"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.
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