KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 

89 

“PENNY WISE AND POUND FOOLISH.” 
WE GAVE, IN OUR LAST, a racy descrip- 
tion of “A Village Tea-Party.’’ The fol- 
lowing gem from the same pen, is equally 
worthy of a “setting” in our columns. 
Ihave often noticed, says Mrs. Gaskell, 
that almost every one has his own indivi- 
dual small economies—careful habits of 
saving fractions of pennies in some one pecu- 
liar direction—any disturbance of which 
annoys him more than spending shillings or 
pounds on some real extravagance. An old 
gentleman of my acquaintance, who took 
the intelligence of the failure of a Joint- 
Stock Bank, in which some of his money 
was invested, with stoical mildness, worried 
his family all through a long summer’s day, 
because one of them had torn (instead of 
cutting) out the written leaves of his now 
useless bank-book. Of course, the corres- 
ponding pages at the other end came out 
as well; and this little unnecessary waste 
of paper (his private economy) chafed him 
more than all the loss of his money. 
Envelopes fretted his soul terribly when 
they first came in. The only way in which 
he could reconcile himself to such a waste 
of his cherished article was, by patiently 
turning inside out all that were sent to him, 
and so making them serve again. Even now, 
though tamed by age, I see him cast wistful 
glances at his daughters when they send a 
whole instead of a half sheet of note-paper, 
with the three lines of acceptance to an in- 
vitation written on only one of the sides. 
I am not above owning that I have this 
human weakness myself. String is my 
foible. My pockets get full of little hanks 
of it, picked up and twisted together, ready 
for uses that never come. Iam seriously 
annoyed if any one cuts the string of a 
parcel, instead of patiently and faithfully 
undoing it fold by fold. How people can 
bring themselves to use India-rubber rings, 
which are a sort of deification of string, as 
lightly as they do, I cannot imagine. Tome 
an India-rubber ring is a precious treasure. 
I have one which is not new; one that I 
picked up off the floor, nearly six years ago. 
I have really tried to use it; but my heart 
failed me, and I could not commit the extra- 
vagance. 
Small pieces of butter grieve others. 
They cannot attend to conversation, because 
of the annoyance occasioned by the habit 
which some people have of invariably taking 
more butter than they want. Have you not 
seen the anxious look (almost mesmeric) 
which such persons fix on the article? 
They would feel it a relief if they might 
bury it out of their sight, by popping it into 
their own mouths, and swallowing it down. 
And they are really made happy if the 
person on whose plate it lies unused, sud- 
denly breaks off a piece of toast (which he 
does not want at all) and eats up his butter. 
They think that this is not waste.” 
Is this not a rich morceau of its kind? 
We can, many of us, point out the very 
person indicated, and say—“ Thou art the 
man!” 
FLOWERS ON THE TOMB. 
BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 

Oh, let the sweetest flowers bloom, 
To breathe an incense o’er the tomb 
Where soft winds gently sigh,— 
Let myrtle, and forget-me-not, 
And cypress mark the sacred spot, 
Where friends and kindred lie ! 
It is a rest for those who weep ; 
Calmly and peacefully they sleep, 
Beneath the bright blue sky: 
They know no care, they fear no foe, 
They leave this joyless world below 
For endless bliss on high. 
Oh, plant upon the friendly tomb 
The fairest, sweetest flowers that bloom 
Beneath the summer’s sky ; 
A faithful vigil they will keep, 
And sympathise with those who weep, 
Where friends and kindred lie ! 
Yes, plant the sweetest flowers there ; 
None are too delicate or fair 
To grace that sacred rest. 
Oh, waft a fragrance o’er the grave, 
Where calmly sleep the good, the brave, 
The dearest and the best. 
Friends of the mourner! smile and bless 
The heart that feels its loneliness ! 
Oh, lead their thoughts on high! 
Point to that happy land above, 
Where we shall meet with those we love, 
To live and never die ! 
THE MODESTY OF TRUE GREATNESS. 

TuE modesty of great minds, like their tendency 
to rest, generates an apparent inconsistency, at 
which vulgar observers are amazed. It is a dis- 
sonance full of sweetness and power; but pleasing 
to well-taught ears. 
For just as there is an alternation between the 
love of repose and the desire of action, so is there 
also in noble spirits a counterpoise between the 
consciousness of superior power and native high 
quality, and the characteristic humility or meek- 
ness. Such are the changes ina spring day, when 
the sun, returning to our hemisphere, and about to 
put forth anew the generative fervor of summer, 
is seen contending with the heavy exhalations of 
earth. 
For awhile, these vapors gather over the 
Heavens and darken the landscape; but at length 
they divide, and even while tepid showers are 
falling, the source of light is revealed in all his 
effulgence ; and yet only to be seen again veiled in 
the mists his own rays have drawn into the sky. 


