THE FAMILY SCRAP BOOK

We have begun this department expecting our readers to make it. It has been suggested by a number of our readers, and there is no department that should be more popular. There are few of us who have not in old scrap books, or elsewhere, something—in prose or poetry—that we cherish; that has become part of our souls. Send them in, thus preserving them and permitting others to enjoy them.

When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or twoTill the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew.And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden chair,They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!—Rudyard Kipling.

When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two

Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden chair,They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden chair,

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;

They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;

But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,

Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

—Rudyard Kipling.

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,Stir up the camp-fire bright;No growling if the canteen fails,We’ll make a roaring night.Here Shenandoah brawls along,There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,To swell the brigade’s rousing songOf “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”We see him now—the queer slouched hatCocked o’er his eye askew;The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,So calm, so blunt, so true.The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!Attention! it’s his way.Appealing from his native sod,In forma pauperisto God:—“Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!Steady! the whole brigade!Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll winHis way out, ball and blade!What matter if our shoes are worn?What matter if our feet are torn?“Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”The sun’s bright lances rout the mistsOf morning, and, by George!Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,Hemmed in an ugly gorge;Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearnFor news of Stonewall’s band!Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,That ring upon thy hand!Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!Thy life shall not be all forlorn:The foe had better ne’er been bornThat gets in “Stonewall’s way.”—John Williamson Palmer.

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,

Stir up the camp-fire bright;

No growling if the canteen fails,

We’ll make a roaring night.

Here Shenandoah brawls along,

There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,

To swell the brigade’s rousing song

Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

We see him now—the queer slouched hatCocked o’er his eye askew;The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,So calm, so blunt, so true.The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

We see him now—the queer slouched hat

Cocked o’er his eye askew;

The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,

So calm, so blunt, so true.

The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:

Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;

Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!

That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!Attention! it’s his way.Appealing from his native sod,In forma pauperisto God:—“Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!

Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! it’s his way.

Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperisto God:—

“Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!

Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”

He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!Steady! the whole brigade!Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll winHis way out, ball and blade!What matter if our shoes are worn?What matter if our feet are torn?“Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”

He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!

Steady! the whole brigade!

Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win

His way out, ball and blade!

What matter if our shoes are worn?

What matter if our feet are torn?

“Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”

That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”

The sun’s bright lances rout the mistsOf morning, and, by George!Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,Hemmed in an ugly gorge;Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

The sun’s bright lances rout the mists

Of morning, and, by George!

Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,

Hemmed in an ugly gorge;

Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.

“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;

“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”

In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearnFor news of Stonewall’s band!Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,That ring upon thy hand!Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!Thy life shall not be all forlorn:The foe had better ne’er been bornThat gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn

For news of Stonewall’s band!

Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,

That ring upon thy hand!

Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!

Thy life shall not be all forlorn:

The foe had better ne’er been born

That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

—John Williamson Palmer.

Last night, my darling, as you sleptI thought I heard you sigh,And to your little crib I creptAnd watched a space thereby,And then I stooped and kissed your brow,For oh, I love you so—You are too young to know it nowBut some time you will know.Some time when in a darkened placeWhen others come to weepYour eyes shall look upon a faceCalm in eternal sleep,The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile will show—You are too young to know it nowBut some time you will know.Look backward then, into the yearsAnd see me here to-night—See, oh my darling, how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it nowBut some time you will know.—Eugene Field.

Last night, my darling, as you slept

I thought I heard you sigh,

And to your little crib I crept

And watched a space thereby,

And then I stooped and kissed your brow,

For oh, I love you so—

You are too young to know it now

But some time you will know.

Some time when in a darkened placeWhen others come to weepYour eyes shall look upon a faceCalm in eternal sleep,The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile will show—You are too young to know it nowBut some time you will know.

Some time when in a darkened place

When others come to weep

Your eyes shall look upon a face

Calm in eternal sleep,

The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,

The patient smile will show—

You are too young to know it now

But some time you will know.

Look backward then, into the yearsAnd see me here to-night—See, oh my darling, how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it nowBut some time you will know.

Look backward then, into the years

And see me here to-night—

See, oh my darling, how my tears

Are falling as I write;

And feel once more upon your brow

The kiss of long ago—

You are too young to know it now

But some time you will know.

—Eugene Field.

Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay, and loud;Far in the downy cloudLove gives it energy—love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying,Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O’er fell and fountain sheen,O’er moor and mountain green,O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;O’er the cloudlet dim,O’er the rainbow’s rim,Musical cherub soar, singing away.Then, when the gloaming comes,Low, in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!—James Hogg.

Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place—

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay, and loud;Far in the downy cloudLove gives it energy—love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying,Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

Wild is thy lay, and loud;

Far in the downy cloud

Love gives it energy—love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying,

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O’er fell and fountain sheen,O’er moor and mountain green,O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;O’er the cloudlet dim,O’er the rainbow’s rim,Musical cherub soar, singing away.

O’er fell and fountain sheen,

O’er moor and mountain green,

O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;

O’er the cloudlet dim,

O’er the rainbow’s rim,

Musical cherub soar, singing away.

Then, when the gloaming comes,Low, in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low, in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place—

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

—James Hogg.

The following is poetry—every line of it—and infinitely good. It is by Matthew Arnold.

Weary of myself and sick of askingWhat I am and what I ought to be,At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears meForward, forward o’er the starlit sea.And a look of passionate desireO’er the sea and to the stars I send;Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,Calm me, ah compose me to the end!“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,On my heart your mighty charm renew;Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heavenO’er the lit sea’s unquiet wayIn the rustling night-air came the answer:“Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,Undisturbed by the sights they see,These demand not that the things without themYield them love, amusement, sympathy.“And with joy the stars perform their shining,And the sea its long-silvered roll;For self-poised they live, nor pine with notingAll the fever of some differing soul.“Rounded by themselves, and unregardfulIn what state God’s other works may be,In their own tasks all their powers pouring,These attain the mighty life you see.”O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;“Resolve to be thyself, and know that heWho finds himself loses his misery.”—Matthew Arnold.

Weary of myself and sick of askingWhat I am and what I ought to be,At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears meForward, forward o’er the starlit sea.

Weary of myself and sick of asking

What I am and what I ought to be,

At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me

Forward, forward o’er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desireO’er the sea and to the stars I send;Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,Calm me, ah compose me to the end!

And a look of passionate desire

O’er the sea and to the stars I send;

Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,

Calm me, ah compose me to the end!

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,On my heart your mighty charm renew;Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,

On my heart your mighty charm renew;

Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,

Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heavenO’er the lit sea’s unquiet wayIn the rustling night-air came the answer:“Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven

O’er the lit sea’s unquiet way

In the rustling night-air came the answer:

“Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,Undisturbed by the sights they see,These demand not that the things without themYield them love, amusement, sympathy.

“Unaffrighted by the silence round them,

Undisturbed by the sights they see,

These demand not that the things without them

Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

“And with joy the stars perform their shining,And the sea its long-silvered roll;For self-poised they live, nor pine with notingAll the fever of some differing soul.

“And with joy the stars perform their shining,

And the sea its long-silvered roll;

For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting

All the fever of some differing soul.

“Rounded by themselves, and unregardfulIn what state God’s other works may be,In their own tasks all their powers pouring,These attain the mighty life you see.”

“Rounded by themselves, and unregardful

In what state God’s other works may be,

In their own tasks all their powers pouring,

These attain the mighty life you see.”

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;“Resolve to be thyself, and know that heWho finds himself loses his misery.”

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,

A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;

“Resolve to be thyself, and know that he

Who finds himself loses his misery.”

—Matthew Arnold.

’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—One night at their revels by Bacchus were toldThat the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,They sent to the fair immortals for aidIn composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the boardLay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked onWith glances so fraught with sweet, magical powerThat the honey of Hybla e’en when it was goneHas never been wiped from the draught till this hour.Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy tookAnd with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,But juleps the drink of immortals becameWhen Jove himself added a handful of hail.—Hoffman.

’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—One night at their revels by Bacchus were toldThat the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.

’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—

And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—

One night at their revels by Bacchus were told

That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.

But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,They sent to the fair immortals for aidIn composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.

But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,

They sent to the fair immortals for aid

In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,

Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.

Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;

And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,

And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,

Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the boardLay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board

Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,

When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,

Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked onWith glances so fraught with sweet, magical powerThat the honey of Hybla e’en when it was goneHas never been wiped from the draught till this hour.

The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on

With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power

That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone

Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour.

Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy tookAnd with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took

And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,

All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,

The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,But juleps the drink of immortals becameWhen Jove himself added a handful of hail.

The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.

Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,

But juleps the drink of immortals became

When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

—Hoffman.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.And we mount to the summit round by round.I count this thing to be grandly true,That a noble deed is a step toward God,Lifting the soul from the common sodTo a purer air and a broader view.We rise by the things that are under our feet,By what we have mastered of greed and gain,By the pride deposed and the passion slain,And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,When the morning calls us to life and light;But our hearts grow weary, and ere the nightOur lives are trailing in sordid dust.We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,And we think that we mount the air on wings,Beyond the recall of sensual things,While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,We may borrow the wings to find the way,We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.Only in dreams is a ladder thrownFrom the weary earth to the sapphire walls;But the dreams depart and the vision falls,And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.Heaven is not reached at a single bound,But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,And we mount to the summit round by round.—J. G. Holland.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.And we mount to the summit round by round.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.

And we mount to the summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,That a noble deed is a step toward God,Lifting the soul from the common sodTo a purer air and a broader view.

I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step toward God,

Lifting the soul from the common sod

To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet,By what we have mastered of greed and gain,By the pride deposed and the passion slain,And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We rise by the things that are under our feet,

By what we have mastered of greed and gain,

By the pride deposed and the passion slain,

And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,When the morning calls us to life and light;But our hearts grow weary, and ere the nightOur lives are trailing in sordid dust.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light;

But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night

Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,And we think that we mount the air on wings,Beyond the recall of sensual things,While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings,

Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,We may borrow the wings to find the way,We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.

Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,

We may borrow the wings to find the way,

We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,

But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrownFrom the weary earth to the sapphire walls;But the dreams depart and the vision falls,And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;

But the dreams depart and the vision falls,

And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,But we build the ladder by which we riseFrom the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,And we mount to the summit round by round.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound,

But we build the ladder by which we rise

From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

And we mount to the summit round by round.

—J. G. Holland.

The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel;And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”Bun replied,“You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a yearAnd a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.And if I’m not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry!I’ll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel;

And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”

Bun replied,

“You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

And if I’m not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry!

I’ll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Back to Index Next