'Smiles': A Rose of the Cumberlands

by Eliot H. Robinson

The letter, too, pleased me a great deal; but I must tell you that it also troubled me. That is when the shadow fell on my thoughts of you.

The reason? I will tell it to you, because I feel that I should, although please do not think that I want to croak like an old black crow in one of your pine trees.

If you have really set your whole heart upon becoming a nurse when you grow up, and your granddaddy has consented, it is not for me to say that you cannot do it. But I do know the path which you must travel. I know that it is much steeper, much more rocky and full of briary bushes than any one your feet have ever climbed on your mountain, and you will have to keep a very brave little heart inside you, if you hope to reach the summit. And then, if you succeed, instead of finding a fairy castle filled with all sorts of pleasant things, you will only discover another long and weary road which must be traveled until your tired little body, and heart, made heavy by the sufferings of little children, long for the quiet restfulness of your dear old mountain home.

Am I still trying to discourage you? I suppose that I am, for, you see, I can look back along that road which lies before you, and I can remember the rocks I had to climb over, and the bushes I had to struggle through, and yet I know that it was far easier for me than it will be for you.

You have read parables in the Bible. Well, I am preaching a modern parable. "Book learning" is a sword and buckler—or perhaps it would be better to say that it is a suit of strong hunting clothes and thick leather knee-boots, and I was pretty well clad like that when I started my trip, while you are dressed only in thin gingham, with your legs and feet bare—as I first saw you. Please shut your eyes, dear child, and try to see the parable picture I have drawn for you.

Have you done it? The picture is not as pretty as the one I painted the night I told about how fine it was to be a nurse, is it? But it is more nearly true to life.

Now, think hard before you make up your mind as to whether or not you really mean to go ahead, for—after all, little Smiles—each boy and girl has soon to decide, all alone, what he or she is going to do with that strange thing which we call life.

If your courage is really as strong as that of the wonderful Joan of Arc, I, too, believe that you can succeed and make your dream come true, and of course I will help you, gladly—in every way that I can.

Now I am all through preaching. It is out of my line, and I promise not to do it again. Within a few days you will, I hope, get a boxful of the books which I have sent you as you asked me. Most of them are just what you wanted—school books—but on my own hook I added one or two not strictly for study—like plums in a dry bread pudding. And, of course, there is something else in the box and I guess that you can guess what it is.

This, little Smiles, is the longest letter I ever wrote to anybody, I think. Don't you feel proud? It must end now, however; but not before I ask you to give my best regards to your kind granddaddy.