PHEASANT-HEN
But all these things about you are dreary and poor and flat!

CHANTECLER
And I can never become used to the richness and wonder of these things!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
It is always the same, you must agree!

CHANTECLER
Nothing is ever the same,--nothing,--ever,--under the sun! And that
because of the sun!--For _She_ changes everything!

THE PHEASANT-HEN
She--Who?

CHANTECLER
Light, the universal goddess! That geranium planted by the farmer's wife
is never twice the same red! And that old wooden shoe, spurting straw,
what a sight, what a beautiful sight! And the wooden comb hanging among
the farmer's smocks, with the green hair of the sward caught in its
teeth! The pitchfork, stood in the corner, like a misbehaving child,
dozing as he stands and dreaming of the hay-fields! And the bowl and
skittles there,--the trim-waisted skittles, shapely maids, whose orderly
quadrilles Patou in his gambols clumsily upsets! The great worm-eaten
bowl whose curved expanse some ant is always crossing, travelling with
no less pride than famed explorers,--around her ball in 80
seconds!--Nothing, I tell you, is two instants quite the same!--And I,
sweet lady, have been so susceptible ever, that a garden-rake in a
corner, a flower in a pot, cast me long since into a helpless ecstasy,