_I_ never smell mole, or shrew-mouse-of-the-rosy-paws, in the holes
_She_ digs. And how explain her utter lack of purpose? Presently,
falling back on her haunches, She brandishes a hairy-rooted herb and
cries: "I have it, the jade!" I lie in the damp grass and tremble, or
dig my nose (She calls it my snout) into the earth to get the
complicated odors of it. ... When there are three or four scents all
blended, all mixed together, can you distinguish that of the mole from
that of the hare which passed quickly, or the bird which rested there?

KIKI-THE-DEMURE

Certainly I can. My nose is highly educated. It's small, regular, wide
between my eyes, delicate at the chamois-skin end of my nostrils; the
lightest touch of a blade of grass, the shadow of smoke tickles and
makes it sneeze. It doesn't bother about distinguishing the scent of
moles from that of--hares, did you say? But it delights in the trace
left by a cat in a hedge ... I've a charming nose. She calls it, "his
pretty little nose of cotton velvet." Since my eyes opened on this world
I've not known the day that someone has not uttered a truthful flattery
on the subject of my nose. Now yours--is a rough-grained truffle. What
makes you move it so ridiculously? At this very moment.

TOBY-DOG

I'm hungry and I don't hear the plates.

KIKI-THE-DEMURE

... your truffle of a nose works up and down and makes another wrinkle
in your irregular mug.