: At dawn, roosters glorify the sun, their golden god, so that the narrator envies them.

Not far from Paris in the summer in the morning, thrushes and starlings sing. But once, instead of their singing, a powerful and sonorous sound is heard. All the cocks in the neighborhood sing it, from old to young. Any human orchestra seems pathetic in comparison with them. Perhaps this is how the troops of Ancient Rome met their triumphant Caesar.

The sun rises, the Great Golden Rooster, its golden fire pierces everything: the earth, the sky, and the air. And it becomes unclear whether the sun's rays are ringing with golden trumpets, or if the cockerel hymn shines with the sun's rays. Finally, earth roosters are silent.

All day the narrator is impressed by this music. In the afternoon, he enters one of the houses and sees in the middle of the yard a huge longshan cock. When asked if he sang so well at dawn, the rooster grumbles something that resembles "what do you care?"

But the narrator is not offended, because he is a weak, miserable person. His dry heart does not contain the frantic sacred delights of a rooster singing his golden god. But is he not even allowed to be modestly, in his own way, in love with the eternal, beautiful, life-giving, good sun?