at she had heard,
March'd off at full speed, without saying a word:
"Oh dear!" said the fox, "Mrs. Crane, I protest
You misunderstand me, 'twas only a jest."
"Come, don't be affronted--stay with me and dine;
You know very well 'tis this temper of mine
To say such odd things to my intimate friends;
But you know that poor Reynard no mischief intends."
So the crane thought it best not to break with him quite,
But to view his remarks in a good-natured light.
So she put on as pleasant a face as she could
When he ask'd her to dine, and replied that she would.
But alas! she perceived that his jokes were not over,
When Reynard removed from the victuals its cover
'Twas neither game, butcher's meat, chicken, not fish;
But plain gravy-soup, in a broad shallow dish.
Now this the fox lapp'd with his tongue very quick,
While the crane could scarce dip in the point of her beak;
"You make a poor dinner," said he to his guest;
"Oh, dear! by no means," said the bird, "I protest."
But the crane ask'd the fox on a subsequent day,
When nothing, it seems, for their dinner had they
But some minced meat served up in a narrow-neck'd jar;
Too long, and narrow, for Reynard by far.
"You make a poor dinner, I fear," said the bird;
"Why, I think," said the fox, "'twould be very absurd
To deny what you say, yet I cannot complain,
But confess, though a fox, that I'm matched by a crane."

MORAL.

Cunning folks who play tricks which good manners condemn,
Often find their own tricks play'd again upon them.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE TRAVELLER AND THE SATYR.

A luckless wight, in winter slow,
Travelling once a forest through
Cold and hungry, tired and wet,
Began in words like these to fret:
"Oh, what a sharp inclement day!
And what a dismal, dreary way!
No friendly cot, no cheering fields,
No food this howling forest yields;
I've nought in store or expectation!
There's nought before me but starvation."

"Not quite so bad," a voice replied;
Quickly the traveller turned aside,
And saw the satyr of the wood,
Who close beside his dwelling stood.
"Here is my cave hard by," said he,
"Walk in, you're welcome, pray be free."

The traveller did not hesitate,
Hoping for something good to eat,
But follow'd to his heart's content,
Blowing his finger as he went.

"Pray," said the satyr, "may I know
For what you blow your fingers so?"

"What! need you," said the man, "be told?--
To _warm_ my fingers, 'numb'd with cold."