So? Without me everything goes wrong? Yes!

[_With satisfaction._] Yes! Waste and carelessness naturally!