But no one did. So the Smut determined to raise himself, and taking advantage of a draught under the door, he rose upwards and alighted on the nose of the councillor, who was reading the newspaper. "This is a throne, a crimson one," said the Smut, "made on purpose for me. But somehow I do not seem so large as I was." The truth is that the councillor (though a great man) was, in respect of his nose, but mortal. It was not made of brass; it would not (as the cabinet-makers say) take a polish. It did not reflect the object seated on it. "It is unfortunate," said the Smut. "But it is not fit that an individual of my position (almost, as I may say, a coal) should have a throne that does not shine. I must certainly go higher." But unhappily for the Smut, at this moment the councillor became aware of something on his nose. He put up his hand and rubbed the place. In an instant the poor Smut was destroyed. But it died on the throne, which was some consolation. Moral. More chimneys smoke than the councillor's chimney, and there are many Smuts in the world. Let those who have found a brass knob be satisfied. THE CRICK. It was a Crick in the wall, a very small Crick too. But it is not always the biggest people who have the strongest affections. When the wind was in the east, it blew the Dust into the Crick, and when it set the other way, the Dust was blown out of it. The Crick was of a warm and passionate temperament, and was devotedly attached to the Dust. "I love you," he whispered. "I am your husband. I protect, surround, defend, cherish you, and house you, you poor fragile Dust. You are my wife. You fill all the vacant space of my heart. I adore you. I am all heart!" And if vacant space is heart, this last assertion was quite true. "Remain with me always," said the Crick. "Ever with thee," said the Dust, who spoke like a valentine. But the most loving couples cannot control destiny. The wind went round to the west, and the Crick was emptied in a moment. In the first thrill of agony he stretched himself and became much wider. "I am empty," he cried; "I shall never be filled again. This is the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened." The Crick was wrong. He was not to remain empty; and a still greater misfortune was in store. The owner of the wall was a careful man, and came round his premises with a trowel of mortar. "What a crack!" said he; "it must be the frost. A stitch in time saves nine, however." And so saying he slapped a lump of mortar into the Crick with the dexterity of a mason. In due time the wind went back to the east, and with it came the Dust. "Cruel Crick!" she wept. "You have taken another wife to your heart!" And the Crick could not answer, for he had ceased to exist. This is a tragedy of real life, and cannot fail to excite sympathy. THE BROTHERS.