y, "Why, of course, the
street built him his house!" It was small enough, and had only a clay
floor, but when he and his bride danced over it, the floor grew as
smooth as if it had been polished, and from every stone in the wall
sprung a flower, that looked as gay as the costliest tapestry. It was a
pretty house and a happy wedded pair. The banner of the Masons' Guild
waved outside, and workmen and apprentices shouted "Hurra!" Yes, that
was Something! and at last he died--that, too, was Something!

Next comes the architect, the third brother. He began as a carpenter's
apprentice, and ran about the town on errands, wearing a paper-cap; but
he studied industriously at the Academy, and rose steadily upward. If
the street full of houses had built a house for his brother the mason,
the street took its name from the architect; the handsomest house in the
whole street was his--that was Something, and he was Something! His
children were gentlemen, and could boast of their "birth"; and when he
died, his widow was a widow of condition--that is Something--and his
name stood on the corner of the street, and was in everybody's
lips--that is Something, too!

Now for the genius, the fourth brother, who wanted to invent something
new, something original. Somehow the ground gave way beneath his feet;
he fell and broke his neck. But he had a splendid funeral, with music
and banners, and flowery paragraphs in the newspapers; and three
eulogiums were pronounced over him, each longer than the last, and this
would have pleased him mightily, for he loved speechifying of all
things. A monument was erected over his grave, only one story high--but
that is Something!

So now he was dead, as well as his three elder brothers; the youngest,
the critic, outlived them all, and that was as it should be, for thus he
had the last word, which to him was a matter of the greatest importance.
"He had plenty of brains," folk said. Now his hour had struck, he died,
and his soul sought the gates of heaven. There it stood side by side
with another soul--old Mother Margaret from the trenches.

"It is for the sake of contrast, I suppose, that I and this miserable
soul should wait here together," thought the critic. "Well now, who are
you, my good woman?" he inquired.

And the old woman replied, with as much respect as though St. Peter
himself were addressing her--in fact, she took him for St. Peter, he
gave himself such grand airs--"I am a poor old soul, I ha