“Mother,” said my aunt’s youngest daughter, Jemima, once, on the eve of one of their removals, “I shall throw away these old bits of rusty iron—they cannot possibly be of any use to us; they have been lying in this corner for years, and the spiders have made a grand nest among them.” “You shan’t throw them away, child!” said my aunt, “they’ll all come into use. Waste not, want not, my dear. When you live to be as old as I am, you will be cured of these extravagant whims.” “But, mother, what use can possibly be made of them?” said Jemima. “Use enough, my dear,” said my aunt. “Stop up rat holes, made into hinges—plenty of use for them; at any rate the blacksmith will buy them—any thing rather than throw them away.” “But, mother, these bits of broken window-glass, and these old cracked cups, and that worn-out old coffee-mill, without a tooth in its head, and—” “You _shan’t_ throw them away, child, I tell you—I shall find some use for them if you don’t.” “But, mother, those old boots of Frank’s, that are all out at the toes, and down at the heels, and no soles to them, and all mouldy and green—” “I tell you, child, you shan’t.” Just then in bustled Uncle Fabbins, with three barrel-staves under one arm, on which hung a basket of old, dry blacking bottles, and extending the other at full length, at the extremity of which appeared four worn-out, dirty tooth-brushes, of various patterns and ages. “See here,” he exclaimed, “I guess this is some of your doings, Jemima—when will you learn to be economical. Here I found all these lying on the ground, where, to all appearance, they had been thrown from the windows. Waste not, want not, my child. Why can’t you take a lesson of good housekeeping from your mother.” “But, father,” said Jemima, hardly restraining her mirth, “what on earth can you do with those old tooth-brushes?” “Do with them?—clean your lamps with them—rub your brasses—keep a great many of your things bright and clean. Do with them? I think _I_ could find use enough for them.” And with that he carefully wrapped up the much abused instruments of cleanliness in a piece of brown paper, which he carefully drew from his pocket, and as carefully unfolded, and placed them in a corner of his basket, along with the quondam receptacles of Day and Martin. And thus it went on for years—this gradual accumulation; and as the sons and daughters grew up into more independence of thought and habit, it became not unfrequently, especially at the spring or fall house-cleaning, a bone—no, not exactly a bone, but a sort of _ossification_ of contention between parents and offspring. But the old folks had their way, and by following out steadfastly their principles of economy, even inoculated the younger branches of the family tree to some extent with their peculiarities in this respect.