a satyr, ranging in the forest in winter, came across a traveller, half starved with the cold. he took pity on him and invited him to go to his cave. on their way the man kept blowing upon his fingers.

"why do you do that?" said the satyr, who had seen little of the world.

"to warm my hands, they are nearly frozen," replied the man.

arrived at the cave, the satyr poured out a mess of smoking pottage and laid it before the traveller, who at once commenced blowing at it with all his might.

"what, blowing again!" cried the satyr. "is it not hot enough?"

"yes, faith," answered the man, "it is hot enough in all conscience, and that is just the reason why i blow it."

"be off with you!" cried the satyr, in alarm; "i will have no part with a man who can blow hot and cold from the same mouth."