SOME OF SEVERAL EPISTLES
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I
Commonwealth Avenue
Boston, Massachusetts.
September 15, 1912.
Dear little Smiles:
If you had been able to look inside of my heart when I opened your
present and read your letter, you would have beheld as many different
lights and shadows there as you can see in your own eyes when you look
in the glass over your bureau.
The sight of that little jar, and the scent of the spiced rose-petals,
brought you so near to me that I thought I could almost see you by just
closing my eyes--which may seem to you a funny way of "seeing" a person.
It made me very happy.
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.
Don't let the cold winter that is coming, chill your warm affection for
Your sincere friend,
Donald MacDonald.
P.S. I told Mike what you wrote to him, and he wigwagged a message of
love back to you with his tail.
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II
Big Jerry's Cabin
in Webb's Gap, Virginia.
Sep't. 20, 1912.
Dear Doctor Mac:
Oh, dear doctor, can you ever forgive me for waiting two whole days
before I wrote you back to thank you with all my heart for the many
wonderful things which came in that box? It was like a fairy's treasure
chest. And most of all I am obliged for that letter you wrote me. It was
the first letter I ever got from any one and I shall keep it as long as
I live. I think, of all the things I got, I like that the best. Those
others you could _buy_, but you had to _make_ that yourself,
and it seemed like I could almost hear you talking the words in your
strong voice, like the sound of the falls in the Swift River.
When I looked inside that box I could not make up my mind what I liked
best. The many books kind of scared me when I opened them and remembered
I had got to know all that much; but the book of beautiful poetry I just
love. I have read all of the poetrys and know some of them to speak
already.
Then there is that nurse's dress. O how I love it, and how I wish for
you to see me in it. I plans to put it on a little while everyday and
pretend that I am a real nurse _like I am going to be_. I done it
yesterday, and somehow when I shet my eyes and run my hands over its
crackely stiff whiteness, it seemed to me that the room was full of
sweet little babies for me to take keer of.
And now, doctor, I must tell you that I done what you said for me to do.
I closed my eyes up tight like granddaddy does when I say prayers, and I
saw little Smiles acliming that rough path, and walking along that rough
road you wrote about, but by the side of that long road I kept aseeing
beautiful little flowers what were fading and drooping and calling out
in tiny voices like baby chickens for Rose to keer for them. So doctor,
the picture did not scare me none.
The Lord give Joan of Arc (I know how to spell it now) a silver armor to
protect her, and I reckon the white nurse's dress that you give me is my
armor.
Now doctor I must tell you about little Lou and the wonderful doll you
sent to her. She was so funny when I give it to her that I got a chreek
in my side laughing. First thing, she held it up tight against her and
when it went Ma-a-a-like a calf, she dropped it quick and run and hide
under the bed. But pretty soon she crep out again and I showed her how
to make it shut its eyes.
Then she jumped around and cried. 'O Smiles, hit _kaint_ do them things
but hit _does_ do them.' Well, pretty soon, Judd Amos, her brother, come
in and, when he saw it in Lou's arms, his face got as black as a storm
cloud and he went for to take it away from her.
I just stepped in front of him, and said, 'Judd Amos, if you ever go for
to take that doll baby away from her, or even _touch_ it, I won't never
speak to you again.'
He was powerful mad with me, but he seen that I meant like I said, so
Lou can keep her doll. And what do you think she has named it? She has
named it Mike. Even Judd had to laugh a little when she said that was
the doll baby's name.
I am making baskets as fast as ever I can and Judd is going to take them
to the store at Fayville for me. I went down with him and seen the
storekeeper man myself last week, and he promised me to buy all that he
can from me.
Granddaddy shoots with your rifle gun most every day. He can hit a
string like he used to, but he would not shoot a apple off my head like
a man did in the book that had about Joan of Arc in it, although I
wanted him to.
I have ritten a piece of poetry like Mr. Eugene Fields did, and this is
it
The cold may make my lips turn blue,
But it can't freeze my love for you.
Your happy and loving little friend
Smiles.
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III
Commonwealth Avenue
Boston, Massachusetts.
October 24, 1912.
Proprietor of the General Store,
Fayville, ---- County,
West Virginia.
Dear Sir:
I am informed that you are occasionally purchasing, through one Judd
Amos, of Webb's Gap, sweetgrass baskets made by a little mountain girl
of that settlement.
I am interested in her work, and herewith enclose a money order in the
sum of ten dollars ($10.00) with which I will ask you to purchase at a
rate reasonably in advance of the one you are now paying, all the
baskets which she sends to you. You may express them to my address each
month, and I will forward further funds upon request.
Please do not mention my name in connection with this transaction; but,
if any questions are asked, merely say that you have obtained a city
market for them.
Very truly yours,
(Dr.) Donald MacDonald.
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IV
Webb's Gap. Vir.
November 24, 1912.
Dear Dr. McDonald:
How many letters do you guess I have written to you so far this month?
24. Yes, I have written you a long letter every day, telling you all the
things I did, and thought, but of course I did not mail them, for I knew
that you would get tired of reading them.
But this one I am going to send, for grandfather has asked me to let you
know that he has shot that wild turkey bird for your Thanksgiving--which
is Thursday--and has sent it to you by express package from Fayville. I
was with him when he did it.
Evenings come right early now and we went into the woods just before sun
down. It was right beautiful, and I wished that you could have been with
us. I will try and tell you what I saw like I do in my daily letters
that my teacher says are practice themes. (I could not have spelled that
to save my life a month ago.)
Well, except for the big pine trees which never seem to change, just
like granddaddy, all the tall forest people and the half grown-up
children-bushes, had put on bright new dresses in honor of Thanksgiving
time. They were red, made of many colored patches like Bible Joseph's
coat,--yellow green and brown, some as bright as God could paint the
colors, some soft, like they had been washed and washed.
Granddaddy thought it was beautiful too--although he called it "purty."
But he did not like the brown grass and fallen pine needles, and called
the marsh near the river an ugly mudflat; but _I_ thought it was
beautiful, for that oozy mud was deep purple (the reverend told me the
word), and the little pools of water were all gold. Those are the colors
that kings dress in, yet that old mudflat wore them, too.
Well, finally, when it began to grow dusk, we found a wild turkey bird
roosting on a tree limb and granddaddy said, 'Hush, I aims ter shoot hit
right thru ther head.' When you get it look where the bullet went.
Now perhaps you would like to hear about what I have been doing. Well, I
have been doing many things, but most of all I have been studying.
The minister, whose name is Reverend John Talmadge, came back to our
mountain when it began to get cold, for he is in not very good health
and can't go about much, although he sits out doors most of the time.
He is my very good friend, and I have found out a lot about him. One
thing is that he went to college like you did, and he knows a great deal
more than there is in all those books, even. So you see he can help me a
good deal. He is even going to teach me some Latin, _D. V._ I think that
God must have sent him to our mountain.
Every day I study the books you sent, first with him and then at home,
and I am getting along so nice that last week, when the teacher in our
little school was away, they let me be the teacher.
And who do you think was one of my pupils? It was Judd Amos. He has
bought some books and is learning, too. I reckon he does not want a girl
to be smarter than he is at book learning, which he says is nonsense for
girls. But I know that it is not nonsense. Why, I can travel in far-off
lands and see things that I did not even know _were_, by just reading
books, and the reverend has lent me some to read.
Then I am still making my baskets, and what do you think? The storeman
is buying all I can send him, and paying me more than he used to for
them! He says that city folks like to buy them for they smell so sweet
and like the woods. I am saving all my money and, with what I had, have
nearly $75 already, and, by next summer, will have over $100. Isn't that
wonderful? Granddaddy pays me 10 cents a week for keeping house for him,
too. Isn't he good?
Don't you think I ought to be a very happy little girl? Well, I am, and
I guess my face is getting all out of shape, I find so many things to
smile about.
Your affectionate friend,
Rose.
P. S. Please give my love and a turkey drumstick to Mike.
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V
Commonwealth Avenue
Boston, Massachusetts.
December 23, 1912.
Dear little Smiles:
Although I am very busy, for the Winter has given colds to many little
folks here, I can not let Christmastide go by without writing a letter
to you, little forest friend. It was very dear of you to send me that
basket of holly, which I found waiting for me when I returned, tired
out, last night.
Its dark green leaves and bright red berries looked up at me when I
undid it, almost as though they were your personal messengers and were
trying eagerly to say, "Smiles wishes you a Merry Christmas through us."
The basket was indeed a work of art, but to me it seemed even more than
that--a labor of love.
I could almost imagine you tramping through the snow-covered mountain
woods and gathering the holiday berries, and the picture which my mind
painted was so attractive that I heartily wished I might have been
there, too.
I am delighted with the accounts of the progress you are making in your
studies, and your all-too-infrequent letters themselves tell the story.
I'm afraid that I shall not know you next summer. Write me just as often
as you feel like doing so, dear, and if I do not always reply you may
know that it is only because I am so very busy.
Now I have two pieces of news to tell you. I am sure that you will be
very much pleased with one of them and I hope will be with both.
First, Muriel's mother had a wonderful present just a little ahead of
Christmas day--not from Santa Claus, but from Old Father Stork. It is a
fine baby boy, whose eyes are almost the color of yours, and his name is
to be "Donald MacDonald Thayer." I suppose I have now got to be extra
good in order to set my namesake the right example.
Knowing how dear all little ones are to your heart, I am sure that you
will be almost as pleased as we are over this happy event, and I can
almost see your sweet face light up with its wonderful smile as you read
this.
Second, I am engaged to be married some day, if I can ever find time.
_Her_ name is Marion Treville and she is very good and kind, and every
one thinks she is very beautiful, too.
I hope that you have by this time received the little friendship box
which I sent to you and your grandfather. The dress is a present from
Muriel, who loves your basket more than any of her toys, and continually
speaks of you as her "dear friend Smiles"; the hair ribbon is from Mike
and the book from
Your sincere friend,
Donald MacDonald.
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VI
Webb's Gap
January 7, 1913.
Dear Dr. MacDonald:
When I tell you that there has been a great deal of trouble here, you
will understand why I have not written you long before this, to thank
you for those lovely Christmas presents.
Grandfather was delighted with his tobacco, although he has not smoked
it yet, and all my gifts made me very happy. The dress dear little
Muriel sent me is so lovely that I don't believe I shall ever dare to
wear it, especially as, when grandfather saw me in it, he looked so
sorrowful as he said, 'Hit's powerful purty, but hit haint my Smiles no
more,' that he almost made me cry. I wonder if I can really ever leave
him? He needs me very much now.
Oh, I was so happy for all of you when I read about Muriel having a dear
little baby brother. I sat right down and wrote a verse. The reverend
helped me with some of the words, but still I'm afraid that it is not
very good and I am afraid you will laugh at it. It is the best I can do
now, and I guess I will send it to you in this letter.
Now I must tell you that your friend, my grandfather, has been very sick
since Christmas. The doctor from Fayville has been to see him several
times and he says the trouble is--I know that you will laugh at me now,
but I can only write what it sounds like to me--'Aunt Jina pecks her
wrist.' He has pains in his heart and has to keep very still, which he
does not like to do, so I am the nurse and, whenever I feed him, or give
him the medicine that the doctor left, I put on my nurse's dress.
Of course I have not been able to go to the reverend's for my lessons,
and I have not been able to study much, except when grandfather is
asleep; but he--the reverend, I mean--comes to our house as often as he
can, and we take turns in reading aloud to grandfather, sometimes from
the book you sent me, but most times from the Holy Bible, which he likes
best.
The reverend says that it is better than medicine to sooth a troubled
heart, and I reckon it must be so, for it almost always puts grandfather
to sleep, and the trouble is with his heart, like I told you.
Then, beside that, a little wild mountain flower was born to a neighbor
of ours last week. We tried--oh, so hard--to make it live, but the cold
was so bitter here that God took pity on it and took it back to his
garden in Paradise.
At first I could not help crying, and I came home and tore up the verses
that I wrote, but then I remembered what you told me about the Reaper,
and I went back to the poor, sorrowful mother and told her. And I
remembered what you said about making people smile by smiling myself, so
I did that, too.
This is not a very happy letter, but grandfather is getting better every
day, and summer will soon be here now. The new year seems to me like the
top of a snow covered mountain. When we have climbed over it, it is not
long before we can hurry down into the valley where the sun is warm and
the flowers bloom.
Your affectionate friend,
Rose Webb.
P. S. I am very glad that you are going to be married.
(The Enclosure)
Deep the world with snow was covered,
Cold and barren was the earth,
Low the Christmas angels hovered
As a little babe had birth.
Just a tender little flower,
Dropped upon the world below
Out of God's eternal bower--
Pink as sunrise, white as snow.
But the little blossom stranger,
As its earthly life it starts,
Need fear neither cold nor danger,
For 'tis planted _in our hearts_.
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VII
"Thayerhurst"
Manchester-by-the-sea.
August 15, 1913.
My dear little Smiles:
This is going to be a very short letter, and can you guess why? Early
next month I am going to run away from my work and everything here, and
hurry down to your mountain for two whole weeks of wonderful vacation.
So the next time you hear from me the words will come from my lips
instead of my pen.
I have been very glad indeed to hear that Big Jerry has been so well
this summer, and I am sure that he has many more years of virile health
ahead of him. I am keenly looking forward to seeing him cut a string
with the new rifle.
The weather has been terribly hot in Boston this month and caused much
suffering, but it is quite cool and very pleasant here by the ocean.
Every night that it is possible, I spend here with my sister's family,
partly because I love to see my little namesake, even for a moment,
partly to escape the city's heat and obtain some really refreshing rest.
It makes me almost ashamed sometimes, when I think how comfortable I am,
and how uncomfortable are the little children in the crowded city, most
of whom have no woods, fields and streams like yours to play in, and
many of whom never see anything out of doors except dirty, paved streets
which get so hot that they burn the feet, even though the fire engine
men frequently send rushing streams of water through them.
But I know that a fighter must always keep in the best possible
condition, and we doctors _and nurses_ have declared war on an enemy who
has killed millions and millions, and never takes a day off.
I wonder how you will like the ocean when you see it. Very much, I am
sure, it is so immensely big--like the sky--so beautiful, and more full
of ever-changing colors than even your mountains.
They tell me that little Muriel plays beside it all day long on the fine
white sand and over the rocks, while baby brother lies near by on a
blanket, kicking and gurgling, and holding long, wordless conversations
with the white clouds and sea birds high overhead.
This has been a much longer letter than I expected it to be, and now I
must chop it off short with just five more words,
Your affectionate friend,
Donald MacDonald.