“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.
As long ago as my first acquaintance in my Aunt Fabbins’s family, I remember these heaps and accretions of useless rubbish. I remember how they excited my boyish curiosity and imagination. Visions of dark closets piled to the very ceiling with all the nameless odds and ends in the annals of housekeeping, are even now hovering before me. There were strata and substrata—primary, secondary, and tertiary formations. There were shelves, and boxes, and old chests, and barrels of things which seemed as if they never had a name, much less a use—things that seemed as if they must have dropped out of the moon, or might have once belonged to some inhabitant of the planet Saturn, who had come to take lodgings on our earth, and had forgotten to take away all his old traps. Every closet, nook and corner of the house was filled with these antique remnants. For years the process of accumulation had gone on, silently, and almost invisibly, like the formation of stalactites in a cave. And whenever it became absolutely necessary that a portion of the rubbish should be removed—do not for a moment suppose that it was thrown into the street, or sold at auction, or even given to the poor, (although my Aunt Fabbins was charity herself to all who were in want,) but every thing was taken from below stairs, and transferred to the garret. This was the great receptacle of all fragments—this was the final resting-place—the charnel-house, or say rather kingdom of the dead, where the ghosts of the departed dumb servants of the household at last congregated in peaceful and undisturbed repose. And now we have reached this dim land of shadows at length, not as the ancients did, by descending, but by ascending—to the very top of the house, we may draw forth our key and unlock the sacred door, and enter, reverently if we can—we have reached