Potato myself, I can't help seeing that the tulip
yonder has the best place in the garden, and the most sunshine, and the
most water, and the best tending--and not liking him over well. But I
can't help acknowledging that Nature has given him a much finer dress
than ever I can hope to have, and of this, at least, must give him the
benefit.
Or say, we are so many cocks and hens, my dear (sans arriere pensee),
with our crops pretty full, our plumes pretty sleek, decent picking here
and there in the straw-yard, and tolerable snug roosting in the barn:
yonder on the terrace, in the sun, walks Peacock, stretching his proud
neck, squealing every now and then in the most pert fashionable voice
and flaunting his great supercilious dandified tail. Don't let us be too
angry, my dear, with the useless, haughty, insolent creature, because
he despises us. SOMETHING is there about Peacock that we don't possess.
Strain your neck ever so, you can't make it as long or as blue as
his--cock your tail as much as you please, and it will never be half so
fine to look at.
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