wall he recites his _Hymn to the Sun_, Cyrano de Bergerac in feathers. He represents the artist, the creative genius, the dispenser of beauty and spiritual light. If he be the lord over the other denizens of the farm-yard, it is because they will have it so. They believe the sun rises because Chantecler summons it with his shrill, imperious “Cocorico.” And Chantecler, the Superb, believes it himself—believes it in spite of the sceptical Blackbird. Chantecler, in fact, might stand for a great many types besides the artistic; for example, the statesman who fancies he is the creator of the social reforms that are advancing with civilisation like a tide. “I adore thee, O sun,” begins Chantecler, his beak raised towards the skies. Je t’adore, Soleil! ô toi dont la lumière, Pour bénir chaque front et mûrir chaque miel, Entrant dans chaque fleur et dans chaque chaumière Se divise et demeure entière Ainsi que l’amour maternel! ... Je t’adore, Soleil! Tu mets dans l’air des roses, Des flammes dans la source, un dieu dans le buisson! Tu prends un arbre obscur, et tu l’apothéoses! O Soleil! toi sans qui les choses Ne seraient que ce qu’elles sont! Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects to bed. Then he and Patou, the dog philosopher, discuss the situation in the farm-yard. Excellent Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. He despises the pert, cynical Blackbird. He denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, the vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, for—— A shot is heard, the Hen Pheasant flies in and implores Chantecler to protect her from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s wing; she looks up at him admiringly, tenderly—and proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there and then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold and red Pheasant. Majestically Chantecler struts round and round her, his chest thrown outwards, his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, the Hen Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an obscure little corner of the world. How different from the beauty, the spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest! _La Faisane._ Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses! _Chantecler._ Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses! _La Faisane._ Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant. _Chantecler._ Rien n’est pareil, Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil! Car Elle change tout! _La Faisane._ Elle... Qui? _Chantecler._ La lumière.