



Produced by Diane Bean







THE STORY OF MY LIFE

By Helen Keller

With Her Letters (1887-1901) And Supplementary Account of Her Education,
Including Passages from the Reports and Letters of her Teacher, Anne
Mansfield Sullivan, By John Albert Macy

Special Edition

CONTAINING ADDITIONAL CHAPTERS BY HELEN KELLER

  To ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL

  Who has taught the deaf to speak
  and enabled the listening ear to hear speech
  from the Atlantic to the Rockies,
  I dedicate this Story of My Life.




Editor's Preface

This book is in three parts. The first two, Miss Keller's story and the
extracts from her letters, form a complete account of her life as far as
she can give it. Much of her education she cannot explain herself, and
since a knowledge of that is necessary to an understanding of what she
has written, it was thought best to supplement her autobiography with
the reports and letters of her teacher, Miss Anne Mansfield Sullivan.
The addition of a further account of Miss Keller's personality and
achievements may be unnecessary; yet it will help to make clear some of
the traits of her character and the nature of the work which she and her
teacher have done.

For the third part of the book the Editor is responsible, though all
that is valid in it he owes to authentic records and to the advice of
Miss Sullivan.

The Editor desires to express his gratitude and the gratitude of Miss
Keller and Miss Sullivan to The Ladies' Home Journal and to its editors,
Mr. Edward Bok and Mr. William V. Alexander, who have been unfailingly
kind and have given for use in this book all the photographs which were
taken expressly for the Journal; and the Editor thanks Miss Keller's
many friends who have lent him her letters to them and given him
valuable information; especially Mrs. Laurence Hutton, who supplied
him with her large collection of notes and anecdotes; Mr. John Hitz,
Superintendent of the Volta Bureau for the Increase and Diffusion of
Knowledge relating to the Deaf; and Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins, to whom Miss
Sullivan wrote those illuminating letters, the extracts from which give
a better idea of her methods with her pupil than anything heretofore
published.

Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company have courteously permitted the
reprinting of Miss Keller's letter to Dr. Holmes, which appeared in
"Over the Teacups," and one of Whittier's letters to Miss Keller. Mr.
S. T. Pickard, Whittier's literary executor, kindly sent the original of
another letter from Miss Keller to Whittier.

John Albert Macy.

Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 1, 1903.




 TABLE OF CONTENTS

 Editor's Preface
 Part I. The Story of My Life   Chapter I-XXIII
     II. Introduction to Letters, Letters
     III. A Supplementary Account of Helen Keller's Life and

          Education
        Chapter I. The Writing of the Book
                II. Personality
                III. Education
                IV. Speech
                V. Literary Style




I. THE STORY OF MY LIFE



CHAPTER I

It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life.
I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that
clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an
autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest
impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that
link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences
in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first
years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest."
Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their
poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education
have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order,
therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of
sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting
and important.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern
Alabama.

The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native
of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was
the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on the subject
of their education--rather a singular coincidence; though it is true
that there is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and
no slave who has not had a king among his.

My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in
Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he
went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase supplies
for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of the
letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of these
trips.

My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides,
Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early
Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to Robert E.
Lee.

My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army, and
my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger. Her
grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E. Goodhue, and lived in
Newbury, Massachusetts, for many years. Their son, Charles Adams, was
born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and moved to Helena, Arkansas. When
the Civil War broke out, he fought on the side of the South and became
a brigadier-general. He married Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the
same family of Everetts as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale.
After the war was over the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.

I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and
hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small
one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a
small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such
a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my
mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines,
climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an
arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow
roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds
and bees.

The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from our
little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and the
surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy.
Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.

Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the square
stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell would find the
first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to
find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What
joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily
from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I
recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine which
covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden!
Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare
sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals
resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses--they were loveliest of all.
Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heart-satisfying
roses as the climbing roses of my southern home. They used to hang
in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with their
fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning,
washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not help
wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.

The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little
life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always
does. There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me.
The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named, every one was
emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of Mildred Campbell,
an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined to take any further
part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem by giving it as
her wish that I should be called after her mother, whose maiden name was
Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church my father
lost the name on the way, very naturally, since it was one in which he
had declined to have a part. When the minister asked him for it, he just
remembered that it had been decided to call me after my grandmother, and
he gave her name as Helen Adams.

I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of
an eager, self-asserting disposition. Everything that I saw other people
do I insisted upon imitating. At six months I could pipe out "How d'ye,"
and one day I attracted every one's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea"
quite plainly. Even after my illness I remembered one of the words I had
learned in these early months. It was the word "water," and I continued
to make some sound for that word after all other speech was lost. I
ceased making the sound "wah-wah" only when I learned to spell the word.

They tell me I walked the day I was a year old. My mother had just
taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was
suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in
the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and
almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down and cried for her
to take me up in her arms.

These happy days did not last long. One brief spring, musical with the
song of robin and mocking-bird, one summer rich in fruit and roses, one
autumn of gold and crimson sped by and left their gifts at the feet of
an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February,
came the illness which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the
unconsciousness of a new-born baby. They called it acute congestion of
the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one
morning, however, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it
had come. There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no
one, not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.

I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I
especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to soothe
me in my waling hours of fret and pain, and the agony and bewilderment
with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and turned my eyes, so
dry and hot, to the wall away from the once-loved light, which came
to me dim and yet more dim each day. But, except for these fleeting
memories, if, indeed, they be memories, it all seems very unreal, like
a nightmare. Gradually I got used to the silence and darkness that
surrounded me and forgot that it had ever been different, until she
came--my teacher--who was to set my spirit free. But during the first
nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields,
a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could
not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what
the day has shown."



CHAPTER II

I cannot recall what happened during the first months after my illness.
I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to her dress as she
went about her household duties. My hands felt every object and observed
every motion, and in this way I learned to know many things. Soon I
felt the need of some communication with others and began to make crude
signs. A shake of the head meant "No" and a nod, "Yes," a pull meant
"Come" and a push, "Go." Was it bread that I wanted? Then I would
imitate the acts of cutting the slices and buttering them. If I wanted
my mother to make ice-cream for dinner I made the sign for working the
freezer and shivered, indicating cold. My mother, moreover, succeeded
in making me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wished me
to bring her something, and I would run upstairs or anywhere else she
indicated. Indeed, I owe to her loving wisdom all that was bright and
good in my long night.

I understood a good deal of what was going on about me. At five I
learned to fold and put away the clean clothes when they were brought
in from the laundry, and I distinguished my own from the rest. I knew
by the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out, and I
invariably begged to go with them. I was always sent for when there was
company, and when the guests took their leave, I waved my hand to them,
I think with a vague remembrance of the meaning of the gesture. One day
some gentlemen called on my mother, and I felt the shutting of the front
door and other sounds that indicated their arrival. On a sudden thought
I ran upstairs before any one could stop me, to put on my idea of a
company dress. Standing before the mirror, as I had seen others do, I
anointed mine head with oil and covered my face thickly with powder.
Then I pinned a veil over my head so that it covered my face and fell in
folds down to my shoulders, and tied an enormous bustle round my small
waist, so that it dangled behind, almost meeting the hem of my skirt.
Thus attired I went down to help entertain the company.

I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other
people; but I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that
my mother and my friends did not use signs as I did when they wanted
anything done, but talked with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between
two persons who were conversing and touched their lips. I could not
understand, and was vexed. I moved my lips and gesticulated frantically
without result. This made me so angry at times that I kicked and
screamed until I was exhausted.

I think I knew when I was naughty, for I knew that it hurt Ella, my
nurse, to kick her, and when my fit of temper was over I had a feeling
akin to regret. But I cannot remember any instance in which this feeling
prevented me from repeating the naughtiness when I failed to get what I
wanted.

In those days a little <DW52> girl, Martha Washington, the child of
our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were
my constant companions. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I
seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished. It pleased
me to domineer over her, and she generally submitted to my tyranny
rather than risk a hand-to-hand encounter. I was strong, active,
indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always
had my own way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent
a great deal of time in the kitchen, kneading dough balls, helping make
ice-cream, grinding coffee, quarreling over the cake-bowl, and feeding
the hens and turkeys that swarmed about the kitchen steps. Many of them
were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them.
One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it.
Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the
woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of
it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook
the turkey.

The guinea-fowl likes to hide her nest in out-of-the-way places, and it
was one of my greatest delights to hunt for the eggs in the long grass.
I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to go egg-hunting,
but I would double my hands and put them on the ground, which meant
something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were
fortunate enough to find a nest I never allowed her to carry the eggs
home, making her understand by emphatic signs that she might fall and
break them.

The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were
kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were
unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me. The milkers would let
me keep my hands on the cows while they milked, and I often got well
switched by the cow for my curiosity.

The making ready for Christmas was always a delight to me. Of course I
did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours
that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha
Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were sadly in the way, but that
did not interfere with our pleasure in the least. They allowed us to
grind the spices, pick over the raisins and lick the stirring spoons.
I hung my stocking because the others did; I cannot remember, however,
that the ceremony interested me especially, nor did my curiosity cause
me to wake before daylight to look for my gifts.

Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two little
children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July afternoon.
One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with
shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews. The other
was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, the
other two or three years older. The younger child was blind--that was
I--and the other was Martha Washington. We were busy cutting out paper
dolls; but we soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our
shoestrings and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were
within reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected
at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn about is
fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and
would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.

Belle, our dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to sleep
by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard to teach
her my sign language, but she was dull and inattentive. She sometimes
started and quivered with excitement, then she became perfectly rigid,
as dogs do when they point a bird. I did not then know why Belle acted
in this way; but I knew she was not doing as I wished. This vexed me and
the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up,
stretch herself lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to
the opposite side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and
disappointed, went off in search of Martha.

Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory, isolated,
but clear and distinct, making the sense of that silent, aimless,
dayless life all the more intense.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it out to
dry before the fire which was flickering on the sitting-room hearth. The
apron did not dry quickly enough to suit me, so I drew nearer and threw
it right over the hot ashes. The fire leaped into life; the flames
encircled me so that in a moment my clothes were blazing. I made a
terrified noise that brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing
a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire.
Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.

About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I locked my
mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as
the servants were in a detached part of the house. She kept pounding on
the door, while I sat outside on the porch steps and laughed with glee
as I felt the jar of the pounding. This most naughty prank of mine
convinced my parents that I must be taught as soon as possible. After
my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity
to lock her in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother
made me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I
given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid the key
under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to tell where the
key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and take Miss Sullivan
out through the window--much to my delight. Months after I produced the
key.

When I was about five years old we moved from the little vine-covered
house to a large new one. The family consisted of my father and mother,
two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a little sister, Mildred. My
earliest distinct recollection of my father is making my way through
great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding
a sheet of paper before his face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he
was doing. I imitated this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking
they might help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for
several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my father
edited one of them.

My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home, seldom
leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great hunter, I have
been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his family he loved his dogs
and gun. His hospitality was great, almost to a fault, and he seldom
came home without bringing a guest. His special pride was the big garden
where, it was said, he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in
the county; and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest
berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to tree,
from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever pleased me.

He was a famous story-teller; after I had acquired language he used to
spell clumsily into my hand his cleverest anecdotes, and nothing pleased
him more than to have me repeat them at an opportune moment.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of
1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He had had a short
illness, there had been a brief time of acute suffering, then all was
over. This was my first great sorrow--my first personal experience with
death.

How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it almost
seems indelicate to speak of her.

For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I knew that
I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the thought filled me
with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap constantly, where I used to
sit, and seemed to take up all her care and time. One day something
happened which seemed to me to be adding insult to injury.

At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I afterward
named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my outbursts of
temper and of affection, so that she became much the worse for wear. I
had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened and shut their eyes; yet
I never loved one of them as I loved poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I
often spent an hour or more rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle
with the most jealous care; but once I discovered my little sister
sleeping peacefully in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of
one to whom as yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon
the cradle and over-turned it, and the baby might have been killed had
my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we walk in
the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the tender affections
that grow out of endearing words and actions and companionship. But
afterward, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew
into each other's hearts, so that we were content to go hand-in-hand
wherever caprice led us, although she could not understand my finger
language, nor I her childish prattle.



CHAPTER III

Meanwhile the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became
less and less adequate, and my failures to make myself understood were
invariably followed by outbursts of passion. I felt as if invisible
hands were holding me, and I made frantic efforts to free myself.
I struggled--not that struggling helped matters, but the spirit of
resistance was strong within me; I generally broke down in tears and
physical exhaustion. If my mother happened to be near I crept into her
arms, too miserable even to remember the cause of the tempest. After
awhile the need of some means of communication became so urgent that
these outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.

My parents were deeply grieved and perplexed. We lived a long way from
any school for the blind or the deaf, and it seemed unlikely that any
one would come to such an out-of-the-way place as Tuscumbia to teach
a child who was both deaf and blind. Indeed, my friends and relatives
sometimes doubted whether I could be taught. My mother's only ray of
hope came from Dickens's "American Notes." She had read his account of
Laura Bridgman, and remembered vaguely that she was deaf and blind, yet
had been educated. But she also remembered with a hopeless pang that Dr.
Howe, who had discovered the way to teach the deaf and blind, had been
dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and if they had
not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in Alabama to receive the
benefit of them?

When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent oculist
in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that had seemed
hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to Baltimore to see
if anything could be done for my eyes.

The journey, which I remember well was very pleasant. I made friends
with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My
father made holes in these so that I could string them, and for a long
time they kept me happy and contented. The conductor, too, was kind.
Often when he went his rounds I clung to his coat tails while he
collected and punched the tickets. His punch, with which he let me play,
was a delightful toy. Curled up in a corner of the seat I amused myself
for hours making funny little holes in bits of cardboard.

My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical
shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears or
eyes--nothing that even the imagination of a child could convert into a
face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck me more than all
the other defects put together. I pointed this out to everybody with
provoking persistency, but no one seemed equal to the task of providing
the doll with eyes. A bright idea, however, shot into my mind, and the
problem was solved. I tumbled off the seat and searched under it until
I found my aunt's cape, which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two
beads off and indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on my
doll. She raised my hand to her eyes in a questioning way, and I nodded
energetically. The beads were sewed in the right place and I could not
contain myself for joy; but immediately I lost all interest in the doll.
During the whole trip I did not have one fit of temper, there were so
many things to keep my mind and fingers busy.

When we arrived in Baltimore, Dr. Chisholm received us kindly: but
he could do nothing. He said, however, that I could be educated, and
advised my father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell of Washington,
who would be able to give him information about schools and teachers
of deaf or blind children. Acting on the doctor's advice, we went
immediately to Washington to see Dr. Bell, my father with a sad heart
and many misgivings, I wholly unconscious of his anguish, finding
pleasure in the excitement of moving from place to place. Child as I
was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr.
Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their
admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he
made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved
him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door
through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to
friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the
Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours
for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my
education. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came
a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that
a teacher had been found. This was in the summer of 1886. But Miss
Sullivan did not arrive until the following March.

Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine
touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And
from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love
and light and vision."



CHAPTER IV

The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my
teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder
when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which
it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was
seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb,
expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the
hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to
happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun
penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell
on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the
familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the
sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or
surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for
weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a
tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and
anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line,
and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like
that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or
sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was.
"Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light
of love shone on me in that very hour.

I felt approaching footsteps, I stretched out my hand as I supposed to
my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the
arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all
things else, to love me.

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me
a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent
it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until
afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan
slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested
in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded
in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and
pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the
letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even
that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like
imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this
uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pin, hat, cup and
a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me
several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my
big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me
understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had
a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried
to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water,
but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped
the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I
became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll,
I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the
fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret
followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still,
dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness.
I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I
had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was
removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm
sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought,
made me hop and skip with pleasure.

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance
of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water
and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed
over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly,
then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions
of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something
forgotten--a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of
language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the
wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living
word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were
barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept
away.

I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each
name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every
object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because
I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On
entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way
to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them
together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had
done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.

I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they
all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among
them--words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's
rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child
than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of that eventful day and
lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for
a new day to come.



CHAPTER V

I recall many incidents of the summer of 1887 that followed my soul's
sudden awakening. I did nothing but explore with my hands and learn the
name of every object that I touched; and the more I handled things and
learned their names and uses, the more joyous and confident grew my
sense of kinship with the rest of the world.

When the time of daisies and buttercups came Miss Sullivan took me by
the hand across the fields, where men were preparing the earth for the
seed, to the banks of the Tennessee River, and there, sitting on the
warm grass, I had my first lessons in the beneficence of nature. I
learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every
tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build
their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the
deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter. As my
knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I
was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the
shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the
fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples
of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature,
and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers."

But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is
not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long
ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry
when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped
to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild
cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and
the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was
able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the
tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I
promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it.

Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the
air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light
to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the
earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm,
and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone,
cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown,
enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept
over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted
to get down from that tree.

There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring
of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a
blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with
might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped
and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but
terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The
branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now
and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled
up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the
highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall
together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her,
trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had
learned a new lesson--that nature "wages open war against her children,
and under softest touch hides treacherous claws."

After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree.
The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement
of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One
beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading,
I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up
and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of
spring had passed through the summer-house. "What is it?" I asked, and
the next minute I recognized the odour of the mimosa blossoms. I felt my
way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the
fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in
the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long
grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world
before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch;
it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I
made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for
one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space
between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had
some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and
the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing
something unusual and wonderful so I kept on climbing higher and higher,
until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago
that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long
time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many
happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming
bright dreams.



CHAPTER VI

I had now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it.
Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the
words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were,
delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow
and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is
wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until
we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable
and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.

At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few
questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as
my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field
of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same
subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an
image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain.

I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word,
"love." This was before I knew many words. I had found a few early
violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss
me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my
mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my
hand, "I love Helen."

"What is love?" I asked.

She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart,
whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me
very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched
it.

I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs,
a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"

"No," said my teacher.

Again I thought. The warm sun was shining on us.

"Is this not love?" I asked, pointing in the direction from which the
heat came. "Is this not love?"

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun,
whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head,
and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my
teacher could not show me love.

A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in
symmetrical groups--two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had
made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and
again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error
in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the
lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss
Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think."

In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was
going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an
abstract idea.

For a long time I was still--I was not thinking of the beads in my lap,
but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new
idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief
showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour.

Again I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"

"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun
came out," she replied. Then in simpler words than these, which at that
time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the
clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers
and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch
love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything.
Without love you would not be happy or want to play."

The beautiful truth burst upon my mind--I felt that there were invisible
lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others.

From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to
speak to me as she would speak to any hearing child; the only difference
was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking
them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my
thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was
unable to keep up my end of the dialogue.

This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does
not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless
idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse.
The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and
imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and
suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own
thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child.
My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus
I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim,
what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the
conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the
initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate
to say at the right time.

The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities
of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the
case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the
tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of
tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression
of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one
says.



CHAPTER VII

The next important step in my education was learning to read.

As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of
cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly
learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a
quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little
sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make
them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for
example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object;
then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside
the doll, thus making a sentence of the words, and at the same time
carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.

One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore
and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in,
wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I
played it for hours at a time. Often everything in the room was arranged
in object sentences.

From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my
"Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found
them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to
read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak
later.

For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most
earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan
taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever
anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just
as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with
dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder
definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.

I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my
pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association
with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for
description. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and
never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the
day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of
science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not
help remembering what she taught.

We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the
house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods--the
fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild
grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to
think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. "The loveliness of
things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, or
buzz, or sing, or bloom had a part in my education-noisy-throated
frogs, katydids and crickets held in my hand until forgetting their
embarrassment, they trilled their reedy note, little downy chickens
and wildflowers, the dogwood blossoms, meadow-violets and budding fruit
trees. I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber
and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the
cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant
snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in
his mouth--ah me! how well I remember the spicy, clovery smell of his
breath!

Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew
lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses
pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies
as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the
flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings
rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware
of a pressure from without.

Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened
early in July. The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my
hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled
at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my
pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still
warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!

Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumbledown
lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to
land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning
geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug
river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson.
I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of
the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving
rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in
clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow
with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the
division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind.
The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles
seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone
suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should
set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the
North Pole.

Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the
first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan
tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by
arranging kintergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had
patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had
accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out
quickly to find my playmates.

In this same leisurely manner I studied zoology and botany.

Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of
fossils--tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone
with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These
were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for
me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions
of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once
went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches
of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown
age. For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this
gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with
sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof.

Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise
and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil
for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze
stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the
Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." After I had learned a great many
interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the
sea--how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the
beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the
chalk-hills of many a land--my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus,"
and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is
symbolical of the development of the mind. Just as the wonder-working
mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water
and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers
undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.

Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a
lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the
green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike
leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal
the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening
process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was
always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed
her outer, covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky
robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more
timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was
one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.

Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full
of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about
them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the
tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers.
One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and
fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than
alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But
no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom,
swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he
had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass
house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of
froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the
garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint
love-song.

Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little
mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed
them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and
was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to
point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in
thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which
made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she
seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant
and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow
brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its
education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy
cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like
a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until
it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid
surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue
heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.

Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can
make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty
is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory
and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the
tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a
dull routine of textbooks.

My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from
her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how
much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is
inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in
hers. All the best of me belongs to her--there is not a talent, or
an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving
touch.



CHAPTER VIII

The first Christmas after Miss Sullivan came to Tuscumbia was a great
event. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what
pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody
else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and
amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints
and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick
of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught
me more about the use of language than any set lessons could have done.
Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing
game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached.

On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which
they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful
tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with
strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced
and capered round the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there
was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had
prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children. In
the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but
when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin
almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those
of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher
said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was
persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and
leave the others until morning.

That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time,
pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would
do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear
in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my
first "Merry Christmas!" I found surprises, not in the stocking
only, but on the table, on all the chairs, at the door, on the very
window-sill; indeed, I could hardly walk without stumbling on a bit of
Christmas wrapped up in tissue paper. But when my teacher presented me
with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed.

Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied
cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of
my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his
cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the
well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing.

One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch
water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I
opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when
I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch
or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should
never see my sweet little singer again.



CHAPTER IX

The next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, in May,
1888. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure
with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival
in Boston. How different this journey was from the one I had made to
Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little
creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep
me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager
interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window:
the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and
woods, and the crowds of laughing <DW64>s at the stations, who waved to
the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls
through the car. On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in
a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of
two bead eyes. Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's
descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms,
but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she
was asleep.

As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell
here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was
covered with dirt--the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat,
although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress
at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath.
This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless
heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the
two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully.

When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a
beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the
"far-away country" was here.

We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when
I began to make friends with the little blind children. It delighted me
inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to
talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like
a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura
Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to
appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not
see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children
who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind.
I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they
placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read
books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and
although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely
that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight,"
and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another
deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented
that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship.

One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in
my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to
another as the days flew swiftly by. I could not quite convince myself
that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning
and the end of creation.

While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first
lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot
where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the
steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had
climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.

The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the
ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion
it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering,
and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able
to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in
the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in
Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the
Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have
often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind
gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the
split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in
my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.

How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their
enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that
ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom
of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and
disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make
us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that
gave us our "Country Beautiful."

Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and
his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant
memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home
at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their
rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with
long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses,
poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also
remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand.
It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand,
mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about
the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I
saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me;
indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "the City of Kind
Hearts."



CHAPTER X

Just before the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, it was
arranged that my teacher and I should spend our vacation at Brewster,
on Cape Cod, with our dear friend, Mrs. Hopkins. I was delighted, for my
mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had
heard about the sea.

My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always
lived far inland and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but
I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean
which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the
mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped high with eager
excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized.

No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon
the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water.
I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water
filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave
place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant
there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grasp
some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves
tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves
seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another
in their wild frolic. It was fearful! The good, firm earth had slipped
from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange,
all-enveloping element--life, air, warmth and love. At last, however,
the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in
another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort
of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic
sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water?"

After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought
it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after
wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite
covered me. I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their
ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by
their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The
breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and
I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of
the rushing sea!

I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted,
fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells
and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it
never lost their fascination for me. One day Miss Sullivan attracted
my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the
shallow water. It was a great horseshoe crab--the first one I had ever
seen. I felt of him and thought it very strange that he should carry
his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a
delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried
him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and
it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss
Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well
where I was confident he would be secure. But next morning I went to the
trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or
how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little
by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this
poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in
the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea.



CHAPTER XI

In the autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous
memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the
richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It
seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a
new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and
information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never
still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects
that crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I met many people who
talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous sympathy
leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The
barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the
rose.

I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a
mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry,
because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned.
Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks
above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the
rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which
completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams.
The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and
splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of
which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the
odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood--an illusive,
fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places the wild
muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making
arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It
was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled
wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that
came up from the earth at the close of day.

Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of
the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each
side of a long open hall. Round the house was a wide piazza, where the
mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza
most of the time--there we worked, ate and played. At the back door
there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built,
and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel
the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the
autumn blast.

Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. In the evening, by the campfire, the
men played cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport. They told
stories of their wonderful feats with fowl, fish and quadruped--how
many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had
caught, and how they had bagged the craftiest foxes, outwitted the most
clever 'possums and overtaken the fleetest deer, until I thought that
surely the lion, the tiger, the bear and the rest of the wild tribe
would not be able to stand before these wily hunters. "To-morrow to the
chase!" was their good-night shout as the circle of merry friends broke
up for the night. The men slept in the hall outside our door, and I
could feel the deep breathing of the dogs and the hunters as they lay on
their improvised beds.

At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the rattling of guns,
and the heavy footsteps of the men as they strode about, promising
themselves the greatest luck of the season. I could also feel the
stamping of the horses, which they had ridden out from town and hitched
under the trees, where they stood all night, neighing loudly, impatient
to be off. At last the men mounted, and, as they say in the old songs,
away went the steeds with bridles ringing and whips cracking and hounds
racing ahead, and away went the champion hunters "with hark and whoop
and wild halloo!"

Later in the morning we made preparations for a barbecue. A fire was
kindled at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground, big sticks were laid
crosswise at the top, and meat was hung from them and turned on spits.
Around the fire squatted <DW64>s, driving away the flies with long
branches. The savoury odour of the meat made me hungry long before the
tables were set.

When the bustle and excitement of preparation was at its height, the
hunting party made its appearance, struggling in by twos and threes, the
men hot and weary, the horses covered with foam, and the jaded hounds
panting and dejected--and not a single kill! Every man declared that he
had seen at least one deer, and that the animal had come very close;
but however hotly the dogs might pursue the game, however well the
guns might be aimed, at the snap of the trigger there was not a deer
in sight. They had been as fortunate as the little boy who said he came
very near seeing a rabbit--he saw his tracks. The party soon forgot its
disappointment, however, and we sat down, not to venison, but to a tamer
feast of veal and roast pig.

One summer I had my pony at Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty, as I
had just read the book, and he resembled his namesake in every way, from
his glossy black coat to the white star on his forehead. I spent many of
my happiest hours on his back. Occasionally, when it was quite safe,
my teacher would let go the leading-rein, and the pony sauntered on or
stopped at his sweet will to eat grass or nibble the leaves of the trees
that grew beside the narrow trail.

On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would
start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves
to get lost amid the trees and vines, with no road to follow except
the paths made by cows and horses. Frequently we came upon impassable
thickets which forced us to take a round about way. We always returned
to the cottage with armfuls of laurel, goldenrod, ferns and gorgeous
swamp-flowers such as grow only in the South.

Sometimes I would go with Mildred and my little cousins to gather
persimmons. I did not eat them; but I loved their fragrance and enjoyed
hunting for them in the leaves and grass. We also went nutting, and I
helped them open the chestnut burrs and break the shells of hickory-nuts
and walnuts--the big, sweet walnuts!

At the foot of the mountain there was a railroad, and the children
watched the trains whiz by. Sometimes a terrific whistle brought us to
the steps, and Mildred told me in great excitement that a cow or a
horse had strayed on the track. About a mile distant there was a trestle
spanning a deep gorge. It was very difficult to walk over, the ties were
wide apart and so narrow that one felt as if one were walking on knives.
I had never crossed it until one day Mildred, Miss Sullivan and I were
lost in the woods, and wandered for hours without finding a path.

Suddenly Mildred pointed with her little hand and exclaimed, "There's
the trestle!" We would have taken any way rather than this; but it was
late and growing dark, and the trestle was a short cut home. I had to
feel for the rails with my toe; but I was not afraid, and got on
very well, until all at once there came a faint "puff, puff" from the
distance.

"I see the train!" cried Mildred, and in another minute it would have
been upon us had we not climbed down on the crossbraces while it rushed
over our heads. I felt the hot breath from the engine on my face, and
the smoke and ashes almost choked us. As the train rumbled by, the
trestle shook and swayed until I thought we should be dashed to the
chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track. Long
after dark we reached home and found the cottage empty; the family were
all out hunting for us.



CHAPTER XII

After my first visit to Boston, I spent almost every winter in the
North. Once I went on a visit to a New England village with its frozen
lakes and vast snow fields. It was then that I had opportunities such as
had never been mine to enter into the treasures of the snow.

I recall my surprise on discovering that a mysterious hand had stripped
the trees and bushes, leaving only here and there a wrinkled leaf. The
birds had flown, and their empty nests in the bare trees were filled
with snow. Winter was on hill and field. The earth seemed benumbed by
his icy touch, and the very spirits of the trees had withdrawn to their
roots, and there, curled up in the dark, lay fast asleep. All life
seemed to have ebbed away, and even when the sun shone the day was

     Shrunk and cold,
     As if her veins were sapless and old,
     And she rose up
     decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea.

The withered grass and the bushes were transformed into a forest of
icicles.

Then came a day when the chill air portended a snowstorm. We rushed
out-of-doors to feel the first few tiny flakes descending. Hour by hour
the flakes dropped silently, softly from their airy height to the earth,
and the country became more and more level. A snowy night closed upon
the world, and in the morning one could scarcely recognize a feature
of the landscape. All the roads were hidden, not a single landmark was
visible, only a waste of snow with trees rising out of it.

In the evening a wind from the northeast sprang up, and the flakes
rushed hither and thither in furious melee. Around the great fire we sat
and told merry tales, and frolicked, and quite forgot that we were in
the midst of a desolate solitude, shut in from all communication with
the outside world. But during the night the fury of the wind increased
to such a degree that it thrilled us with a vague terror. The rafters
creaked and strained, and the branches of the trees surrounding the
house rattled and beat against the windows, as the winds rioted up and
down the country.

On the third day after the beginning of the storm the snow ceased. The
sun broke through the clouds and shone upon a vast, undulating
white plain. High mounds, pyramids heaped in fantastic shapes, and
impenetrable drifts lay scattered in every direction.

Narrow paths were shoveled through the drifts. I put on my cloak and
hood and went out. The air stung my cheeks like fire. Half walking in
the paths, half working our way through the lesser drifts, we succeeded
in reaching a pine grove just outside a broad pasture. The trees stood
motionless and white like figures in a marble frieze. There was no odour
of pine-needles. The rays of the sun fell upon the trees, so that the
twigs sparkled like diamonds and dropped in showers when we touched
them. So dazzling was the light, it penetrated even the darkness that
veils my eyes.

As the days wore on, the drifts gradually shrunk, but before they were
wholly gone another storm came, so that I scarcely felt the earth under
my feet once all winter. At intervals the trees lost their icy covering,
and the bulrushes and underbrush were bare; but the lake lay frozen and
hard beneath the sun.

Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places
the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water's edge. Down these
steep <DW72>s we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy
would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping
hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming
surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For
one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and
joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!



CHAPTER XIII

It was in the spring of 1890 that I learned to speak. The impulse to
utter audible sounds had always been strong within me. I used to make
noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other hand felt the
movements of my lips. I was pleased with anything that made a noise and
liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my
hand on a singer's throat, or on a piano when it was being played.
Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was fast learning to talk, but
after my illness it was found that I had ceased to speak because I could
not hear. I used to sit in my mother's lap all day long and keep my
hands on her face because it amused me to feel the motions of her lips;
and I moved my lips, too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My
friends say that I laughed and cried naturally, and for awhile I
made many sounds and word-elements, not because they were a means of
communication, but because the need of exercising my vocal organs was
imperative. There was, however, one word the meaning of which I still
remembered, WATER. I pronounced it "wa-wa." Even this became less and
less intelligible until the time when Miss Sullivan began to teach me.
I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my
fingers.

I had known for a long time that the people about me used a method of
communication different from mine; and even before I knew that a deaf
child could be taught to speak, I was conscious of dissatisfaction with
the means of communication I already possessed. One who is entirely
dependent upon the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint,
of narrowness. This feeling began to agitate me with a vexing,
forward-reaching sense of a lack that should be filled. My thoughts
would often rise and beat up like birds against the wind, and I
persisted in using my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage this
tendency, fearing lest it would lead to disappointment. But I persisted,
and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of
this great barrier--I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.

In 1890 Mrs. Lamson, who had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, and
who had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden, came to see me,
and told me of Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had
actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had scarcely finished telling
me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I
resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied
until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah
Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured
lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of
March, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face,
and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a
sound. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned
six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven
lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt
when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they
were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My
soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching
through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has
never heard--to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone
of love, no song of bird, no strain of music ever pierces the
stillness--can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery
which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one
can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones,
trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight I felt when at my call
Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable
boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no
interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words
that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.

But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time.
I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan
could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word
in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements,
I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius,
untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far
as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night
and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends;
in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in
my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds
in a thousand ways. Even now she calls my attention every day to
mispronounced words.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can at all
appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In
reading my teacher's lips I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had
to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the
movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this
sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or
sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own
voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and
weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that
I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished,
spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my
achievement.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than
all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I
could not be despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my
mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to
find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and
I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part;
but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for
it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.

Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet,
which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. One who reads or
talks to me spells with his hand, using the single-hand manual alphabet
generally employed by the deaf. I place my hand on the hand of the
speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the
hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter
any more than you see each letter separately when you read. Constant
practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell
rapidly--about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere
spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.

When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last
the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey,
talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but
determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the
train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood
the whole family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother
pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking
in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free
hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and
affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaiah's prophecy had been
fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before
you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their
hands!"



CHAPTER XIV

The winter of 1892 was darkened by the one cloud in my childhood's
bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in
doubt, anxiety and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the
thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called
"The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins
Institution for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to
make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts connected with this
episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate.

I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to
speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we
were there, Miss Sullivan had described to me the beauties of the late
foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of
a story, which must have been read to me, and which I must have
unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story,"
as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas
should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in
the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and
as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille
slate. Now, if words and images come to me without effort, it is a
pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but
stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed
everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot
be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in
books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me
through the medium of others' eyes and ears.

When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall
now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and
my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word
corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were
surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it
in a book.

This question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest
recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no,
it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."

Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It
was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves"
to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the
post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little
dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King," and published it in
one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my
happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had
been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story
similar to "The Frost King," called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret
T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and
His Friends." The two stories were so much alike in thought and language
that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that
mine was--a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but
when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank
deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself;
I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it
possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall
anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost
King"; but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack
Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I
had not used that in my composition.

At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He
was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow
lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as
pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which
took place very soon after I received the sad news.

I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well
I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn
leaves that wreathed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in
my hands, and beneath all the piety of the masque the oppressive sense
of coming ill that made my heart heavy.

The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution
had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was
telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and
his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my
words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost
Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I
had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.

Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived,
turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed,
or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen
the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his
admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of
the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was
asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what
seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to
acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to
me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in
their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me
reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The
blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak,
except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a
dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was
allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's
caresses, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave
little girl and they were proud of me.

As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept.
I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought
comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older,
it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of
forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and
all the bitterness of those sad days.

Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book
in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham
Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out
that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and
His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at
Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me
that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried
to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not
remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt
sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the
disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a short time
before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as
old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was
probably among them.

The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling
of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do
almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single
circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot
help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the
intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing
is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though
for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.

When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost
Fairies," probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord
Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else.
But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and
that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that
I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.

In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the
friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present
time.

Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story
out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this
kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words
again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been
tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time,
when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden
feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to
make sure that I had not read them in a book. Had it not been for the
persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given
up trying to write altogether.

I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which
I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to
Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like
those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this
letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was
saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the
golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for
the flight of summer"--an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.

This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my
own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at
writing. In a composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece
and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions, with variations, from
sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity
and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about
Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every
bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr.
Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These
ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever
thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet
I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little
composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I
could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and
animated language.

Those early compositions were mental gymnastics. I was learning, as all
young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation,
to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I
retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it.
The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy
whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with
astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice
that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which
come thronging through every byway of the mind.

I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that
I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read,
because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind.
Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very
much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned
to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends--pretty
bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to
touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude
notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions
of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty
of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our
confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more
than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much
like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in
mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the
spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep
on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not
willing to acknowledge defeat.

"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says
Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to
outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own
thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and
hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost
King" trammel my efforts.

So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some
of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in
the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.

Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home
Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that
at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He
says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted
of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says,
thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the
others did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote
with those who were favourable to me.

But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have
cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often
held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my
frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that
there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and
subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems
to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he
evidently retracted his favourable judgment, why I do not know. Nor did
I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of
the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too excited
to notice anything, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could
scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.

I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was
important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no
misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me,
without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.



CHAPTER XV

The summer and winter following the "Frost King" incident I spent with
my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything
had budded and blossomed. I was happy. "The Frost King" was forgotten.

When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn,
and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour at the end of the
garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a
sketch of my life--a year after I had written "The Frost King."

I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought
that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one
knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented
me from referring to the "Frost King"; and often when an idea flashed
out in the course of conversation I would spell softly to her, "I am
not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was
writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was
written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched my hand, so that
I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the
same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in
every way she could think of; but the terrible experience I had passed
through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of
which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of
restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write for the
Youth's Companion a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years
old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems
to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would
come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed.

I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who
knew that if I persevered, I should find my mental foothold again and
get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the "Frost King" episode,
I had lived the unconscious life of a little child; now my thoughts were
turned inward, and I beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from
the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and
with a truer knowledge of life.

The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during
the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and
the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly
interrupted and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible
for me to give a connected account of them.

We went to Niagara in March, 1893. It is difficult to describe my
emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls
and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.

It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the
wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking: "What does this
beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up
the beach or hear their roar. What do they mean to you?" In the most
evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their
meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or
goodness.

During the summer of 1893, Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair
with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I recall with unmixed delight those days
when a thousand childish fancies became beautiful realities. Every day
in imagination I made a trip round the world, and I saw many wonders
from the uttermost parts of the earth--marvels of invention, treasuries
of industry and skill and all the activities of human life actually
passed under my finger tips.

I liked to visit the Midway Plaisance. It seemed like the "Arabian
Nights," it was crammed so full of novelty and interest. Here was
the India of my books in the curious bazaar with its Shivas and
elephant-gods; there was the land of the Pyramids concentrated in a
model Cairo with its mosques and its long processions of camels; yonder
were the lagoons of Venice, where we sailed every evening when the city
and the fountains were illuminated. I also went on board a Viking
ship which lay a short distance from the little craft. I had been on
a man-of-war before, in Boston, and it interested me to see, on this
Viking ship, how the seaman was once all in all--how he sailed and took
storm and calm alike with undaunted heart, and gave chase to whosoever
reechoed his cry, "We are of the sea!" and fought with brains and
sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrust into the
background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is to-day. So it always
is--"man only is interesting to man."

At a little distance from this ship there was a model of the Santa
Maria, which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and
the desk with an hour-glass on it. This small instrument impressed me
most because it made me think how weary the heroic navigator must have
felt as he saw the sand dropping grain by grain while desperate men were
plotting against his life.

Mr. Higinbotham, President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me
permission to touch the exhibits, and with an eagerness as insatiable
as that with which Pizarro seized the treasures of Peru, I took in
the glories of the Fair with my fingers. It was a sort of tangible
kaleidoscope, this white city of the West. Everything fascinated me,
especially the French bronzes. They were so lifelike, I thought they
were angel visions which the artist had caught and bound in earthly
forms.

At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit, I learned much about the processes of
mining diamonds. Whenever it was possible, I touched the machinery
while it was in motion, so as to get a clearer idea how the stones were
weighed, cut, and polished. I searched in the washings for a diamond and
found it myself--the only true diamond, they said, that was ever found
in the United States.

Dr. Bell went everywhere with us and in his own delightful way described
to me the objects of greatest interest. In the electrical building we
examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs, and other inventions,
and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires
that mock space and outrun time, and, like Prometheus, to draw fire from
the sky. We also visited the anthropological department, and I was much
interested in the relics of ancient Mexico, in the rude stone implements
that are so often the only record of an age--the simple monuments of
nature's unlettered children (so I thought as I fingered them) that seem
bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in dust
away--and in the Egyptian mummies, which I shrank from touching. From
these relics I learned more about the progress of man than I have heard
or read since.

All these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary,
and in the three weeks I spent at the Fair I took a long leap from the
little child's interest in fairy tales and toys to the appreciation of
the real and the earnest in the workaday world.



CHAPTER XVI

Before October, 1893, I had studied various subjects by myself in a more
or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the
United States. I had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already
knew some French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short
exercises, using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules
and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without
aid, to master the French pronunciation, as I found all the letters and
sounds described in the book. Of course this was tasking slender powers
for great ends; but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and
I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure
La Fontaine's "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgre Lui" and passages from
"Athalie."

I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read
aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favourite poets,
which I had committed to memory; she corrected my pronunciation and
helped me to phrase and inflect. It was not, however, until October,
1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit
to the World's Fair, that I began to have lessons in special subjects at
fixed hours.

Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting
the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, was
a good Latin scholar; it was arranged that I should study under him. I
remember him as a man of rare, sweet nature and of wide experience.
He taught me Latin grammar principally; but he often helped me in
arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. Mr.
Irons also read with me Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I had read many books
before, but never from a critical point of view. I learned for the first
time to know an author, to recognize his style as I recognize the clasp
of a friend's hand.

At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd
to waste time analyzing, every word I came across--noun, genitive,
singular, feminine--when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might
just as well describe my pet in order to know it--order, vertebrate;
division, quadruped; class, mammalia; genus, felinus; species, cat;
individual, Tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject, I became more
interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused
myself by reading Latin passages, picking up words I understood and
trying to make sense. I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting
images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming
familiar with--ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted
by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at my lessons, spelling
into my hand whatever Mr. Irons said, and looking up new words for me. I
was just beginning to read Caesar's "Gallic War" when I went to my home
in Alabama.



CHAPTER XVII

In the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the
American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf.
There it was arranged that I should go to the Wright-Humason School for
the Deaf in New York City. I went there in October, 1894, accompanied
by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen especially for the purpose
of obtaining the highest advantages in vocal culture and training in
lip-reading. In addition to my work in these subjects, I studied, during
the two years I was in the school, arithmetic, physical geography,
French and German.

Miss Reamy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet, and after
I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in German
whenever we had a chance, and in a few months I could understand almost
everything she said. Before the end of the first year I read "Wilhelm
Tell" with the greatest delight. Indeed, I think I made more progress
in German than in any of my other studies. I found French much more
difficult. I studied it with Madame Olivier, a French lady who did not
know the manual alphabet, and who was obliged to give her instruction
orally. I could not read her lips easily; so my progress was much slower
than in German. I managed, however, to read "Le Medecin Malgre Lui"
again. It was very amusing but I did not like it nearly so well as
"Wilhelm Tell."

My progress in lip-reading and speech was not what my teachers and I had
hoped and expected it would be. It was my ambition to speak like other
people, and my teachers believed that this could be accomplished; but,
although we worked hard and faithfully, yet we did not quite reach our
goal. I suppose we aimed too high, and disappointment was therefore
inevitable. I still regarded arithmetic as a system of pitfalls. I hung
about the dangerous frontier of "guess," avoiding with infinite
trouble to myself and others the broad valley of reason. When I was not
guessing, I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition
to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties more than was right or
necessary.

But although these disappointments caused me great depression at times,
I pursued my other studies with unflagging interest, especially physical
geography. It was a joy to learn the secrets of nature: how--in the
picturesque language of the Old Testament--the winds are made to blow
from the four corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the
ends of the earth, how rivers are cut out among the rocks, and mountains
overturned by the roots, and in what ways man may overcome many forces
mightier than himself. The two years in New York were happy ones, and I
look back to them with genuine pleasure.

I remember especially the walks we all took together every day in
Central Park, the only part of the city that was congenial to me. I
never lost a jot of my delight in this great park. I loved to have
it described every time I entered it; for it was beautiful in all its
aspects, and these aspects were so many that it was beautiful in a
different way each day of the nine months I spent in New York.

In the spring we made excursions to various places of interest. We
sailed on the Hudson River and wandered about on its green banks, of
which Bryant loved to sing. I liked the simple, wild grandeur of the
palisades. Among the places I visited were West Point, Tarrytown, the
home of Washington Irving, where I walked through "Sleepy Hollow."

The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were always planning how they
might give the pupils every advantage that those who hear enjoy--how
they might make much of few tendencies and passive memories in the cases
of the little ones--and lead them out of the cramping circumstances in
which their lives were set.

Before I left New York, these bright days were darkened by the greatest
sorrow that I have ever borne, except the death of my father. Mr. John
P. Spaulding, of Boston, died in February, 1896. Only those who knew and
loved him best can understand what his friendship meant to me. He, who
made every one happy in a beautiful, unobtrusive way, was most kind and
tender to Miss Sullivan and me. So long as we felt his loving presence
and knew that he took a watchful interest in our work, fraught with so
many difficulties, we could not be discouraged. His going away left a
vacancy in our lives that has never been filled.



CHAPTER XVIII

In October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be
prepared for Radcliffe.

When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley and surprised my friends
by the announcement, "Some day I shall go to college--but I shall go
to Harvard!" When asked why I would not go to Wellesley, I replied that
there were only girls there. The thought of going to college took root
in my heart and became an earnest desire, which impelled me to enter
into competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face
of the strong opposition of many true and wise friends. When I left
New York the idea had become a fixed purpose; and it was decided that
I should go to Cambridge. This was the nearest approach I could get to
Harvard and to the fulfillment of my childish declaration.

At the Cambridge School the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the
classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given.

Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but
normal pupils, and my only means of conversing with them was reading
their lips. My studies for the first year were English history, English
literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional
themes. Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of
preparing for college; but I had been well drilled in English by Miss
Sullivan, and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no
special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books
prescribed by the college. I had had, moreover, a good start in French,
and received six months' instruction in Latin; but German was the
subject with which I was most familiar.

In spite, however, of these advantages, there were serious drawbacks to
my progress. Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all that the
books required, and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in
time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia
were willing to hasten the work. For a while, indeed, I had to copy
my Latin in braille, so that I could recite with the other girls. My
instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech
to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes. I could not make
notes in class or write exercises; but I wrote all my compositions and
translations at home on my typewriter.

Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my
hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said. In study hours
she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books
I did not have in raised print. The tedium of that work is hard to
conceive. Frau Grote, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal,
were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to
give me instruction. No one realized more fully than dear Frau Grote how
slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, in the goodness of
her heart she laboriously spelled out her instructions to me in special
lessons twice a week, to give Miss Sullivan a little rest. But, though
everybody was kind and ready to help us, there was only one hand that
could turn drudgery into pleasure.

That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar, and read
three chapters of Caesar's "Gallic War." In German I read, partly with
my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's assistance, Schiller's "Lied
von der Glocke" and "Taucher," Heine's "Harzreise," Freytag's "Aus dem
Staat Friedrichs des Grossen," Riehl's "Fluch Der Schonheit," Lessing's
"Minna von Barnhelm," and Goethe's "Aus meinem Leben." I took the
greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller's wonderful
lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great's magnificent achievements
and the account of Goethe's life. I was sorry to finish "Die Harzreise,"
so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad
hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions,
sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished,
imaginative age--descriptions such as can be given only by those to whom
nature is "a feeling, a love and an appetite."

Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature. We
read together, "As You Like It," Burke's "Speech on Conciliation with
America," and Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson." Mr. Gilman's broad
views of history and literature and his clever explanations made my
work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read
notes mechanically with the necessarily brief explanations given in the
classes.

Burke's speech was more instructive than any other book on a political
subject that I had ever read. My mind stirred with the stirring times,
and the characters round which the life of two contending nations
centred seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while
Burke's masterly speech rolled on in mighty surges of eloquence, how it
was that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear
to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation. Then I
entered into the melancholy details of the relation in which the great
statesman stood to his party and to the representatives of the people. I
thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom
should have fallen among the tares of ignorance and corruption.

In a different way Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson" was interesting.
My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in
Grub Street, and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body
and soul, always had a kind word, and lent a helping hand to the poor
and despised. I rejoiced over all his successes, I shut my eyes to
his faults, and wondered, not that he had them, but that they had not
crushed or dwarfed his soul. But in spite of Macaulay's brilliancy
and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and
picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times, and his frequent
sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude
very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the
Demosthenes of Great Britain.

At the Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the
companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age. I lived with
several others in one of the pleasant houses connected with the school,
the house where Mr. Howells used to live, and we all had the advantage
of home life. I joined them in many of their games, even blind man's
buff and frolics in the snow; I took long walks with them; we discussed
our studies and read aloud the things that interested us. Some of the
girls learned to speak to me, so that Miss Sullivan did not have to
repeat their conversation.

At Christmas, my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me,
and Mr. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school. So
Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge, and for six happy months we were
hardly ever apart. It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent
helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together.

I took my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June
to the 3rd of July in 1897. The subjects I offered were Elementary and
Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history,
making nine hours in all. I passed in everything, and received "honours"
in German and English.

Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my
examinations will not be amiss here. The student was required to pass in
sixteen hours--twelve hours being called elementary and four advanced.
He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted. The
examination papers were given out at nine o'clock at Harvard and brought
to Radcliffe by a special messenger. Each candidate was known, not
by his name, but by a number. I was No. 233, but, as I had to use a
typewriter, my identity could not be concealed.

It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by
myself, because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other
girls. Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual
alphabet. A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption.

The first day I had German. Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper
through first, then sentence by sentence, while I repeated the words
aloud, to make sure that I understood him perfectly. The papers were
difficult, and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the
typewriter. Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written, and I made such
changes as I thought necessary, and he inserted them. I wish to say here
that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations. At
Radcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written, and I
have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is
up. In that case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few
minutes allowed, and make notes of these corrections at the end of my
paper. If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the
finals, there are two reasons. In the finals, no one read my work over
to me, and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I
was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school; for at
the beginning of the year I had passed examinations in English, History,
French and German, which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard
papers.

Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with a certificate that
I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.

All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same
manner. None of them was so difficult as the first. I remember that the
day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and
informed me I had passed satisfactorily in German. This encouraged me
greatly, and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light heart and a
steady hand.



CHAPTER XIX

When I began my second year at the Gilman school, I was full of hope
and determination to succeed. But during the first few weeks I was
confronted with unforeseen difficulties. Mr. Gilman had agreed that that
year I should study mathematics principally. I had physics, algebra,
geometry, astronomy, Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, many of the books
I needed had not been embossed in time for me to begin with the classes,
and I lacked important apparatus for some of my studies. The classes I
was in were very large, and it was impossible for the teachers to give
me special instruction. Miss Sullivan was obliged to read all the books
to me, and interpret for the instructors, and for the first time in
eleven years it seemed as if her dear hand would not be equal to the
task.

It was necessary for me to write algebra and geometry in class and solve
problems in physics, and this I could not do until we bought a braille
writer, by means of which I could put down the steps and processes of my
work. I could not follow with my eyes the geometrical figures drawn on
the blackboard, and my only means of getting a clear idea of them was
to make them on a cushion with straight and curved wires, which had bent
and pointed ends. I had to carry in my mind, as Mr. Keith says in his
report, the lettering of the figures, the hypothesis and conclusion, the
construction and the process of the proof. In a word, every study had
its obstacles. Sometimes I lost all courage and betrayed my feelings in
a way I am ashamed to remember, especially as the signs of my trouble
were afterward used against Miss Sullivan, the only person of all the
kind friends I had there, who could make the crooked straight and the
rough places smooth.

Little by little, however, my difficulties began to disappear. The
embossed books and other apparatus arrived, and I threw myself into the
work with renewed confidence. Algebra and geometry were the only studies
that continued to defy my efforts to comprehend them. As I have said
before, I had no aptitude for mathematics; the different points were
not explained to me as fully as I wished. The geometrical diagrams
were particularly vexing because I could not see the relation of the
different parts to one another, even on the cushion. It was not until
Mr. Keith taught me that I had a clear idea of mathematics.

I was beginning to overcome these difficulties when an event occurred
which changed everything.

Just before the books came, Mr. Gilman had begun to remonstrate with
Miss Sullivan on the ground that I was working too hard, and in spite
of my earnest protestations, he reduced the number of my recitations. At
the beginning we had agreed that I should, if necessary, take five years
to prepare for college, but at the end of the first year the success of
my examinations showed Miss Sullivan, Miss Harbaugh (Mr. Gilman's head
teacher), and one other, that I could without too much effort complete
my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman at first agreed to this;
but when my tasks had become somewhat perplexing, he insisted that I was
overworked, and that I should remain at his school three years longer. I
did not like his plan, for I wished to enter college with my class.

On the seventeenth of November I was not very well, and did not go
to school. Although Miss Sullivan knew that my indisposition was not
serious, yet Mr. Gilman, on hearing of it, declared that I was breaking
down and made changes in my studies which would have rendered it
impossible for me to take my final examinations with my class. In the
end the difference of opinion between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan
resulted in my mother's withdrawing my sister Mildred and me from the
Cambridge school.

After some delay it was arranged that I should continue my studies under
a tutor, Mr. Merton S. Keith, of Cambridge. Miss Sullivan and I spent
the rest of the winter with our friends, the Chamberlins in Wrentham,
twenty-five miles from Boston.

From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came out to Wrentham twice a
week, and taught me algebra, geometry, Greek and Latin. Miss Sullivan
interpreted his instruction.

In October, 1898, we returned to Boston. For eight months Mr. Keith gave
me lessons five times a week, in periods of about an hour. He explained
each time what I did not understand in the previous lesson, assigned
new work, and took home with him the Greek exercises which I had written
during the week on my typewriter, corrected them fully, and returned
them to me.

In this way my preparation for college went on without interruption.
I found it much easier and pleasanter to be taught by myself than to
receive instruction in class. There was no hurry, no confusion. My tutor
had plenty of time to explain what I did not understand, so I got on
faster and did better work than I ever did in school. I still found more
difficulty in mastering problems in mathematics than I did in any other
of my studies. I wish algebra and geometry had been half as easy as
the languages and literature. But even mathematics Mr. Keith made
interesting; he succeeded in whittling problems small enough to get
through my brain. He kept my mind alert and eager, and trained it to
reason clearly, and to seek conclusions calmly and logically, instead of
jumping wildly into space and arriving nowhere. He was always gentle and
forbearing, no matter how dull I might be, and believe me, my stupidity
would often have exhausted the patience of Job.

On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my final examinations for
Radcliffe College. The first day I had Elementary Greek and Advanced
Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and Advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read the
examination papers to me; so Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the
instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was employed to
copy the papers for me in American braille. Mr. Vining was a stranger
to me, and could not communicate with me, except by writing braille. The
proctor was also a stranger, and did not attempt to communicate with me
in any way.

The braille worked well enough in the languages, but when it came to
geometry and algebra, difficulties arose. I was sorely perplexed, and
felt discouraged wasting much precious time, especially in algebra. It
is true that I was familiar with all literary braille in common use in
this country--English, American, and New York Point; but the various
signs and symbols in geometry and algebra in the three systems are very
different, and I had used only the English braille in my algebra.

Two days before the examinations, Mr. Vining sent me a braille copy of
one of the old Harvard papers in algebra. To my dismay I found that it
was in the American notation. I sat down immediately and wrote to Mr.
Vining, asking him to explain the signs. I received another paper and a
table of signs by return mail, and I set to work to learn the notation.
But on the night before the algebra examination, while I was struggling
over some very complicated examples, I could not tell the combinations
of bracket, brace and radical. Both Mr. Keith and I were distressed and
full of forebodings for the morrow; but we went over to the college a
little before the examination began, and had Mr. Vining explain more
fully the American symbols.

In geometry my chief difficulty was that I had always been accustomed
to read the propositions in line print, or to have them spelled into
my hand; and somehow, although the propositions were right before me, I
found the braille confusing, and could not fix clearly in my mind what
I was reading. But when I took up algebra I had a harder time still.
The signs, which I had so lately learned, and which I thought I knew,
perplexed me. Besides, I could not see what I wrote on my typewriter. I
had always done my work in braille or in my head. Mr. Keith had relied
too much on my ability to solve problems mentally, and had not trained
me to write examination papers. Consequently my work was painfully slow,
and I had to read the examples over and over before I could form any
idea of what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now that I read
all the signs correctly. I found it very hard to keep my wits about me.

But I do not blame any one. The administrative board of Radcliffe did
not realize how difficult they were making my examinations, nor did
they understand the peculiar difficulties I had to surmount. But if they
unintentionally placed obstacles in my way, I have the consolation of
knowing that I overcame them all.



CHAPTER XX

The struggle for admission to college was ended, and I could now enter
Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college, however, it was
thought best that I should study another year under Mr. Keith. It was
not, therefore, until the fall of 1900 that my dream of going to college
was realized.

I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest
for me. I had looked forward to it for years. A potent force within
me, stronger than the persuasion of my friends, stronger even than
the pleadings of my heart, had impelled me to try my strength by the
standards of those who see and hear. I knew that there were obstacles
in the way; but I was eager to overcome them. I had taken to heart the
words of the wise Roman who said, "To be banished from Rome is but to
live outside of Rome." Debarred from the great highways of knowledge,
I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequented
roads--that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths
where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and
struggling like me.

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening
in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all
things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another. Its
people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible
interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the
spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were
the embodiment of wisdom. If I have since learned differently, I am not
going to tell anybody.

But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum
I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young
inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common
day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going
to college.

The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time
to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening
and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in
leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet
chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there
is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn,
it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one
leaves the dearest pleasures--solitude, books and imagination--outside
with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in
the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I
am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a
rainy day.

My studies the first year were French, German, history, English
composition and English literature. In the French course I read some
of the works of Corneille, Moliere, Racine, Alfred de Musset and
Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed
rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire
to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically
Milton's poems and "Areopagitica."

I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which
I work in college. In the classroom I am of course practically alone.
The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone.
The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much
of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep
in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a
hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much
worse off than the girls who take notes. If the mind is occupied
with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at
pell-mell speed, I should not think one could pay much attention to the
subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented.
I cannot make notes during the lectures, because my hands are busy
listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get
home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-tests,
the mid-year and final examinations, on my typewriter, so that the
professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When
I began the study of Latin prosody, I devised and explained to my
professor a system of signs indicating the different meters and
quantities.

I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the
Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this
machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several
shuttles, each with a different set of characters--Greek, French, or
mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the
typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.

Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed
for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand.
Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls.
The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have
not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details
chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a
few chapters, while in the world without other girls are laughing and
singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy
and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, after all, every one who
wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and
since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own
way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the
edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep
it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more
eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every
struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud,
the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always
alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E.
Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of
the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their
thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they
can ever know.

Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition,
the Bible as English composition, the governments of America and Europe,
the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the
pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting,
vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland,
more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you
literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour
you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters
without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine
thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old
Testament, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go
home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which
spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a
new growth on the ancient stem of time."

This year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially
interest me, economics, Elizabethan literature, Shakespeare under
Professor George L. Kittredge, and the History of Philosophy under
Professor Josiah Royce. Through philosophy one enters with sympathy
of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of
thought, which erewhile seemed alien and without reason.

But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was. There one does
not meet the great and the wise face to face; one does not even feel
their living touch. They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified.
We must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and
analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah,
and not merely a clever imitation. Many scholars forget, it seems to me,
that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon
the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is
that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The
mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. It is possible to
know a flower, root and stem and all, and all the processes of growth,
and yet to have no appreciation of the flower fresh bathed in heaven's
dew. Again and again I ask impatiently, "Why concern myself with these
explanations and hypotheses?" They fly hither and thither in my thought
like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean
to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object
only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach
but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men. But when a
great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master
said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind." He brings back
Shakespeare, the poet.

There are, however, times when I long to sweep away half the things I am
expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it
has secured at the greatest cost. It is impossible, I think, to read in
one day four or five different books in different languages and treating
of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for
which one reads. When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind
written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a
lot of choice bric-a-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the
present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost
despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the
region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull
in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come
crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape
them, theme-goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until
I wish--oh, may I be forgiven the wicked wish!--that I might smash the
idols I came to worship.

But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although
I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the
dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob
Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before
these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic
formula and indigestible dates--unpalatable diets, until you wish that
books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea.

At last the dreaded hour arrives, and you are a favoured being indeed
if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your
standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens
too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and
exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a
nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings
and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble
invariably fail you at a pinch.

"Give a brief account of Huss and his work." Huss? Who was he and what
did he do? The name looks strangely familiar. You ransack your budget
of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag-bag.
You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top--you saw it
there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the
Reformation. But where is it now? You fish out all manner of odds
and ends of knowledge--revolutions, schisms, massacres, systems of
government; but Huss--where is he? You are amazed at all the things you
know which are not on the examination paper. In desperation you seize
the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your
man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the
catastrophe which he has brought upon you.

Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up. With a feeling of
intense disgust you kick the mass of rubbish into a corner and go home,
your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of
professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned.

It comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I
have used figures which will turn the laugh against me. Ah, here they
are--the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me, pointing
to the bull in the china shop assailed by hailstones and the bugbears
with pale looks, an unanalyzed species! Let them mock on. The words
describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling, tumbling ideas I live
in that I will wink at them for once, and put on a deliberate air to say
that my ideas of college have changed.

While my days at Radcliffe were still in the future, they were encircled
with a halo of romance, which they have lost; but in the transition from
romantic to actual I have learned many things I should never have known
had I not tried the experiment. One of them is the precious science of
patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would
take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to
impressions of every sort. Such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a
soundless tidal wave of deepening thought. "Knowledge is power."
Rather, knowledge is happiness, because to have knowledge--broad, deep
knowledge--is to know true ends from false, and lofty things from low.
To know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress is to
feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if
one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must
indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.



CHAPTER XXI

I have thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how
much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom
they bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to
others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have meant so
much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back
to the time when I began to read.

I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years
old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape
of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger
tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years
of my education; nor did I read according to rule.

At first I had only a few books in raised print--"readers" for
beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the
earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over
and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely
make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my
hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I
preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again
and again the things that pleased me.

It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read
in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the
Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take
down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I
understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves
fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind
must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it
retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had
not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write,
these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally, so that my
friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read
parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one
book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way,
until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of
any consequence I read understandingly.

One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over
the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I
remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of
the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful
story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better
than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But
we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay
at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot
the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends
in Boston, leaving me for a short time.

When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story
of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when
we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a
warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which
swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had
hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might
have as long an afternoon as possible for the story. As we hastened
through the long grass toward the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed
about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that
my teacher insisted upon picking them all off before we sat down, which
seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with
pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The
warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The
air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story
Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not
understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words.
At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was
constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the
situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere
words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that
Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired
to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my
deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters
with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.

Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed,
and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all
through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle
companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious,
because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and
confused memories of earlier reading.

From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest
in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on
my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what
order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La
Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's
"Tales from Shakespeare," "A Child's History of England" by Dickens,
"The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's
Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful
little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the
intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of
pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them--I did not know whether they
were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship.
They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept
the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because
it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and
hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look
between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my
own.

I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I
did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first
in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted
fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in
spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language,
I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which
animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed
to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my
mind to the exclusion of the moral.

Then, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our highest moral
sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love.
Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs
wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and
restrained by reason, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge,
self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for
La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely
ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical
fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and
foxes.

But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel
a genuine interest in the animals themselves, because they are real
animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and
hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And
if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity.
Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In
my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked
face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those
I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes
and demigods--no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and
Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why
the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their
wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

God can dumbness keep While Sin creeps grinning through His house of
Time.

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the
story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had
little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures
after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether
written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a
responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great
works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious
comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one
should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts
and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and
appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater
riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I
am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide
and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that
splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad,
I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping
circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten--my
world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the
heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the
less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or
dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me
especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his
gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and
love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the
Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and
lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful,
animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad
was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have
traveled round the word many times while I trudged my weary way through
the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those
dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for
the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of
Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable
to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a
turn in the road.

I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it
seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit
was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday
morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a
story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand,
she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers.
Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition
made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I
fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers
came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their
wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should
have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid
of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several
Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories
of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and
therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the
stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained
the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred
to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."

But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the
Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and
inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much
in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much
that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through
from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have
gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant
details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr.
Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is
ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to
having these great works weakened or falsified.

There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible
directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic
than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows
her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath.
Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the
noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but
if I live, my people shall live."

The story of Ruth, too--how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the
life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital!
Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she
stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish
spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel
age. Love like Ruth's, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and
deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.

The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are
temporal, and things unseen are eternal."

I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that
I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's
"Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with
a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have
impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of
the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches
pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger
and Lady Macbeth's little white hand--the dreadful stain was as real to
me as to the grief-stricken queen.

I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the
feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloster's eyes are
put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for
one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred
that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.

I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same
time, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember
that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good
even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or
to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to
condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks,
the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of
good which shall in due time be made whole.

It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left
me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays--the
ones I like best now--appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps
because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's
life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child:
what it will hold, and what it will lose."

I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and know parts of them
by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in
them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a
meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But, with all my
love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings
into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used
to try to remember their interpretations, but they discouraged and vexed
me; so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This
compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under
Professor Kittredge. I know there are many things in Shakespeare, and
in the world, that I do not understand; and I am glad to see veil after
veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty.

Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that
I have been able to lay my hands on, from a catalogue of dry facts and
dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English
People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton's "Middle Ages."
The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was
Swinton's "World History," which I received on my thirteenth birthday.
Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it
ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of
men spread from land to land and built great cities, how a few great
rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a
decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them
upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and
knowledge and broke ground for the mightier growths of coming ages; how
civilization underwent as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age,
and rose again, like the Phoenix, among the nobler sons of the North;
and how by liberty, tolerance and education the great and the wise have
opened the way for the salvation of the whole world.

In my college reading I have become somewhat familiar with French and
German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth
before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement,
sledge-hammer vigour about everything that he does. When he speaks, it
is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did
not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.

Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like;
but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming
potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all
German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":

All things transitory But as symbols are sent. Earth's insufficiency
Here grows to event. The indescribable Here it is done. The Woman Soul
leads us upward and on!

Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Moliere and Racine
best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Merimee which
strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset is impossible!
I admire Victor Hugo--I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his
romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo
and Goethe and Schiller and all great poets of all great nations are
interpreters of eternal things, and my spirit reverently follows them
into the regions where Beauty and Truth and Goodness are one.

I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I
have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one
might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and
undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many
writers for many reasons--Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of
shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an
exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's
quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like
Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the
gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in
reading his poems. I love Mark Twain--who does not? The gods, too, loved
him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he
should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love
and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I
love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine
of optimism--fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash
of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.

In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No
barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of
my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness.
The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of
ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and
heavenly charities."



CHAPTER XXII

I trust that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on
books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are
many and varied.

More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of
the country and out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I
learned to row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham,
Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater
pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of
course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits in
the stern and manages the rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go
rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of
watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use
oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks,
and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly
poised. In the same manner I can also tell when I am pulling against the
current. I like to contend with wind and wave. What is more exhilarating
than to make your staunch little boat, obedient to your will and muscle,
go skimming lightly over glistening, tilting waves, and to feel the
steady, imperious surge of the water!

I also enjoy canoeing, and I suppose you will smile when I say that I
especially like it on moonlight nights. I cannot, it is true, see the
moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the
heavens, making a shining path for us to follow; but I know she is
there, and as I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water,
I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes. Sometimes
a daring little fish slips between my fingers, and often a pond-lily
presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter
of a cove or inlet, I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the
air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it comes
from the trees which have been heated by the sun, or from the water, I
can never discover. I have had the same strange sensation even in the
heart of the city. I have felt it on cold, stormy days and at night. It
is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.

My favourite amusement is sailing. In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova
Scotia, and had opportunities such as I had not enjoyed before to make
the acquaintance of the ocean. After spending a few days in Evangeline's
country, about which Longfellow's beautiful poem has woven a spell of
enchantment, Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax, where we remained the
greater part of the summer. The harbour was our joy, our paradise. What
glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin, to McNabb's Island, to York
Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous
hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war. Oh, it was
all so interesting, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.

One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the
Northwest Arm, in which the boats from the different warships were
engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the
races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and
the sea was calm. When the races were over, and we turned our faces
homeward, one of the party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the
sea, which grew and spread and thickened until it covered the whole sky.
The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers. Our
little boat confronted the gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes
taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled in the billows,
now she spring upward on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with
angry howl and hiss. Down came the mainsail. Tacking and jibbing,
we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with
impetuous fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with
excitement, not fear, for we had the hearts of vikings, and we knew that
our skipper was master of the situation. He had steered through many
a storm with firm hand and sea-wise eye. As they passed us, the large
craft and the gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted
applause for the master of the only little sail-boat that ventured out
into the storm. At last, cold, hungry and weary, we reached our pier.

Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most
charming villages in New England. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated
with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King
Philip's Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family, was
my home. I remember with deepest gratitude the kindness of these dear
friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet companionship
of their children meant much to me. I joined in all their sports and
rambles through the woods and frolics in the water. The prattle of the
little ones and their pleasure in the stories I told them of elf and
gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr.
Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower,
until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak,
and saw the sun glint from leaf to leaf.

  Thus it is that
  Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
  Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
  Of sunshine and wide air and winged things,
  By sympathy of nature, so do
  I gave evidence of things unseen.

It seems to me that there is in each of us a capacity to comprehend the
impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the
beginning. Each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth
and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this
gift from past generations. This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth
sense--a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.

I have many tree friends in Wrentham. One of them, a splendid oak, is
the special pride of my heart. I take all my other friends to see this
king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's Pond, and
those who are wise in tree lore say it must have stood there eight
hundred or a thousand years. There is a tradition that under this tree
King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, gazed his last on earth and sky.

I had another tree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great
oak--a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon,
during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the
side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden
had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many
tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily
striven and was now mightily fallen.

But I must not forget that I was going to write about last summer in
particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I
hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of
the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, sunny days
were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were
thrust into the background. In Wrentham we caught echoes of what was
happening in the world--war, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the
cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away Pacific, and learned of the
struggles going on between capital and labour. We knew that beyond the
border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows
when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these
things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and
broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall
endure forever.

People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the
ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any difference, except
possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets
and in country roads. They forget that my whole body is alive to the
conditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of
my face, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the
dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard
pavements and the monotonous clangour of machinery are all the more
torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the
panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can
see.

In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not
saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the
crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets
where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good
people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong
and beautiful, while others are condemned to live in hideous, sunless
tenements and grow ugly, withered and cringing. The children who crowd
these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your
outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crouch
in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men
and women, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their
hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence
must be--no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do
something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and
opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all we say, but
are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the
air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man,
and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would
that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its
gold, and return to wood and field and simple, honest living! Then would
their children grow stately as noble trees, and their thoughts sweet and
pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when
I return to the country after a year of work in town.

What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once
more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe
my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a
stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous
gladness!

Next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is
splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of
my iron steed. The rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense
of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my
heart sing.

Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or
sail. I have had many dog friends--huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels,
wood-wise setters and honest, homely bull terriers. At present the lord
of my affections is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree,
a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends seem
to understand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I
am alone. I love their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their
tails.

When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of
other girls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky
way I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of
checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play
these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them
firmly. The black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top.
Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be
placed to distinguish the king from the commons. The chessmen are of
two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble
in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the
board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to
another tells me when it is my turn.

If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of
solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the
upper right-hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of
the card.

If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic
with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am
glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show
me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot
spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not
succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the
wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the
pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them
a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.

Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration.
Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight
can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is
true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art.
As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and
emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods
and heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living
faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and
freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion
and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and
gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barre's bronzes the secrets of the
jungle are revealed to me.

A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so
that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving
reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow--tracks of
life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes
seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of
his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and
true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with
sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation--the perpetual night
in which he dwelt--

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!

In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating
steps he gropes his way from camp to camp--singing of life, of love, of
war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful,
glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal crown, the
admiration of all ages.

I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of
sculpture than the eye. I should think the wonderful rhythmical flow of
lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it may,
I know that I can feel the heart-throbs of the ancient Greeks in their
marble gods and goddesses.

Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to
the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being
acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if
I were living in the midst of stirring events. It has been my privilege
to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so
bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the
romantic past. I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of
Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was
about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir
Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of
intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues
and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. In the king's face,
which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of
grief which I shall never forget.

I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to count him among my friends. I
go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting. The first
time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van
Winkle." I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of
Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jefferson's,
beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight.
I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose.
After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and
I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson
let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking
from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old
Rip staggered to his feet.

I have also seen him in "The Rivals." Once while I was calling on him
in Boston he acted the most striking parts of "The Rivals" for me. The
reception-room where we sat served for a stage. He and his son seated
themselves at the big table, and Bob Acres wrote his challenge. I
followed all his movements with my hands, and caught the drollery of his
blunders and gestures in a way that would have been impossible had it
all been spelled to me. Then they rose to fight the duel, and I followed
the swift thrusts and parries of the swords and the waverings of poor
Bob as his courage oozed out at his finger ends. Then the great actor
gave his coat a hitch and his mouth a twitch, and in an instant I was in
the village of Falling Water and felt Schneider's shaggy head against my
knee. Mr. Jefferson recited the best dialogues of "Rip Van Winkle," in
which the tear came close upon the smile. He asked me to indicate as
far as I could the gestures and action that should go with the lines. Of
course, I have no sense whatever of dramatic action, and could make only
random guesses; but with masterful art he suited the action to the word.
The sigh of Rip as he murmurs, "Is a man so soon forgotten when he is
gone?" the dismay with which he searches for dog and gun after his
long sleep, and his comical irresolution over signing the contract with
Derrick--all these seem to be right out of life itself; that is, the
ideal life, where things happen as we think they should.

I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve
years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss
Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall
never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that
beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the
play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal
costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable
child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over
her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue,
though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just
learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could
say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I
spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.

Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at
many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders,
even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in,
therein to be content.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist
as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light,
and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent,
pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for
my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not
utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back
into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul.
Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in
self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun,
the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my
happiness.



CHAPTER XXIII

Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who
have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written
in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would
be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influence, though it
escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened
and ennobled by it. Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet
people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is brimful
of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager,
impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is
divine. The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us
pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear
with new ears the beauty and harmony of God's real world. The solemn
nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly into bright
possibilities. In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that
all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross
our life's path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures
is a libation poured upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch,
as the ocean feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.

I have often been asked, "Do not people bore you?" I do not understand
quite what that means. I suppose the calls of the stupid and curious,
especially of newspaper reporters, are always inopportune. I also
dislike people who try to talk down to my understanding. They are like
people who when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit
yours; the hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating.

The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some
hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when
I clasped their frosty finger tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands
with a northeast storm. Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in
them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the clinging
touch of a child's hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it
for me as there is in a loving glance for others. A hearty handshake or
a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure.

I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen. Indeed they are so
many that I have often been unable to reply to their letters; but I
wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however
insufficiently I acknowledge them.

I count it one of the sweetest privileges of my life to have known and
conversed with many men of genius. Only those who knew Bishop Brooks can
appreciate the joy his friendship was to those who possessed it. As a
child I loved to sit on his knee and clasp his great hand with one of
mine, while Miss Sullivan spelled into the other his beautiful words
about God and the spiritual world. I heard him with a child's wonder
and delight. My spirit could not reach up to his, but he gave me a real
sense of joy in life, and I never left him without carrying away a fine
thought that grew in beauty and depth of meaning as I grew. Once, when I
was puzzled to know why there were so many religions, he said: "There is
one universal religion, Helen--the religion of love. Love your Heavenly
Father with your whole heart and soul, love every child of God as much
as ever you can, and remember that the possibilities of good are greater
than the possibilities of evil; and you have the key to Heaven." And
his life was a happy illustration of this great truth. In his noble
soul love and widest knowledge were blended with faith that had become
insight. He saw

     God in all that liberates and lifts,
     In all that humbles, sweetens and consoles.

Bishop Brooks taught me no special creed or dogma; but he impressed upon
my mind two great ideas--the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of
man, and made me feel that these truths underlie all creeds and forms of
worship. God is love, God is our Father, we are His children; therefore
the darkest clouds will break and though right be worsted, wrong shall
not triumph.

I am too happy in this world to think much about the future, except
to remember that I have cherished friends awaiting me there in God's
beautiful Somewhere. In spite of the lapse of years, they seem so close
to me that I should not think it strange if at any moment they should
clasp my hand and speak words of endearment as they used to before they
went away.

Since Bishop Brooks died I have read the Bible through; also some
philosophical works on religion, among them Swedenborg's "Heaven and
Hell" and Drummond's "Ascent of Man," and I have found no creed or
system more soul-satisfying than Bishop Brooks's creed of love. I knew
Mr. Henry Drummond, and the memory of his strong, warm hand-clasp is
like a benediction. He was the most sympathetic of companions. He knew
so much and was so genial that it was impossible to feel dull in his
presence.

I remember well the first time I saw Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. He had
invited Miss Sullivan and me to call on him one Sunday afternoon. It was
early in the spring, just after I had learned to speak. We were shown
at once to his library where we found him seated in a big armchair by an
open fire which glowed and crackled on the hearth, thinking, he said, of
other days.

"And listening to the murmur of the River Charles," I suggested.

"Yes," he replied, "the Charles has many dear associations for me."
There was an odour of print and leather in the room which told me that
it was full of books, and I stretched out my hand instinctively to find
them. My fingers lighted upon a beautiful volume of Tennyson's poems,
and when Miss Sullivan told me what it was I began to recite:

Break, break, break On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

But I stopped suddenly. I felt tears on my hand. I had made my beloved
poet weep, and I was greatly distressed. He made me sit in his armchair,
while he brought different interesting things for me to examine, and
at his request I recited "The Chambered Nautilus," which was then my
favorite poem. After that I saw Dr. Holmes many times and learned to
love the man as well as the poet.

One beautiful summer day, not long after my meeting with Dr. Holmes,
Miss Sullivan and I visited Whittier in his quiet home on the Merrimac.
His gentle courtesy and quaint speech won my heart. He had a book of
his poems in raised print from which I read "In School Days." He was
delighted that I could pronounce the words so well, and said that he had
no difficulty in understanding me. Then I asked many questions about the
poem, and read his answers by placing my fingers on his lips. He said he
was the little boy in the poem, and that the girl's name was Sally, and
more which I have forgotten. I also recited "Laus Deo," and as I spoke
the concluding verses, he placed in my hands a statue of a slave from
whose crouching figure the fetters were falling, even as they fell from
Peter's limbs when the angel led him forth out of prison. Afterward we
went into his study, and he wrote his autograph for my teacher ["With
great admiration of thy noble work in releasing from bondage the mind of
thy dear pupil, I am truly thy friend. john J. Whittier."] and expressed
his admiration of her work, saying to me, "She is thy spiritual
liberator." Then he led me to the gate and kissed me tenderly on my
forehead. I promised to visit him again the following summer, but he
died before the promise was fulfilled.

Dr. Edward Everett Hale is one of my very oldest friends. I have known
him since I was eight, and my love for him has increased with my years.
His wise, tender sympathy has been the support of Miss Sullivan and me
in times of trial and sorrow, and his strong hand has helped us over
many rough places; and what he has done for us he has done for thousands
of those who have difficult tasks to accomplish. He has filled the old
skins of dogma with the new wine of love, and shown men what it is to
believe, live and be free. What he has taught we have seen beautifully
expressed in his own life--love of country, kindness to the least of his
brethren, and a sincere desire to live upward and onward. He has been
a prophet and an inspirer of men, and a mighty doer of the Word, the
friend of all his race--God bless him!

I have already written of my first meeting with Dr. Alexander Graham
Bell. Since then I have spent many happy days with him at Washington and
at his beautiful home in the heart of Cape Breton Island, near Baddeck,
the village made famous by Charles Dudley Warner's book. Here in Dr.
Bell's laboratory, or in the fields on the shore of the great Bras d'Or,
I have spent many delightful hours listening to what he had to tell me
about his experiments, and helping him fly kites by means of which he
expects to discover the laws that shall govern the future air-ship. Dr.
Bell is proficient in many fields of science, and has the art of making
every subject he touches interesting, even the most abstruse theories.
He makes you feel that if you only had a little more time, you, too,
might be an inventor. He has a humorous and poetic side, too. His
dominating passion is his love for children. He is never quite so happy
as when he has a little deaf child in his arms. His labours in behalf of
the deaf will live on and bless generations of children yet to come; and
we love him alike for what he himself has achieved and for what he has
evoked from others.

During the two years I spent in New York I had many opportunities to
talk with distinguished people whose names I had often heard, but whom I
had never expected to meet. Most of them I met first in the house of my
good friend, Mr. Laurence Hutton. It was a great privilege to visit him
and dear Mrs. Hutton in their lovely home, and see their library and
read the beautiful sentiments and bright thoughts gifted friends had
written for them. It has been truly said that Mr. Hutton has the faculty
of bringing out in every one the best thoughts and kindest sentiments.
One does not need to read "A Boy I Knew" to understand him--the most
generous, sweet-natured boy I ever knew, a good friend in all sorts of
weather, who traces the footprints of love in the life of dogs as well
as in that of his fellowmen.

Mrs. Hutton is a true and tried friend. Much that I hold sweetest, much
that I hold most precious, I owe to her. She has oftenest advised
and helped me in my progress through college. When I find my work
particularly difficult and discouraging, she writes me letters that make
me feel glad and brave; for she is one of those from whom we learn that
one painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier.

Mr. Hutton introduced me to many of his literary friends, greatest of
whom are Mr. William Dean Howells and Mark Twain. I also met Mr. Richard
Watson Gilder and Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman. I also knew Mr. Charles
Dudley Warner, the most delightful of story-tellers and the most beloved
friend, whose sympathy was so broad that it may be truly said of him,
he loved all living things and his neighbour as himself. Once Mr. Warner
brought to see me the dear poet of the woodlands--Mr. John Burroughs.
They were all gentle and sympathetic and I felt the charm of their
manner as much as I had felt the brilliancy of their essays and poems.
I could not keep pace with all these literary folk as they glanced from
subject to subject and entered into deep dispute, or made conversation
sparkle with epigrams and happy witticisms. I was like little Ascanius,
who followed with unequal steps the heroic strides of Aeneas on his
march toward mighty destinies. But they spoke many gracious words to me.
Mr. Gilder told me about his moonlight journeys across the vast desert
to the Pyramids, and in a letter he wrote me he made his mark under his
signature deep in the paper so that I could feel it. This reminds me
that Dr. Hale used to give a personal touch to his letters to me by
pricking his signature in braille. I read from Mark Twain's lips one
or two of his good stories. He has his own way of thinking, saying and
doing everything. I feel the twinkle of his eye in his handshake. Even
while he utters his cynical wisdom in an indescribably droll voice, he
makes you feel that his heart is a tender Iliad of human sympathy.

There are a host of other interesting people I met in New York: Mrs.
Mary Mapes Dodge, the beloved editor of St. Nicholas, and Mrs. Riggs
(Kate Douglas Wiggin), the sweet author of "Patsy." I received from them
gifts that have the gentle concurrence of the heart, books containing
their own thoughts, soul-illumined letters, and photographs that I love
to have described again and again. But there is not space to mention
all my friends, and indeed there are things about them hidden behind the
wings of cherubim, things too sacred to set forth in cold print. It is
with hesitancy that I have spoken even of Mrs. Laurence Hutton.

I shall mention only two other friends. One is Mrs. William Thaw, of
Pittsburgh, whom I have often visited in her home, Lyndhurst. She is
always doing something to make some one happy, and her generosity and
wise counsel have never failed my teacher and me in all the years we
have known her.

To the other friend I am also deeply indebted. He is well known for the
powerful hand with which he guides vast enterprises, and his wonderful
abilities have gained for him the respect of all. Kind to every one, he
goes about doing good, silent and unseen. Again I touch upon the circle
of honoured names I must not mention; but I would fain acknowledge his
generosity and affectionate interest which make it possible for me to go
to college.

Thus it is that my friends have made the story of my life. In a thousand
ways they have turned my limitations into beautiful privileges,
and enabled me to walk serene and happy in the shadow cast by my
deprivation.




II. LETTERS(1887-1901)





II. LETTERS(1887-1901)




INTRODUCTION

Helen Keller's letters are important, not only as a supplementary
story of her life, but as a demonstration of her growth in
thought and expression--the growth which in itself has made her
distinguished.

These letters are, however, not merely remarkable as the
productions of a deaf and blind girl, to be read with wonder and
curiosity; they are good letters almost from the first. The best
passages are those in which she talks about herself, and gives
her world in terms of her experience of it. Her views on the
precession of the equinoxes are not important, but most important
are her accounts of what speech meant to her, of how she felt the
statues, the dogs, the chickens at the poultry show, and how she
stood in the aisle of St. Bartholomew's and felt the organ
rumble. Those are passages of which one would ask for more. The
reason they are comparatively few is that all her life she has
been trying to be "like other people," and so she too often
describes things not as they appear to her, but as they appear to
one with eyes and ears.

One cause for the excellence of her letters is the great number
of them. They are the exercises which have trained her to write.
She has lived at different times in different parts of the
country, and so has been separated from most of her friends and
relatives. Of her friends, many have been distinguished people,
to whom--not often, I think, at the sacrifice of spontaneity--she
has felt it necessary to write well. To them and to a few friends
with whom she is in closest sympathy she writes with intimate
frankness whatever she is thinking about. Her naive retelling of
a child's tale she has heard, like the story of "Little Jakey,"
which she rehearses for Dr. Holmes and Bishop Brooks, is charming
and her grave paraphrase of the day's lesson in geography or
botany, her parrot-like repetition of what she has heard, and her
conscious display of new words, are delightful and instructive;
for they show not only what she was learning, but how, by putting
it all into letters, she made the new knowledge and the new words
her own.

So these selections from Miss Keller's correspondence are made
with two purposes--to show her development and to preserve the
most entertaining and significant passages from several hundred
letters. Many of those written before 1892 were published in the
reports of the Perkins Institution for the Blind. All letters up
to that year are printed intact, for it is legitimate to be
interested in the degree of skill the child showed in writing,
even to details of punctuation; so it is well to preserve a
literal integrity of reproduction. From the letters after the
year 1892 I have culled in the spirit of one making an anthology,
choosing the passages best in style and most important from the
point of view of biography. Where I have been able to collate the
original letters I have preserved everything as Miss Keller wrote
it, punctuation, spelling, and all. I have done nothing but
select and cut.

The letters are arranged in chronological order. One or two
letters from Bishop Brooks, Dr. Holmes, and Whittier are put
immediately after the letters to which they are replies. Except
for two or three important letters of 1901, these selections
cease with the year 1900. In that year Miss Keller entered
college. Now that she is a grown woman, her mature letters should
be judged like those of any other person, and it seems best that
no more of her correspondence be published unless she should
become distinguished beyond the fact that she is the only
well-educated deaf and blind person in the world.




  LETTERS (1887-1901)

  Miss Sullivan began to teach Helen Keller on March 3rd, 1887.
  Three months and a half after the first word was spelled into her
  hand, she wrote in pencil this letter

  TO HER COUSIN ANNA, MRS. GEORGE T. TURNER
  [Tuscumbia, Alabama, June 17, 1887.]

  helen write anna george will give helen apple simpson will shoot
  bird jack will give helen stick of candy doctor will give mildred
  medicine mother will make mildred new dress
  [No signature]


  Twenty-five days later, while she was on a short visit away from
  home, she wrote to her mother. Two words are almost illegible,
  and the angular print slants in every direction.

  TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  [Huntsville, Alabama, July 12, 1887.]

  Helen will write mother letter papa did give helen medicine
  mildred will sit in swing mildred did kiss helen teacher did give
  helen peach george is sick in bed george arm is hurt anna did
  give helen lemonade dog did stand up.

  conductor did punch ticket papa did give helen drink of water in
  car

  carlotta did give helen flowers anna will buy helen pretty new
  hat helen will hug and kiss mother helen will come home
  grandmother does love helen

  good-by
  [No signature.]


  By the following September Helen shows improvement in fulness of
  construction and more extended relations of thought.

  TO THE BLIND GIRLS AT THE PERKINS INSTITUTION IN SOUTH BOSTON
  [Tuscumbia, September, 1887.]

  Helen will write little blind girls a letter Helen and teacher
  will come to see little blind girls Helen and teacher will go in
  steam car to boston Helen and blind girls will have fun blind
  girls can talk on fingers Helen will see Mr anagnos Mr anagnos
  will love and kiss Helen Helen will go to school with blind girls
  Helen can read and count and spell and write like blind girls
  mildred will not go to boston Mildred does cry prince and jumbo
  will go to boston papa does shoot ducks with gun and ducks do
  fall in water and jumbo and mamie do swim in water and bring
  ducks out in mouth to papa Helen does play with dogs Helen does
  ride on horseback with teacher Helen does give handee grass in
  hand teacher does whip handee to go fast Helen is blind Helen
  will put letter in envelope for blind girls     good-by
  HELEN KELLER


  A few weeks later her style is more nearly correct and freer in
  movement. She improves in idiom, although she still omits
  articles and uses the "did" construction for the simple past.
  This is an idiom common among children.

  TO THE BLIND GIRLS AT THE PERKINS INSTITUTION
  [Tuscumbia, October 24, 1887.]

  dear little blind girls

  I will write you a letter I thank you for pretty desk I did write
  to mother in memphis on it mother and mildred came home wednesday
  mother brought me a pretty new dress and hat papa did go to
  huntsville he brought me apples and candy I and teacher will come
  to boston and see you nancy is my doll she does cry I do rock
  nancy to sleep mildred is sick doctor will give her medicine to
  make her well. I and teacher did go to church sunday mr. lane did
  read in book and talk Lady did play organ. I did give man money
  in basket. I will be good girl and teacher will curl my hair
  lovely. I will hug and kiss little blind girls mr. anagnos will
  come to see me.

  good-by
  HELEN KELLER


  TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS, DIRECTOR OF THE PERKINS INSTITUTION
  [Tuscumbia, November, 1887.]

  dear mr. anagnos I will write you a letter. I and teacher did
  have pictures. teacher will send it to you. photographer does
  make pictures. carpenter does build new houses. gardener does dig
  and hoe ground and plant vegetables. my doll nancy is sleeping.
  she is sick. mildred is well uncle frank has gone hunting deer.
  we will have venison for breakfast when he comes home. I did ride
  in wheel barrow and teacher did push it. simpson did give me
  popcorn and walnuts. cousin rosa has gone to see her mother.
  people do go to church sunday. I did read in my book about fox
  and box. fox can sit in the box. I do like to read in my book.
  you do love me. I do love you.

  good-by
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO DR. ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL
  [Tuscumbia, November, 1887.]

  Dear Mr. Bell.
  I am glad to write you a letter, Father will send you picture. I
  and Father and aunt did go to see you in Washington. I did play
  with your watch. I do love you. I saw doctor in Washington. He
  looked at my eyes. I can read stories in my book. I can write and
  spell and count. good girl. My sister can walk and run. We do
  have fun with Jumbo. Prince is not good dog. He can not get
  birds. Rat did kill baby pigeons. I am sorry. Rat does not know
  wrong. I and mother and teacher will go to Boston in June. I will
  see little blind girls. Nancy will go with me. She is a good
  doll. Father will buy me lovely new watch. Cousin Anna gave me a
  pretty doll. Her name is Allie.

  Good-by,
  HELEN KELLER.


  By the beginning of the next year her idioms are firmer. More
  adjectives appear, including adjectives of colour. Although she
  can have no sensuous knowledge of colour, she can use the words,
  as we use most of our vocabulary, intellectually, with truth, not
  to impression, but to fact. This letter is to a school-mate at
  the Perkins Institution.

  TO MISS SARAH TOMLINSON
  Tuscumbia, Ala. Jan. 2nd 1888.

  Dear Sarah
  I am happy to write to you this morning. I hope Mr. Anagnos is
  coming to see me soon. I will go to Boston in June and I will buy
  father gloves, and James nice collar, and Simpson cuffs. I saw
  Miss Betty and her scholars. They had a pretty Christmas-tree,
  and there were many pretty presents on it for little children. I
  had a mug, and little bird and candy. I had many lovely things
  for Christmas. Aunt gave me a trunk for Nancy and clothes. I went
  to party with teacher and mother. We did dance and play and eat
  nuts and candy and cakes and oranges and I did have fun with
  little boys and girls. Mrs. Hopkins did send me lovely ring, I do
  love her and little blind girls.

  Men and boys do make carpets in mills. Wool grows on sheep. Men
  do cut sheep's wool off with large shears, and send it to the
  mill. Men and women do make wool cloth in mills.

  Cotton grows on large stalks in fields. Men and boys and girls
  and women do pick cotton. We do make thread and cotton dresses of
  cotton. Cotton has pretty white and red flowers on it. Teacher
  did tear her dress. Mildred does cry. I will nurse Nancy. Mother
  will buy me lovely new aprons and dress to take to Boston. I went
  to Knoxville with father and aunt. Bessie is weak and little.
  Mrs. Thompson's chickens killed Leila's chickens. Eva does sleep
  in my bed. I do love good girls.

  Good-by
  HELEN KELLER.


  The next two letters mention her visit in January to her
  relatives in Memphis, Tennessee. She was taken to the cotton
  exchange. When she felt the maps and blackboards she asked, "Do
  men go to school?" She wrote on the blackboard the names of all
  the gentlemen present. While at Memphis she went over one of the
  large Mississippi steamers.


  TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 15th [1888].

  Dear Mr. Hale,
  I am happy to write you a letter this morning. Teacher told me
  about kind gentleman I shall be glad to read pretty story I do
  read stories in my book about tigers and lions and sheep.

  I am coming to Boston in June to see little blind girls and I
  will come to see you. I went to Memphis to see grandmother and
  Aunt Nannie. Teacher bought me lovely new dress and cap and
  aprons. Little Natalie is a very weak and small baby. Father took
  us to see steamboat. It was on a large river. Boat is like house.
  Mildred is a good baby. I do love to play with little sister.
  Nancy was not a good child when I went to Memphis. She did cry
  loud. I will not write more to-day. I am tired.

  Good-by
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
  Tuscumbia, Ala., Feb. 24th, 1888.

  My dear Mr. Anagnos,--I am glad to write you a letter in Braille.
  This morning Lucien Thompson sent me a beautiful bouquet of
  violets and crocuses and jonquils. Sunday Adeline Moses brought
  me a lovely doll. It came from New York. Her name is Adeline
  Keller. She can shut her eyes and bend her arms and sit down and
  stand up straight. She has on a pretty red dress. She is Nancy's
  sister and I am their mother. Allie is their cousin. Nancy was a
  bad child when I went to Memphis she cried loud, I whipped her
  with a stick.

  Mildred does feed little chickens with crumbs. I love to play
  with little sister.

  Teacher and I went to Memphis to see aunt Nannie and grandmother.
  Louise is aunt Nannie's child. Teacher bought me a lovely new
  dress and gloves and stockings and collars and grandmother made
  me warm flannels, and aunt Nannie made me aprons. Lady made me a
  pretty cap. I went to see Robert and Mr. Graves and Mrs. Graves
  and little Natalie, and Mr. Farris and Mr. Mayo and Mary and
  everyone. I do love Robert and teacher. She does not want me to
  write more today. I feel tired.

  I found box of candy in Mr. Grave's pocket. Father took us to see
  steam boat it is like house. Boat was on very large river. Yates
  plowed yard today to plant grass. Mule pulled plow. Mother will
  make garden of vegetables. Father will plant melons and peas and
  beans.

  Cousin Bell will come to see us Saturday. Mother will make
  ice-cream for dinner, we will have ice-cream and cake for dinner.
  Lucien Thompson is sick. I am sorry for him.

  Teacher and I went to walk in the yard, and I learned about how
  flowers and trees grow. Sun rises in the east and sets in the
  west. Sheffield is north and Tuscumbia is south. We will go to
  Boston in June. I will have fun with little blind girls.

  Good bye
  HELEN KELLER.


  "Uncle Morrie" of the next letter is Mr. Morrison Heady, of
  Normandy, Kentucky, who lost his sight and hearing when he was a
  boy. He is the author of some commendable verses.

  TO MR. MORRISON HEADY
  Tuscumbia, Ala., March 1st 1888.

  My dear uncle Morrie,--I am happy to write you a letter, I do
  love you, and I will hug and kiss you when I see you.

  Mr. Anagnos is coming to see me Monday. I do love to run and hop
  and skip with Robert in bright warm sun. I do know little girl in
  Lexington Ky. her name is Katherine Hobson.

  I am going to Boston in June with mother and teacher, I will have
  fun with little blind girls, and Mr. Hale will send me pretty
  story. I do read stories in my book about lions and tigers and
  bears.

  Mildred will not go to Boston, she does cry. I love to play with
  little sister, she is weak and small baby. Eva is better.

  Yates killed ants, ants stung Yates. Yates is digging in garden.
  Mr. Anagnos did see oranges, they look like golden apples.

  Robert will come to see me Sunday when sun shines and I will have
  fun with him. My cousin Frank lives in Louisville. I will come to
  Memphis again to see Mr. Farris and Mrs. Graves and Mr. Mayo and
  Mr. Graves. Natalie is a good girl and does not cry, and she will
  be big and Mrs. Graves is making short dresses for her. Natalie
  has a little carriage. Mr. Mayo has been to Duck Hill and he
  brought sweet flowers home.

  With much love and a kiss
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  In this account of the picnic we get an illuminating glimpse of
  Miss Sullivan's skill in teaching her pupil during play hours.
  This was a day when the child's vocabulary grew.

  TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
  Tuscumbia, Ala., May 3rd 1888.

  Dear Mr. Anagnos.--I am glad to write to you this morning,
  because I love you very much. I was very happy to receive pretty
  book and nice candy and two letters from you. I will come to see
  you soon and will ask you many questions about countries and you
  will love good child.

  Mother is making me pretty new dresses to wear in Boston and I
  will look lovely to see little girls and boys and you. Friday
  teacher and I went to a picnic with little children. We played
  games and ate dinner under the trees, and we found ferns and wild
  flowers. I walked in the woods and learned names of many trees.
  There are poplar and cedar and pine and oak and ash and hickory
  and maple trees. They make a pleasant shade and the little birds
  love to swing to and fro and sing sweetly up in the trees.
  Rabbits hop and squirrels run and ugly snakes do crawl in the
  woods. Geraniums and roses jasamines and japonicas are cultivated
  flowers. I help mother and teacher water them every night before
  supper.

  Cousin Arthur made me a swing in the ash tree. Aunt Ev. has gone
  to Memphis. Uncle Frank is here. He is picking strawberries for
  dinner. Nancy is sick again, new teeth do make her ill. Adeline
  is well and she can go to Cincinnati Monday with me. Aunt Ev.
  will send me a boy doll, Harry will be Nancy's and Adeline's
  brother. Wee sister is a good girl. I am tired now and I do want
  to go down stairs. I send many kisses and hugs with letter.

  Your darling child
  HELEN KELLER.


  Toward the end of May Mrs. Keller, Helen, and Miss Sullivan
  started for Boston. On the way they spent a few days in
  Washington, where they saw Dr. Alexander Graham Bell and called
  on President Cleveland. On May 26th they arrived in Boston and
  went to the Perkins Institution; here Helen met the little blind
  girls with whom she had corresponded the year before.

  Early in July she went to Brewster, Massachusetts, and spent the
  rest of the summer. Here occurred her first encounter with the
  sea, of which she has since written.

  TO MISS MARY C. MOORE
  So. Boston, Mass. Sept. 1888

  My dear Miss Moore
  Are you very glad to receive a nice letter from your darling
  little friend? I love you very dearly because you are my friend.
  My precious little sister is quite well now. She likes to sit in
  my little rocking-chair and put her kitty to sleep. Would you
  like to see darling little Mildred? She is a very pretty baby.
  Her eyes are very big and blue, and her cheeks are soft and round
  and rosy and her hair is very bright and golden. She is very good
  and sweet when she does not cry loud. Next summer Mildred will go
  out in the garden with me and pick the big sweet strawberries and
  then she will be very happy. I hope she will not eat too many of
  the delicious fruit for they will make her very ill.

  Sometime will you please come to Alabama and visit me? My uncle
  James is going to buy me a very gentle pony and a pretty cart and
  I shall be very happy to take you and Harry to ride. I hope Harry
  will not be afraid of my pony. I think my father will buy me a
  beautiful little brother some day. I shall be very gentle and
  patient to my new little brother. When I visit many strange
  countries my brother and Mildred will stay with grandmother
  because they will be too small to see a great many people and I
  think they would cry loud on the great rough ocean.

  When Capt. Baker gets well he will take me in his big ship to
  Africa. Then I shall see lions and tigers and monkeys. I will get
  a baby lion and a white monkey and a mild bear to bring home. I
  had a very pleasant time at Brewster. I went in bathing almost
  every day and Carrie and Frank and little Helen and I had fun. We
  splashed and jumped and waded in the deep water. I am not afraid
  to float now. Can Harry float and swim? We came to Boston last
  Thursday, and Mr. Anagnos was delighted to see me, and he hugged
  and kissed me. The little girls are coming back to school next
  Wednesday.

  Will you please tell Harry to write me a very long letter soon?
  When you come to Tuscumbia to see me I hope my father will have
  many sweet apples and juicy peaches and fine pears and delicious
  grapes and large water melons.

  I hope you think about me and love me because I am a good little
  child.

  With much love and two kisses
  From your little friend
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  In this account of a visit to some friends, Helen's thought is
  much what one would expect from an ordinary child of eight,
  except perhaps her naive satisfaction in the boldness of the
  young gentlemen.

  TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  So. Boston, Mass, Sept. 24th [1888].

  My dear Mother,
  I think you will be very glad to know all about my visit to West
  Newton. Teacher and I had a lovely time with many kind friends.
  West Newton is not far from Boston and we went there in the steam
  cars very quickly.

  Mrs. Freeman and Carrie and Ethel and Frank and Helen came to
  station to meet us in a huge carriage. I was delighted to see my
  dear little friends and I hugged and kissed them. Then we rode
  for a long time to see all the beautiful things in West Newton.
  Many very handsome houses and large soft green lawns around them
  and trees and bright flowers and fountains. The horse's name was
  Prince and he was gentle and liked to trot very fast. When we
  went home we saw eight rabbits and two fat puppies, and a nice
  little white pony, and two wee kittens and a pretty curly dog
  named Don. Pony's name was Mollie and I had a nice ride on her
  back; I was not afraid, I hope my uncle will get me a dear little
  pony and a little cart very soon.

  Clifton did not kiss me because he does not like to kiss little
  girls. He is shy. I am very glad that Frank and Clarence and
  Robbie and Eddie and Charles and George were not very shy. I
  played with many little girls and we had fun. I rode on Carrie's
  tricicle and picked flowers and ate fruit and hopped and skipped
  and danced and went to ride. Many ladies and gentlemen came to
  see us. Lucy and Dora and Charles were born in China. I was born
  in America, and Mr. Anagnos was born in Greece. Mr. Drew says
  little girls in China cannot talk on their fingers but I think
  when I go to China I will teach them. Chinese nurse came to see
  me, her name was Asu. She showed me a tiny atze that very rich
  ladies in China wear because their feet never grow large. Amah
  means a nurse. We came home in horse cars because it was Sunday
  and steam cars do not go often on Sunday. Conductors and
  engineers do get very tired and go home to rest. I saw little
  Willie Swan in the car and he gave me a juicy pear. He was six
  years old. What did I do when I was six years old? Will you
  please ask my father to come to train to meet teacher and me? I
  am very sorry that Eva and Bessie are sick. I hope I can have a
  nice party my birthday, and I do want Carrie and Ethel and Frank
  and Helen to come to Alabama to visit me. Will Mildred sleep with
  me when I come home.

  With much love and thousand kisses.
  From your dear little daughter.
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  Her visit to Plymouth was in July. This letter, written three
  months later, shows how well she remembered her first lesson in
  history.

  TO MR. MORRISON HEADY
  South Boston, Mass. October 1st, 1888.

  My dear uncle Morrie,--I think you will be very glad to receive a
  letter from your dear little friend Helen. I am very happy to
  write to you because I think of you and love you. I read pretty
  stories in the book you sent me, about Charles and his boat, and
  Arthur and his dream, and Rosa and the sheep.

  I have been in a large boat. It was like a ship. Mother and
  teacher and Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Anagnos and Mr. Rodocanachi and
  many other friends went to Plymouth to see many old things. I
  will tell you a little story about Plymouth.

  Many years ago there lived in England many good people, but the
  king and his friends were not kind and gentle and patient with
  good people, because the king did not like to have the people
  disobey him. People did not like to go to church with the king;
  but they did like to build very nice little churches for
  themselves.

  The king was very angry with the people and they were sorry and
  they said, we will go away to a strange country to live and leave
  very dear home and friends and naughty king. So, they put all
  their things into big boxes, and said, Good-bye. I am sorry for
  them because they cried much. When they went to Holland they did
  not know anyone; and they could not know what the people were
  talking about because they did not know Dutch. But soon they
  learned some Dutch words; but they loved their own language and
  they did not want little boys and girls to forget it and learn to
  talk funny Dutch. So they said, We must go to a new country far
  away and build schools and houses and churches and make new
  cities. So they put all their things in boxes and said, Good-bye
  to their new friends and sailed away in a large boat to find a
  new country. Poor people were not happy for their hearts were
  full of sad thoughts because they did not know much about
  America. I think little children must have been afraid of a great
  ocean for it is very strong and it makes a large boat rock and
  then the little children would fall down and hurt their heads.
  After they had been many weeks on the deep ocean where they could
  not see trees or flowers or grass, but just water and the
  beautiful sky, for ships could not sail quickly then because men
  did not know about engines and steam. One day a dear little
  baby-boy was born. His name was Peregrine White. I am very sorry
  that poor little Peregrine is dead now. Every day the people went
  upon deck to look out for land. One day there was a great shout
  on the ship for the people saw the land and they were full of joy
  because they had reached a new country safely. Little girls and
  boys jumped and clapped their hands. They were all glad when they
  stepped upon a huge rock. I did see the rock in Plymouth and a
  little ship like the Mayflower and the cradle that dear little
  Peregrine slept in and many old things that came in the
  Mayflower. Would you like to visit Plymouth some time and see
  many old things.

  Now I am very tired and I will rest.

  With much love and many kisses, from your little friend.
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  The foreign words in these two letters, the first of which was
  written during a visit to the kindergarten for the blind, she had
  been told months before, and had stowed them away in her memory.
  She assimilated words and practised with them, sometimes using
  them intelligently, sometimes repeating them in a parrot-like
  fashion. Even when she did not fully understand words or ideas,
  she liked to set them down as though she did. It was in this way
  that she learned to use correctly words of sound and vision which
  express ideas outside of her experience. "Edith" is Edith Thomas.


  TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
  Roxbury, Mass. Oct. 17th, 1888.

  Mon cher Monsieur Anagnos,

  I am sitting by the window and the beautiful sun is shining on me
  Teacher and I came to the kindergarten yesterday. There are
  twenty seven little children here and they are all blind. I am
  sorry because they cannot see much. Sometime will they have very
  well eyes? Poor Edith is blind and deaf and dumb. Are you very
  sad for Edith and me? Soon I shall go home to see my mother and
  my father and my dear good and sweet little sister. I hope you
  will come to Alabama to visit me and I will take you to ride in
  my little cart and I think you will like to see me on my dear
  little pony's back. I shall wear my lovely cap and my new riding
  dress. If the sun shines brightly I will take you to see Leila
  and Eva and Bessie. When I am thirteen years old I am going to
  travel in many strange and beautiful countries. I shall climb
  very high mountains in Norway and see much ice and snow. I hope I
  will not fall and hurt my head I shall visit little Lord
  Fauntleroy in England and he will be glad to show me his grand
  and very ancient castle. And we will run with the deer and feed
  the rabbits and catch the squirrels. I shall not be afraid of
  Fauntleroy's great dog Dougal. I hope Fauntleroy take me to see a
  very kind queen. When I go to France I will take French. A little
  French boy will say, Parlez-vous Francais? and I will say, Oui,
  Monsieur, vous avez un joli chapeau. Donnez moi un baiser. I hope
  you will go with me to Athens to see the maid of Athens. She was
  very lovely lady and I will talk Greek to her. I will say, se
  agapo and, pos echete and I think she will say, kalos, and then I
  will say chaere. Will you please come to see me soon and take me
  to the theater? When you come I will say, Kale emera, and when
  you go home I will say, Kale nykta. Now I am too tired to write
  more. Je vous aime. Au revoir

  From your darling little friend
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MISS EVELINA H. KELLER
  [So. Boston, Mass. October 29, 1888.]

  My dearest Aunt,--I am coming home very soon and I think you and
  every one will be very glad to see my teacher and me. I am very
  happy because I have learned much about many things. I am
  studying French and German and Latin and Greek. Se agapo is
  Greek, and it means I love thee. J'ai une bonne petite soeur is
  French, and it means I have a good little sister. Nous avons un
  bon pere et une bonne mere means, we have a good father and a
  good mother. Puer is boy in Latin, and Mutter is mother in
  German. I will teach Mildred many languages when I come home.
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MRS. SOPHIA C. HOPKINS
  Tuscumbia, Ala. Dec. 11th, 1888.

  My dear Mrs. Hopkins:--
  I have just fed my dear little pigeon. My brother Simpson gave it
  to me last Sunday. I named it Annie, for my teacher. My puppy has
  had his supper and gone to bed. My rabbits are sleeping, too; and
  very soon I shall go to bed. Teacher is writing letters to her
  friends. Mother and father and their friends have gone to see a
  huge furnace. The furnace is to make iron. The iron ore is found
  in the ground; but it cannot be used until it has been brought to
  the furnace and melted, and all the dirt taken out, and just the
  pure iron left. Then it is all ready to be manufactured into
  engines, stoves, kettles and many other things.

  Coal is found in the ground, too. Many years ago, before people
  came to live on the earth, great trees and tall grasses and huge
  ferns and all the beautiful flowers cover the earth. When the
  leaves and the trees fell, the water and the soil covered them;
  and then more trees grew and fell also, and were buried under
  water and soil. After they had all been pressed together for many
  thousands of years, the wood grew very hard, like rock, and then
  it was all ready for people to burn. Can you see leaves and ferns
  and bark on the coal? Men go down into the ground and dig out the
  coal, and steam-cars take it to the large cities, and sell it to
  people to burn, to make them warm and happy when it is cold out
  of doors.

  Are you very lonely and sad now? I hope you will come to see me
  soon, and stay a long time.

  With much love from your little friend
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MISS DELLA BENNETT
  Tuscumbia, Ala., Jan. 29, 1889.

  My dear Miss Bennett:--I am delighted to write to you this
  morning. We have just eaten our breakfast. Mildred is running
  about downstairs. I have been reading in my book about
  astronomers. Astronomer comes from the Latin word astra, which
  means stars; and astronomers are men who study the stars, and
  tell us about them. When we are sleeping quietly in our beds,
  they are watching the beautiful sky through the telescope. A
  telescope is like a very strong eye. The stars are so far away
  that people cannot tell much about them, without very excellent
  instruments. Do you like to look out of your window, and see
  little stars? Teacher says she can see Venus from our window, and
  it is a large and beautiful star. The stars are called the
  earth's brothers and sisters.

  There are a great many instruments besides those which the
  astronomers use. A knife is an instrument to cut with. I think
  the bell is an instrument, too. I will tell you what I know about
  bells.

  Some bells are musical and others are unmusical. Some are very
  tiny and some are very large. I saw a very large bell at
  Wellesley. It came from Japan. Bells are used for many purposes.
  They tell us when breakfast is ready, when to go to school, when
  it is time for church, and when there is a fire. They tell people
  when to go to work, and when to go home and rest. The engine-bell
  tells the passengers that they are coming to a station, and it
  tells the people to keep out of the way. Sometimes very terrible
  accidents happen, and many people are burned and drowned and
  injured. The other day I broke my doll's head off; but that was
  not a dreadful accident, because dolls do not live and feel, like
  people. My little pigeons are well, and so is my little bird. I
  would like to have some clay. Teacher says it is time for me to
  study now. Good-bye.
  With much love, and many kisses,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 21st, 1889.

  My dear Mr. Hale,
  I am very much afraid that you are thinking in your mind that
  little Helen has forgotten all about you and her dear cousins.
  But I think you will be delighted to receive this letter because
  then you will know that I of[ten] think about you and I love you
  dearly for you are my dear cousin. I have been at home a great
  many weeks now. It made me feel very sad to leave Boston and I
  missed all of my friends greatly, but of course I was glad to get
  back to my lovely home once more. My darling little sister is
  growing very fast. Sometimes she tries to spell very short words
  on her small [fingers] but she is too young to remember hard
  words. When she is older I will teach her many things if she is
  patient and obedient. My teacher says, if children learn to be
  patient and gentle while they are little, that when they grow to
  be young ladies and gentlemen they will not forget to be kind and
  loving and brave. I hope I shall be courageous always. A little
  girl in a story was not courageous. She thought she saw little
  elves with tall pointed [hats] peeping from between the bushes
  and dancing down the long alleys, and the poor little girl was
  terrified. Did you have a pleasant Christmas? I had many lovely
  presents given to me. The other day I had a fine party. All of my
  dear little friends came to see me. We played games, and ate
  ice-cream and cake and fruit. Then we had great fun. The sun is
  shining brightly to-day and I hope we shall go to ride if the
  roads are dry. In a few days the beautiful spring will be here. I
  am very glad because I love the warm sunshine and the fragrant
  flowers. I think Flowers grow to make people happy and good. I
  have four dolls now. Cedric is my little boy, he is named for
  Lord Fauntleroy. He has big brown eyes and long golden hair and
  pretty round cheeks. Ida is my baby. A lady brought her to me
  from Paris. She can drink milk like a real baby. Lucy is a fine
  young lady. She has on a dainty lace dress and satin slippers.
  Poor old Nancy is growing old and very feeble. She is almost an
  invalid. I have two tame pigeons and a tiny canary bird. Jumbo is
  very strong and faithful. He will not let anything harm us at
  night. I go to school every day I am studying reading, writing,
  arithmetic, geography and language. My Mother and teacher send
  you and Mrs. Hale their kind greetings and Mildred sends you a
  kiss.
  With much love and kisses, from your
  Affectionate cousin
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  During the winter Miss Sullivan and her pupil were working at
  Helen's home in Tuscumbia, and to good purpose, for by spring
  Helen had learned to write idiomatic English. After May, 1889, I
  find almost no inaccuracies, except some evident slips of the
  pencil. She uses words precisely and makes easy, fluent
  sentences.

  TO MR. MICHAEL ANAGNOS
  Tuscumbia, Ala., May 18, 1889.

  My Dear Mr. Anagnos:--You cannot imagine how delighted I was to
  receive a letter from you last evening. I am very sorry that you
  are going so far away. We shall miss you very, very much. I would
  love to visit many beautiful cities with you. When I was in
  Huntsville I saw Dr. Bryson, and he told me that he had been to
  Rome and Athens and Paris and London. He had climbed the high
  mountains in Switzerland and visited beautiful churches in Italy
  and France, and he saw a great many ancient castles. I hope you
  will please write to me from all the cities you visit. When you
  go to Holland please give my love to the lovely princess
  Wilhelmina. She is a dear little girl, and when she is old enough
  she will be the queen of Holland. If you go to Roumania please
  ask the good queen Elizabeth about her little invalid brother,
  and tell her that I am very sorry that her darling little girl
  died. I should like to send a kiss to Vittorio, the little prince
  of Naples, but teacher says she is afraid you will not remember
  so many messages. When I am thirteen years old I shall visit them
  all myself.

  I thank you very much for the beautiful story about Lord
  Fauntleroy, and so does teacher.

  I am so glad that Eva is coming to stay with me this summer. We
  will have fine times together. Give Howard my love, and tell him
  to answer my letter. Thursday we had a picnic. It was very
  pleasant out in the shady woods, and we all enjoyed the picnic
  very much.

  Mildred is out in the yard playing, and mother is picking the
  delicious strawberries. Father and Uncle Frank are down town.
  Simpson is coming home soon. Mildred and I had our pictures taken
  while we were in Huntsville. I will send you one.

  The roses have been beautiful. Mother has a great many fine
  roses. The La France and the Lamarque are the most fragrant; but
  the Marechal Neil, Solfaterre, Jacqueminot, Nipheots, Etoile de
  Lyon, Papa Gontier, Gabrielle Drevet and the Perle des Jardines
  are all lovely roses.

  Please give the little boys and girls my love. I think of them
  every day and I love them dearly in my heart. When you come home
  from Europe I hope you will be all well and very happy to get
  home again. Do not forget to give my love to Miss Calliope
  Kehayia and Mr. Francis Demetrios Kalopothakes.
  Lovingly, your little friend,
  HELEN ADAMS KELLER.


  Like a good many of Helen Keller's early letters, this to her
  French teacher is her re-phrasing of a story. It shows how much
  the gift of writing is, in the early stages of its development,
  the gift of mimicry.

  TO MISS FANNIE S. MARRETT
  Tuscumbia, Ala., May 17, 1889.

  My Dear Miss Marrett--I am thinking about a dear little girl, who
  wept very hard. She wept because her brother teased her very
  much. I will tell you what he did, and I think you will feel very
  sorry for the little child. She had a most beautiful doll given
  her. Oh, it was a lovely and delicate doll! but the little girl's
  brother, a tall lad, had taken the doll, and set it up in a high
  tree in the garden, and had run away. The little girl could not
  reach the doll, and could not help it down, and therefore she
  cried. The doll cried, too, and stretched out its arms from among
  the green branches, and looked distressed. Soon the dismal night
  would come--and was the doll to sit up in the tree all night, and
  by herself? The little girl could not endure that thought. "I
  will stay with you," said she to the doll, although she was not
  at all courageous. Already she began to see quite plainly the
  little elves in their tall pointed hats, dancing down the dusky
  alleys, and peeping from between the bushes, and they seemed to
  come nearer and nearer; and she stretched her hands up towards
  the tree in which the doll sat and they laughed, and pointed
  their fingers at her. How terrified was the little girl; but if
  one has not done anything wrong, these strange little elves
  cannot harm one. "Have I done anything wrong? Ah, yes!" said the
  little girl. "I have laughed at the poor duck, with the red rag
  tied round its leg. It hobbled, and that made me laugh; but it is
  wrong to laugh at the poor animals!"

  Is it not a pitiful story? I hope the father punished the naughty
  little boy. Shall you be very glad to see my teacher next
  Thursday? She is going home to rest, but she will come back to me
  next autumn.
  Lovingly, your little friend,
  HELEN ADAMS KELLER.


  TO MISS MARY E. RILEY
  Tuscumbia, Ala., May 27, 1889.

  My Dear Miss Riley:--I wish you were here in the warm, sunny
  south today. Little sister and I would take you out into the
  garden, and pick the delicious raspberries and a few strawberries
  for you. How would you like that? The strawberries are nearly all
  gone. In the evening, when it is cool and pleasant, we would walk
  in the yard, and catch the grasshoppers and butterflies. We would
  talk about the birds and flowers and grass and Jumbo and Pearl.
  If you liked, we would run and jump and hop and dance, and be
  very happy. I think you would enjoy hearing the mocking-birds
  sing. One sits on the twig of a tree, just beneath our window,
  and he fills the air with his glad songs. But I am afraid you
  cannot come to Tuscumbia; so I will write to you, and send you a
  sweet kiss and my love. How is Dick? Daisy is happy, but she
  would be happy ever if she had a little mate. My little children
  are all well except Nancy, and she is quite feeble. My
  grandmother and aunt Corinne are here. Grandmother is going to
  make me two new dresses. Give my love to all the little girls,
  and tell them that Helen loves them very, very much. Eva sends
  love to all.

  With much love and many kisses, from your affectionate little
  friend,
  HELEN ADAMS KELLER.


  During the summer Miss Sullivan was away from Helen for three
  months and a half, the first separation of teacher and pupil.
  Only once afterward in fifteen years was their constant
  companionship broken for more than a few days at a time.

  TO MISS ANNE MANSFIELD SULLIVAN
  Tuscumbia, Ala., August 7, 1889.

  Dearest Teacher--I am very glad to write to you this evening, for
  I have been thinking much about you all day. I am sitting on the
  piazza, and my little white pigeon is perched on the back of my
  chair, watching me write. Her little brown mate has flown away
  with the other birds; but Annie is not sad, for she likes to stay
  with me. Fauntleroy is asleep upstairs, and Nancy is putting Lucy
  to bed. Perhaps the mocking bird is singing them to sleep. All
  the beautiful flowers are in bloom now. The air is sweet with the
  perfume of jasmines, heliotropes and roses. It is getting warm
  here now, so father is going to take us to the Quarry on the 20th
  of August. I think we shall have a beautiful time out in the
  cool, pleasant woods. I will write and tell you all the pleasant
  things we do. I am so glad that Lester and Henry are good little
  infants. Give them many sweet kisses for me.

  What was the name of the little boy who fell in love with the
  beautiful star? Eva has been telling me a story about a lovely
  little girl named Heidi. Will you please send it to me? I shall
  be delighted to have a typewriter.

  Little Arthur is growing very fast. He has on short dresses now.
  Cousin Leila thinks he will walk in a little while. Then I will
  take his soft chubby hand in mine, and go out in the bright
  sunshine with him. He will pull the largest roses, and chase the
  gayest butterflies. I will take very good care of him, and not
  let him fall and hurt himself. Father and some other gentlemen
  went hunting yesterday. Father killed thirty-eight birds. We had
  some of them for supper, and they were very nice. Last Monday
  Simpson shot a pretty crane. The crane is a large and strong
  bird. His wings are as long as my arm, and his bill is as long as
  my foot. He eats little fishes, and other small animals. Father
  says he can fly nearly all day without stopping.

  Mildred is the dearest and sweetest little maiden in the world.
  She is very roguish, too. Sometimes, when mother does not know
  it, she goes out into the vineyard, and gets her apron full of
  delicious grapes. I think she would like to put her two soft arms
  around your neck and hug you.

  Sunday I went to church. I love to go to church, because I like
  to see my friends.

  A gentleman gave me a beautiful card. It was a picture of a mill,
  near a beautiful brook. There was a boat floating on the water,
  and the fragrant lilies were growing all around the boat. Not far
  from the mill there was an old house, with many trees growing
  close to it. There were eight pigeons on the roof of the house,
  and a great dog on the step. Pearl is a very proud mother-dog
  now. She has eight puppies, and she thinks there never were such
  fine puppies as hers.

  I read in my books every day. I love them very, very, very much.
  I do want you to come back to me soon. I miss you so very, very
  much. I cannot know about many things, when my dear teacher is
  not here. I send you five thousand kisses, and more love than I
  can tell. I send Mrs. H. much love and a kiss.
  From your affectionate little pupil,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  In the fall Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to Perkins
  Institution at South Boston.

  TO MISS MILDRED KELLER
  South Boston, Oct. 24, 1889.

  My Precious Little Sister:--Good morning. I am going to send you
  a birthday gift with this letter. I hope it will please you very
  much, because it makes me happy to send it. The dress is blue
  like your eyes, and candy is sweet just like your dear little
  self. I think mother will be glad to make the dress for you, and
  when you wear it you will look as pretty as a rose. The
  picture-book will tell you all about many strange and wild
  animals. You must not be afraid of them. They cannot come out of
  the picture to harm you.

  I go to school every day, and I learn many new things. At eight I
  study arithmetic. I like that. At nine I go to the gymnasium with
  the little girls and we have great fun. I wish you could be here
  to play three little squirrels, and two gentle doves, and to make
  a pretty nest for a dear little robin. The mocking bird does not
  live in the cold north. At ten I study about the earth on which
  we all live. At eleven I talk with teacher and at twelve I study
  zoology. I do not know what I shall do in the afternoon yet.

  Now, my darling little Mildred, good bye. Give father and mother
  a great deal of love and many hugs and kisses for me. Teacher
  sends her love too.
  From your loving sister,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
  South Boston, Mass., Nov. 20, 1889.

  My Dear Mr. Wade:--I have just received a letter from my mother,
  telling me that the beautiful mastiff puppy you sent me had
  arrived in Tuscumbia safely. Thank you very much for the nice
  gift. I am very sorry that I was not at home to welcome her; but
  my mother and my baby sister will be very kind to her while her
  mistress is away. I hope she is not lonely and unhappy. I think
  puppies can feel very home-sick, as well as little girls. I
  should like to call her Lioness, for your dog. May I? I hope she
  will be very faithful,--and brave, too.

  I am studying in Boston, with my dear teacher. I learn a great
  many new and wonderful things. I study about the earth, and the
  animals, and I like arithmetic exceedingly. I learn many new
  words, too. EXCEEDINGLY is one that I learned yesterday. When I
  see Lioness I will tell her many things which will surprise her
  greatly. I think she will laugh when I tell her she is a
  vertebrate, a mammal, a quadruped; and I shall be very sorry to
  tell her that she belongs to the order Carnivora. I study French,
  too. When I talk French to Lioness I will call her mon beau
  chien. Please tell Lion that I will take good care of Lioness. I
  shall be happy to have a letter from you when you like to write
  to me.

  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.

  P.S. I am studying at the Institution for the Blind.

  H. A. K.


  This letter is indorsed in Whittier's hand, "Helen A.
  Keller--deaf dumb and blind--aged nine years." "Browns" is a
  lapse of the pencil for "brown eyes."

  TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
  Inst. for the Blind, So. Boston, Mass.,
  Nov. 27, 1889.

  Dear Poet,
  I think you will be surprised to receive a letter from a little
  girl whom you do not know, but I thought you would be glad to
  hear that your beautiful poems make me very happy. Yesterday I
  read "In School Days" and "My Playmate," and I enjoyed them
  greatly. I was very sorry that the poor little girl with the
  browns and the "tangled golden curls" died. It is very pleasant
  to live here in our beautiful world. I cannot see the lovely
  things with my eyes, but my mind can see them all, and so I am
  joyful all the day long.

  When I walk out in my garden I cannot see the beautiful flowers
  but I know that they are all around me; for is not the air sweet
  with their fragrance? I know too that the tiny lily-bells are
  whispering pretty secrets to their companions else they would not
  look so happy. I love you very dearly, because you have taught me
  so many lovely things about flowers, and birds, and people. Now I
  must say, good-bye. I hope [you] will enjoy the Thanksgiving very
  much.

  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.
  To Mr. John Greenleaf Whittier.


  Whittier's reply, to which there is a reference in the following
  letter, has been lost.

  TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  South Boston, Mass., Dec. 3, 1889.

  My Dear Mother:--Your little daughter is very happy to write to
  you this beautiful morning. It is cold and rainy here to-day.
  Yesterday the Countess of Meath came again to see me. She gave me
  a beautiful bunch of violets. Her little girls are named Violet
  and May. The Earl said he should be delighted to visit Tuscumbia
  the next time he comes to America. Lady Meath said she would like
  to see your flowers, and hear the mocking-birds sing. When I
  visit England they want me to come to see them, and stay a few
  weeks. They will take me to see the Queen.

  I had a lovely letter from the poet Whittier. He loves me. Mr.
  Wade wants teacher and me to come and see him next spring. May we
  go? He said you must feed Lioness from your hand, because she
  will be more gentle if she does not eat with other dogs.

  Mr. Wilson came to call on us one Thursday. I was delighted to
  receive the flowers from home. They came while we were eating
  breakfast, and my friends enjoyed them with me. We had a very
  nice dinner on Thanksgiving day,--turkey and plum-pudding. Last
  week I visited a beautiful art store. I saw a great many statues,
  and the gentleman gave me an angel.

  Sunday I went to church on board a great warship. After the
  services were over the soldier-sailors showed us around. There
  were four hundred and sixty sailors. They were very kind to me.
  One carried me in his arms so that my feet would not touch the
  water. They wore blue uniforms and queer little caps. There was a
  terrible fire Thursday. Many stores were burned, and four men
  were killed. I am very sorry for them. Tell father, please, to
  write to me. How is dear little sister? Give her many kisses for
  me. Now I must close. With much love, from your darling child,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  So. Boston, Mass., Dec. 24, 1889

  My dear Mother,
  Yesterday I sent you a little Christmas box. I am very sorry that
  I could not send it before so that you would receive it tomorrow,
  but I could not finish the watch-case any sooner. I made all of
  the gifts myself, excepting father's handkerchief. I wish I could
  have made father a gift too, but I did not have sufficient time.
  I hope you will like your watch-case, for it made me very happy
  to make it for you. You must keep your lovely new montre in it.
  If it is too warm in Tuscumbia for little sister to wear her
  pretty mittens, she can keep them because her sister made them
  for her. I imagine she will have fun with the little toy man.
  Tell her to shake him, and then he will blow his trumpet. I thank
  my dear kind father for sending me some money, to buy gifts for
  my friends. I love to make everybody happy. I should like to be
  at home on Christmas day. We would be very happy together. I
  think of my beautiful home every day. Please do not forget to
  send me some pretty presents to hang on my tree. I am going to
  have a Christmas tree, in the parlor and teacher will hang all of
  my gifts upon it. It will be a funny tree. All of the girls have
  gone home to spend Christmas. Teacher and I are the only babies
  left for Mrs. Hopkins to care for. Teacher has been sick in bed
  for many days. Her throat was very sore and the doctor thought
  she would have to go away to the hospital, but she is better now.
  I have not been sick at all. The little girls are well too.
  Friday I am going to spend the day with my little friends Carrie,
  Ethel, Frank and Helen Freeman. We will have great fun I am sure.

  Mr. and Miss Endicott came to see me, and I went to ride in the
  carriage. They are going to give me a lovely present, but I
  cannot guess what it will be. Sammy has a dear new brother. He is
  very soft and delicate yet. Mr. Anagnos is in Athens now. He is
  delighted because I am here. Now I must say, good-bye. I hope I
  have written my letter nicely, but it is very difficult to write
  on this paper and teacher is not here to give me better. Give
  many kisses to little sister and much love to all. Lovingly
  HELEN.


  TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
  South Boston, Jan. 8, 1890.

  My dear Mr. Hale:
  The beautiful shells came last night. I thank you very much for
  them. I shall always keep them, and it will make me very happy to
  think that you found them, on that far away island, from which
  Columbus sailed to discover our dear country. When I am eleven
  years old it will be four hundred years since he started with the
  three small ships to cross the great strange ocean. He was very
  brave. The little girls were delighted to see the lovely shells.
  I told them all I knew about them. Are you very glad that you
  could make so many happy? I am. I should be very happy to come
  and teach you the Braille sometime, if you have time to learn,
  but I am afraid you are too busy. A few days ago I received a
  little box of English violets from Lady Meath. The flowers were
  wilted, but the kind thought which came with them was as sweet
  and as fresh as newly pulled violets.

  With loving greeting to the little cousins, and Mrs. Hale and a
  sweet kiss for yourself,
  From your little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  This, the first of Helen's letters to Dr. Holmes, written soon
  after a visit to him, he published in "Over the Teacups."
  [Atlantic Monthly, May, 1890]

  TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
  South Boston, Mass., March 1, 1890.

  Dear, Kind Poet:--I have thought of you many times since that
  bright Sunday when I bade you good-bye; and I am going to write
  you a letter, because I love you. I am sorry that you have no
  little children to play with you sometimes; but I think you are
  very happy with your books, and your many, many friends. On
  Washington's birthday a great many people came here to see the
  blind children; and I read for them from your poems, and showed
  them some beautiful shells, which came from a little island near
  Palos.

  I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey." Jakey was
  the sweetest little fellow you can imagine, but he was poor and
  blind. I used to think--when I was small, and before I could
  read--that everybody was always happy, and at first it made me
  very sad to know about pain and great sorrow; but now I know that
  we could never learn to be brave and patient, if there were only
  joy in the world.

  I am studying about insects in zoology, and I have learned many
  things about butterflies. They do not make honey for us, like the
  bees, but many of them are as beautiful as the flowers they light
  upon, and they always delight the hearts of little children. They
  live a gay life, flitting from flower to flower, sipping the
  drops of honeydew, without a thought for the morrow. They are
  just like little boys and girls when they forget books and
  studies, and run away to the woods and the fields, to gather wild
  flowers, or wade in the ponds for fragrant lilies, happy in the
  bright sunshine.

  If my little sister comes to Boston next June, will you let me
  bring her to see you? She is a lovely baby, and I am sure you
  will love her.

  Now I must tell my gentle poet good-bye, for I have a letter to
  write home before I go to bed.
  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO MISS SARAH FULLER [Miss Fuller gave Helen Keller her first
  lesson in articulation. See Chapter IV, Speech.]
  South Boston, Mass., April 3, 1890.

  My dear Miss Fuller,
  My heart is full of joy this beautiful morning, because I have
  learned to speak many new words, and I can make a few sentences.
  Last evening I went out in the yard and spoke to the moon. I
  said, "O! moon come to me!" Do you think the lovely moon was glad
  that I could speak to her? How glad my mother will be. I can
  hardly wait for June to come I am so eager to speak to her and to
  my precious little sister. Mildred could not understand me when I
  spelled with my fingers, but now she will sit in my lap and I
  will tell her many things to please her, and we shall be so happy
  together. Are you very, very happy because you can make so many
  people happy? I think you are very kind and patient, and I love
  you very dearly. My teacher told me Tuesday that you wanted to
  know how I came to wish to talk with my mouth. I will tell you
  all about it, for I remember my thoughts perfectly. When I was a
  very little child I used to sit in my mother's lap all the time,
  because I was very timid, and did not like to be left by myself.
  And I would keep my little hand on her face all the while,
  because it amused me to feel her face and lips move when she
  talked with people. I did not know then what she was doing, for I
  was quite ignorant of all things. Then when I was older I learned
  to play with my nurse and the little <DW64> children and I noticed
  that they kept moving their lips just like my mother, so I moved
  mine too, but sometimes it made me angry and I would hold my
  playmates' mouths very hard. I did not know then that it was very
  naughty to do so. After a long time my dear teacher came to me,
  and taught me to communicate with my fingers and I was satisfied
  and happy. But when I came to school in Boston I met some deaf
  people who talked with their mouths like all other people, and
  one day a lady who had been to Norway came to see me, and told me
  of a blind and deaf girl [Ragnhild Kaata] she had seen in that
  far away land who had been taught to speak and understand others
  when they spoke to her. This good and happy news delighted me
  exceedingly, for then I was sure that I should learn also. I
  tried to make sounds like my little playmates, but teacher told
  me that the voice was very delicate and sensitive and that it
  would injure it to make incorrect sounds, and promised to take me
  to see a kind and wise lady who would teach me rightly. That lady
  was yourself. Now I am as happy as the little birds, because I
  can speak and perhaps I shall sing too. All of my friends will be
  so surprised and glad.
  Your loving little pupil,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  When the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, Helen and
  Miss Sullivan went to Tuscumbia. This was the first home-going
  after she had learned to "talk with her mouth."

  TO  REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 14, 1890.

  My dear Mr. Brooks, I am very glad to write to you this beautiful
  day because you are my kind friend and I love you, and because I
  wish to know many things.   I have been at home three weeks, and
  Oh, how happy I have been with dear mother and father and
  precious little sister. I was very, very sad to part with all of
  my friends in Boston, but I was so eager to see my baby sister I
  could hardly wait for the train to take me home. But I tried very
  hard to be patient for teacher's sake. Mildred has grown much
  taller and stronger than she was when I went to Boston, and she
  is the sweetest and dearest little child in the world. My parents
  were delighted to hear me speak, and I was overjoyed to give them
  such a happy surprise. I think it is so pleasant to make
  everybody happy. Why does the dear Father in heaven think it best
  for us to have very great sorrow sometimes? I am always happy and
  so was Little Lord Fauntleroy, but dear Little Jakey's life was
  full of sadness. God did not put the light in Jakey's eyes and he
  was blind, and his father was not gentle and loving. Do you think
  poor Jakey loved his Father in heaven more because his other
  father was unkind to him? How did God tell people that his home
  was in heaven? When people do very wrong and hurt animals and
  treat children unkindly God is grieved, but what will he do to
  them to teach them to be pitiful and loving? I think he will tell
  them how dearly He loves them and that He wants them to be good
  and happy, and they will not wish to grieve their father who
  loves them so much, and they will want to please him in
  everything they do, so they will love each other and do good to
  everyone, and be kind to animals.

  Please tell me something that you know about God. It makes me
  happy to know much about my loving Father, who is good and wise.
  I hope you will write to your little friend when you have time. I
  should like very much to see you to-day Is the sun very hot in
  Boston now? this afternoon if it is cool enough I shall take
  Mildred for a ride on my donkey. Mr. Wade sent Neddy to me, and
  he is the prettiest donkey you can imagine. My great dog Lioness
  goes with us when we ride to protect us. Simpson, that is my
  brother, brought me some beautiful pond lilies yesterday--he is a
  very brother to me.

  Teacher sends you her kind remembrances, and father and mother
  also send their regards.
  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  DR. BROOKS'S REPLY
  London, August 3, 1890.

  My Dear Helen--I was very glad indeed to get your letter. It has
  followed me across the ocean and found me in this magnificent
  great city which I should like to tell you all about if I could
  take time for it and make my letter long enough. Some time when
  you come and see me in my study in Boston I shall be glad to talk
  to you about it all if you care to hear.

  But now I want to tell you how glad I am that you are so happy
  and enjoying your home so very much. I can almost think I see you
  with your father and mother and little sister, with all the
  brightness of the beautiful country about you, and it makes me
  very glad to know how glad you are.

  I am glad also to know, from the questions which you ask me, what
  you are thinking about. I do not see how we can help thinking
  about God when He is so good to us all the time. Let me tell you
  how it seems to me that we come to know about our heavenly
  Father. It is from the power of love which is in our own hearts.
  Love is at the soul of everything. Whatever has not the power of
  loving must have a very dreary life indeed. We like to think that
  the sunshine and the winds and the trees are able to love in some
  way of their own, for it would make us know that they were happy
  if we knew that they could love. And so God who is the greatest
  and happiest of all beings is the most loving too. All the love
  that is in our hearts comes from him, as all the light which is
  in the flowers comes from the sun. And the more we love the more
  near we are to God and His Love.

  I told you that I was very happy because of your happiness.
  Indeed I am. So are your Father and your Mother and your Teacher
  and all your friends. But do you not think that God is happy too
  because you are happy? I am sure He is. And He is happier than
  any of us because He is greater than any of us, and also because
  He not merely SEES your happiness as we do, but He also MADE it.
  He gives it to you as the sun gives light and color to the rose.
  And we are always most glad of what we not merely see our friends
  enjoy, but of what we give them to enjoy. Are we not?

  But God does not only want us to be HAPPY; He wants us to be
  good. He wants that most of all. He knows that we can be really
  happy only when we are good. A great deal of the trouble that is
  in the world is medicine which is very bad to take, but which it
  is good to take because it makes us better. We see how good
  people may be in great trouble when we think of Jesus who was the
  greatest sufferer that ever lived and yet was the best Being and
  so, I am sure, the happiest Being that the world has ever seen.

  I love to tell you about God. But He will tell you Himself by the
  love which He will put into your heart if you ask Him. And Jesus,
  who is His Son, but is nearer to Him than all of us His other
  Children, came into the world on purpose to tell us all about our
  Father's Love. If you read His words, you will see how full His
  heart is of the love of God. "We KNOW that He loves us," He says.
  And so He loved men Himself and though they were very cruel to
  Him and at last killed Him, He was willing to die for them
  because He loved them so. And, Helen, He loves men still, and He
  loves us, and He tells us that we may love Him.

  And so love is everything. And if anybody asks you, or if you ask
  yourself what God is, answer, "God is Love." That is the
  beautiful answer which the Bible gives.

  All this is what you are to think of and to understand more and
  more as you grow older. Think of it now, and let it make every
  blessing brighter because your dear Father sends it to you.

  You will come back to Boston I hope soon after I do. I shall be
  there by the middle of September. I shall want you to tell me all
  about everything, and not forget the Donkey.

  I send my kind remembrance to your father and mother, and to your
  teacher. I wish I could see your little sister.

  Good Bye, dear Helen. Do write to me soon again, directing your
  letter to Boston.
  Your affectionate friend
  PHILLIPS BROOKS.


  DR. HOLMES'S REPLY
  To a letter which has been lost.

  Beverly Farms, Mass., August 1, 1890.
  My Dear Little Friend Helen:

  I received your welcome letter several days ago, but I have so
  much writing to do that I am apt to make my letters wait a good
  while before they get answered.

  It gratifies me very much to find that you remember me so kindly.
  Your letter is charming, and I am greatly pleased with it. I
  rejoice to know that you are well and happy. I am very much
  delighted to hear of your new acquisition--that you "talk with
  your mouth" as well as with your fingers. What a curious thing
  SPEECH is! The tongue is so serviceable a member (taking all
  sorts of shapes, just as is wanted),--the teeth, the lips, the
  roof of the mouth, all ready to help, and so heap up the sound of
  the voice into the solid bits which we call consonants, and make
  room for the curiously shaped breathings which we call vowels!
  You have studied all this, I don't doubt, since you have
  practised vocal speaking.

  I am surprised at the mastery of language which your letter
  shows. It almost makes me think the world would get along as well
  without seeing and hearing as with them. Perhaps people would be
  better in a great many ways, for they could not fight as they do
  now. Just think of an army of blind people, with guns and cannon!
  Think of the poor drummers! Of what use would they and their
  drumsticks be? You are spared the pain of many sights and sounds,
  which you are only too happy in escaping. Then think how much
  kindness you are sure of as long as you live. Everybody will feel
  an interest in dear little Helen; everybody will want to do
  something for her; and, if she becomes an ancient, gray-haired
  woman, she is still sure of being thoughtfully cared for.

  Your parents and friends must take great satisfaction in your
  progress. It does great credit, not only to you, but to your
  instructors, who have so broken down the walls that seemed to
  shut you in that now your outlook seems more bright and cheerful
  than that of many seeing and hearing children.

  Good-bye, dear little Helen! With every kind wish from your
  friend,
  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


  This letter was written to some gentlemen in Gardiner, Maine, who
  named a lumber vessel after her.

  TO MESSRS. BRADSTREET
  Tuscumbia, Ala., July 14, 1890.

  My Dear, Kind Friends:--I thank you very, very much for naming
  your beautiful new ship for me. It makes me very happy to know
  that I have kind and loving friends in the far-away State of
  Maine. I did not imagine, when I studied about the forests of
  Maine, that a strong and beautiful ship would go sailing all over
  the world, carrying wood from those rich forests, to build
  pleasant homes and schools and churches in distant countries. I
  hope the great ocean will love the new Helen, and let her sail
  over its blue waves peacefully. Please tell the brave sailors,
  who have charge of the HELEN KELLER, that little Helen who stays
  at home will often think of them with loving thoughts. I hope I
  shall see you and my beautiful namesake some time.

  With much love, from your little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.
  To the Messrs. Bradstreet.


  Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to the Perkins Institution early
  in November.

  TO  MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  South Boston, Nov. 10, 1890.

  My Dearest Mother:--My heart has been full of thoughts of you and
  my beautiful home ever since we parted so sadly on Wednesday
  night. How I wish I could see you this lovely morning, and tell
  you all that has happened since I left home! And my darling
  little sister, how I wish I could give her a hundred kisses! And
  my dear father, how he would like to hear about our journey! But
  I cannot see you and talk to you, so I will write and tell you
  all that I can think of.

  We did not reach Boston until Saturday morning. I am sorry to say
  that our train was delayed in several places, which made us late
  in reaching New York. When we got to Jersey City at six o'clock
  Friday evening we were obliged to cross the Harlem River in a
  ferry-boat. We found the boat and the transfer carriage with much
  less difficulty than teacher expected. When we arrived at the
  station they told us that the train did not leave for Boston
  until eleven o'clock, but that we could take the sleeper at nine,
  which we did. We went to bed and slept until morning. When we
  awoke we were in Boston. I was delighted to get there, though I
  was much disappointed because we did not arrive on Mr. Anagnos'
  birthday. We surprised our dear friends, however, for they did
  not expect us Saturday; but when the bell rung Miss Marrett
  guessed who was at the door, and Mrs. Hopkins jumped up from the
  breakfast table and ran to the door to meet us; she was indeed
  much astonished to see us. After we had had some breakfast we
  went up to see Mr. Anagnos. I was overjoyed to see my dearest and
  kindest friend once more. He gave me a beautiful watch. I have it
  pinned to my dress. I tell everybody the time when they ask me. I
  have only seen Mr. Anagnos twice. I have many questions to ask
  him about the countries he has been travelling in. But I suppose
  he is very busy now.

  The hills in Virginia were very lovely. Jack Frost had dressed
  them in gold and crimson. The view was most charmingly
  picturesque. Pennsylvania is a very beautiful State. The grass
  was as green as though it was springtime, and the golden ears of
  corn gathered together in heaps in the great fields looked very
  pretty. In Harrisburg we saw a donkey like Neddy. How I wish I
  could see my own donkey and my dear Lioness! Do they miss their
  mistress very much? Tell Mildred she must be kind to them for my
  sake.

  Our room is pleasant and comfortable.

  My typewriter was much injured coming. The case was broken and
  the keys are nearly all out. Teacher is going to see if it can be
  fixed.

  There are many new books in the library. What a nice time I shall
  have reading them! I have already read Sara Crewe. It is a very
  pretty story, and I will tell it to you some time. Now, sweet
  mother, your little girl must say good-bye.

  With much love to father, Mildred, you and all the dear friends,
  lovingly your little daughter,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO  JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
  South Boston, Dec. 17, 1890.

  Dear Kind Poet,
  This is your birthday; that was the first thought which came into
  my mind when I awoke this morning; and it made me glad to think I
  could write you a letter and tell you how much your little
  friends love their sweet poet and his birthday. This evening they
  are going to entertain their friends with readings from your
  poems and music. I hope the swift winged messengers of love will
  be here to carry some of the sweet melody to you, in your little
  study by the Merrimac. At first I was very sorry when I found
  that the sun had hidden his shining face behind dull clouds, but
  afterwards I thought why he did it, and then I was happy. The sun
  knows that you like to see the world covered with beautiful white
  snow and so he kept back all his brightness, and let the little
  crystals form in the sky. When they are ready, they will softly
  fall and tenderly cover every object. Then the sun will appear in
  all his radiance and fill the world with light. If I were with
  you to-day I would give you eighty-three kisses, one for each
  year you have lived. Eighty-three years seems very long to me.
  Does it seem long to you? I wonder how many years there will be
  in eternity. I am afraid I cannot think about so much time. I
  received the letter which you wrote to me last summer, and I
  thank you for it. I am staying in Boston now at the Institution
  for the Blind, but I have not commenced my studies yet, because
  my dearest friend, Mr. Anagnos wants me to rest and play a great
  deal.

  Teacher is well and sends her kind remembrance to you. The happy
  Christmas time is almost here! I can hardly wait for the fun to
  begin! I hope your Christmas Day will be a very happy one and
  that the New Year will be full of brightness and joy for you and
  every one.
  From your little friend
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  WHITTIER'S REPLY

  My Dear Young Friend--I was very glad to have such a pleasant
  letter on my birthday. I had two or three hundred others and
  thine was one of the most welcome of all. I must tell thee about
  how the day passed at Oak Knoll. Of course the sun did not shine,
  but we had great open wood fires in the rooms, which were all
  very sweet with roses and other flowers, which were sent to me
  from distant friends; and fruits of all kinds from California and
  other places. Some relatives and dear old friends were with me
  through the day. I do not wonder thee thinks eighty three years a
  long time, but to me it seems but a very little while since I was
  a boy no older than thee, playing on the old farm at Haverhill. I
  thank thee for all thy good wishes, and wish thee as many. I am
  glad thee is at the Institution; it is an excellent place. Give
  my best regards to Miss Sullivan, and with a great deal of love I
  am
  Thy old friend,
  JOHN G. WHITTIER.


  Tommy Stringer, who appears in several of the following letters,
  became blind and deaf when he was four years old. His mother was
  dead and his father was too poor to take care of him. For a while
  he was kept in the general hospital at Allegheny. From here he
  was to be sent to an almshouse, for at that time there was no
  other place for him in Pennsylvania. Helen heard of him through
  Mr. J. G. Brown of Pittsburgh, who wrote her that he had failed
  to secure a tutor for Tommy. She wanted him brought to Boston,
  and when she was told that money would be needed to get him a
  teacher, she answered, "We will raise it." She began to solicit
  contributions from her friends, and saved her pennies.

  Dr. Alexander Graham Bell advised Tommy's friends to send him to
  Boston, and the trustees of the Perkins Institution agreed to
  admit him to the kindergarten for the blind.

  Meanwhile opportunity came to Helen to make a considerable
  contribution to Tommy's education. The winter before, her dog
  Lioness had been killed, and friends set to work to raise money
  to buy Helen another dog. Helen asked that the contributions,
  which people were sending from all over America and England, be
  devoted to Tommy's education. Turned to this new use, the fund
  grew fast, and Tommy was provided for. He was admitted to the
  kindergarten on the sixth of April.

  Miss Keller wrote lately, "I shall never forget the pennies sent
  by many a poor child who could ill spare them, 'for little
  Tommy,' or the swift sympathy with which people from far and
  near, whom I had never seen, responded to the dumb cry of a
  little captive soul for aid."


  TO MR. GEORGE R. KREHL
  Institution for the Blind,
  South Boston, Mass., March 20, 1891.

  My Dear Friend, Mr. Krehl:--I have just heard, through Mr. Wade,
  of your kind offer to buy me a gentle dog, and I want to thank
  you for the kind thought. It makes me very happy indeed to know
  that I have such dear friends in other lands. It makes me think
  that all people are good and loving. I have read that the English
  and Americans are cousins; but I am sure it would be much truer
  to say that we are brothers and sisters. My friends have told me
  about your great and magnificent city, and I have read a great
  deal that wise Englishmen have written. I have begun to read
  "Enoch Arden," and I know several of the great poet's poems by
  heart. I am eager to cross the ocean, for I want to see my
  English friends and their good and wise queen. Once the Earl of
  Meath came to see me, and he told me that the queen was much
  beloved by her people, because of her gentleness and wisdom. Some
  day you will be surprised to see a little strange girl coming
  into your office; but when you know it is the little girl who
  loves dogs and all other animals, you will laugh, and I hope you
  will give her a kiss, just as Mr. Wade does. He has another dog
  for me, and he thinks she will be as brave and faithful as my
  beautiful Lioness. And now I want to tell you what the dog lovers
  in America are going to do. They are going to send me some money
  for a poor little deaf and dumb and blind child. His name is
  Tommy, and he is five years old. His parents are too poor to pay
  to have the little fellow sent to school; so, instead of giving
  me a dog, the gentlemen are going to help make Tommy's life as
  bright and joyous as mine. Is it not a beautiful plan? Education
  will bring light and music into Tommy's soul, and then he cannot
  help being happy.
  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO  DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
  [South Boston, Mass., April, 1891.]

  Dear Dr. Holmes:--Your beautiful words about spring have been
  making music in my heart, these bright April days. I love every
  word of "Spring" and "Spring Has Come." I think you will be glad
  to hear that these poems have taught me to enjoy and love the
  beautiful springtime, even though I cannot see the fair, frail
  blossoms which proclaim its approach, or hear the joyous warbling
  of the home-coming birds. But when I read "Spring Has Come," lo!
  I am not blind any longer, for I see with your eyes and hear with
  your ears. Sweet Mother Nature can have no secrets from me when
  my poet is near. I have chosen this paper because I want the
  spray of violets in the corner to tell you of my grateful love. I
  want you to see baby Tom, the little blind and deaf and dumb
  child who has just come to our pretty garden. He is poor and
  helpless and lonely now, but before another April education will
  have brought light and gladness into Tommy's life. If you do
  come, you will want to ask the kind people of Boston to help
  brighten Tommy's whole life. Your loving friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO  SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS
  Perkins Institution for the Blind,
  South Boston, Mass., April 30, 1891.

  My Dear Mr. Millais:--Your little American sister is going to
  write you a letter, because she wants you to know how pleased she
  was to hear you were interested in our poor little Tommy, and had
  sent some money to help educate him. It is very beautiful to
  think that people far away in England feel sorry for a little
  helpless child in America. I used to think, when I read in my
  books about your great city, that when I visited it the people
  would be strangers to me, but now I feel differently. It seems to
  me that all people who have loving, pitying hearts, are not
  strangers to each other. I can hardly wait patiently for the time
  to come when I shall see my dear English friends, and their
  beautiful island home. My favourite poet has written some lines
  about England which I love very much. I think you will like them
  too, so I will try to write them for you.

  "Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
  From seaweed fringe to mountain heather,
  The British oak with rooted grasp
  Her slender handful holds together,
  With cliffs of white and bowers of green,
  And ocean narrowing to caress her,
  And hills and threaded streams between,
  Our little mother isle, God bless her!"

  You will be glad to hear that Tommy has a kind lady to teach him,
  and that he is a pretty, active little fellow. He loves to climb
  much better than to spell, but that is because he does not know
  yet what a wonderful thing language is. He cannot imagine how
  very, very happy he will be when he can tell us his thoughts, and
  we can tell him how we have loved him so long.

  Tomorrow April will hide her tears and blushes beneath the
  flowers of lovely May. I wonder if the May-days in England are as
  beautiful as they are here.

  Now I must say good-bye. Please think of me always as your loving
  little sister,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO  REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
  So. Boston, May 1, 1891.

  My Dear Mr. Brooks:
  Helen sends you a loving greeting this bright May-day. My teacher
  has just told me that you have been made a bishop, and that your
  friends everywhere are rejoicing because one whom they love has
  been greatly honored. I do not understand very well what a
  bishop's work is, but I am sure it must be good and helpful, and
  I am glad that my dear friend is brave, and wise, and loving
  enough to do it. It is very beautiful to think that you can tell
  so many people of the heavenly Father's tender love for all His
  children even when they are not gentle and noble as He wishes
  them to be. I hope the glad news which you will tell them will
  make their hearts beat fast with joy and love. I hope too, that
  Bishop Brooks' whole life will be as rich in happiness as the
  month of May is full of blossoms and singing birds.
  From your loving little friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  Before a teacher was found for Tommy and while he was still in
  the care of Helen and Miss Sullivan, a reception was held for him
  at the kindergarten. At Helen's request Bishop Brooks made an
  address. Helen wrote letters to the newspapers which brought many
  generous replies. All of these she answered herself, and she made
  public acknowledgment in letters to the newspapers. This letter
  is to the editor of the Boston Herald, enclosing a complete list
  of the subscribers. The contributions amounted to more than
  sixteen hundred dollars.

  TO MR. JOHN H. HOLMES
  South Boston, May 13, 1891.
  Editor of the Boston Herald:
  My Dear Mr. Holmes:--Will you kindly print in the Herald, the
  enclosed list? I think the readers of your paper will be glad to
  know that so much has been done for dear little Tommy, and that
  they will all wish to share in the pleasure of helping him. He is
  very happy indeed at the kindergarten, and is learning something
  every day. He has found out that doors have locks, and that
  little sticks and bits of paper can be got into the key-hole
  quite easily; but he does not seem very eager to get them out
  after they are in. He loves to climb the bed-posts and unscrew
  the steam valves much better than to spell, but that is because
  he does not understand that words would help him to make new and
  interesting discoveries. I hope that good people will continue to
  work for Tommy until his fund is completed, and education has
  brought light and music into his little life.
  From your little friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
  South Boston, May 27, 1891.
  Dear, Gentle Poet:--I fear that you will think Helen a very
  troublesome little girl if she writes to you too often; but how
  is she to help sending you loving and grateful messages, when you
  do so much to make her glad? I cannot begin to tell you how
  delighted I was when Mr. Anagnos told me that you had sent him
  some money to help educate "Baby Tom." Then I knew that you had
  not forgotten the dear little child, for the gift brought with it
  the thought of tender sympathy. I am very sorry to say that Tommy
  has not learned any words yet. He is the same restless little
  creature he was when you saw him. But it is pleasant to think
  that he is happy and playful in his bright new home, and by and
  by that strange, wonderful thing teacher calls MIND, will begin
  to spread its beautiful wings and fly away in search of
  knowledge-land. Words are the mind's wings, are they not?

  I have been to Andover since I saw you, and I was greatly
  interested in all that my friends told me about Phillips Academy,
  because I knew you had been there, and I felt it was a place dear
  to you. I tried to imagine my gentle poet when he was a
  school-boy, and I wondered if it was in Andover he learned the
  songs of the birds and the secrets of the shy little woodland
  children. I am sure his heart was always full of music, and in
  God's beautiful world he must have heard love's sweet replying.
  When I came home teacher read to me "The School-boy," for it is
  not in our print.

  Did you know that the blind children are going to have their
  commencement exercises in Tremont Temple, next Tuesday afternoon?
  I enclose a ticket, hoping that you will come. We shall all be
  proud and happy to welcome our poet friend. I shall recite about
  the beautiful cities of sunny Italy. I hope our kind friend Dr.
  Ellis will come too, and take Tom in his arms.

  With much love and a kiss, from your little friend,
  HELEN A. KELLER.


  TO REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS
  South Boston, June 8, 1891.
  My dear Mr. Brooks,
  I send you my picture as I promised, and I hope when you look at
  it this summer your thoughts will fly southward to your happy
  little friend. I used to wish that I could see pictures with my
  hands as I do statues, but now I do not often think about it
  because my dear Father has filled my mind with beautiful
  pictures, even of things I cannot see. If the light were not in
  your eyes, dear Mr. Brooks, you would understand better how happy
  your little Helen was when her teacher explained to her that the
  best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor
  even touched, but just felt in the heart. Every day I find out
  something which makes me glad. Yesterday I thought for the first
  time what a beautiful thing motion was, and it seemed to me that
  everything was trying to get near to God, does it seem that way
  to you? It is Sunday morning, and while I sit here in the library
  writing this letter you are teaching hundreds of people some of
  the grand and beautiful things about their heavenly Father. Are
  you not very, very happy? and when you are a Bishop you will
  preach to more people and more and more will be made glad.
  Teacher sends her kind remembrances, and I send you with my
  picture my dear love.
  From your little friend
  HELEN KELLER.


  When the Perkins Institution closed in June, Helen and her
  teacher went south to Tuscumbia, where they remained until
  December. There is a hiatus of several months in the letters,
  caused by the depressing effect on Helen and Miss Sullivan of the
  "Frost King" episode. At the time this trouble seemed very grave
  and brought them much unhappiness. An analysis of the case has
  been made elsewhere, and Miss Keller has written her account of
  it.


  TO  MR. ALBERT H. MUNSELL
  Brewster, Mar. 10, 1892.
  My dear Mr. Munsell,
  Surely I need not tell you that your letter was very welcome. I
  enjoyed every word of it and wished that it was longer. I laughed
  when you spoke of old Neptune's wild moods. He has, in truth,
  behaved very strangely ever since we came to Brewster. It is
  evident that something has displeased his Majesty but I cannot
  imagine what it can be. His expression has been so turbulent that
  I have feared to give him your kind message. Who knows! Perhaps
  the Old Sea God as he lay asleep upon the shore, heard the soft
  music of growing things--the stir of life in the earth's bosom,
  and his stormy heart was angry, because he knew that his and
  Winter's reign was almost at an end. So together the unhappy
  monarch[s] fought most despairingly, thinking that gentle Spring
  would turn and fly at the very sight of the havoc caused by their
  forces. But lo! the lovely maiden only smiles more sweetly, and
  breathes upon the icy battlements of her enemies, and in a moment
  they vanish, and the glad Earth gives her a royal welcome. But I
  must put away these idle fancies until we meet again. Please give
  your dear mother my love. Teacher wishes me to say that she liked
  the photograph very much and she will see about having some when
  we return. Now, dear friend, Please accept these few words
  because of the love that is linked with them.
  Lovingly yours
  HELEN KELLER.


  This letter was reproduced in facsimile in St. Nicholas, June,
  1892. It is undated, but must have been written two or three
  months before it was published.

  To St. Nicholas
  Dear St. Nicholas:

  It gives me very great pleasure to send you my autograph because
  I want the boys and girls who read St. Nicholas to know how blind
  children write. I suppose some of them wonder how we keep the
  lines so straight so I will try to tell them how it is done. We
  have a grooved board which we put between the pages when we wish
  to write. The parallel grooves correspond to lines and when we
  have pressed the paper into them by means of the blunt end of the
  pencil it is very easy to keep the words even. The small letters
  are all made in the grooves, while the long ones extend above and
  below them. We guide the pencil with the right hand, and feel
  carefully with the forefinger of the left hand to see that we
  shape and space the letters correctly. It is very difficult at
  first to form them plainly, but if we keep on trying it gradually
  becomes easier, and after a great deal of practice we can write
  legible letters to our friends. Then we are very, very happy.
  Sometime they may visit a school for the blind. If they do, I am
  sure they will wish to see the pupils write.
  Very sincerely your little friend
  HELEN KELLER.


  In May, 1892, Helen gave a tea in aid of the kindergarten for the
  blind. It was quite her own idea, and was given in the house of
  Mrs. Mahlon D. Spaulding, sister of Mr. John P. Spaulding, one of
  Helen's kindest and most liberal friends. The tea brought more
  than two thousand dollars for the blind children.

  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  South Boston, May 9, 1892.
  My dear Miss Carrie:--I was much pleased to receive your kind
  letter. Need I tell you that I was more than delighted to hear
  that you are really interested in the "tea"? Of course we must
  not give it up. Very soon I am going far away, to my own dear
  home, in the sunny south, and it would always make me happy to
  think that the last thing which my dear friends in Boston did for
  my pleasure was to help make the lives of many little sightless
  children good and happy. I know that kind people cannot help
  feeling a tender sympathy for the little ones, who cannot see the
  beautiful light, or any of the wonderful things which give them
  pleasure; and it seems to me that all loving sympathy must
  express itself in acts of kindness; and when the friends of
  little helpless blind children understand that we are working for
  their happiness, they will come and make our "tea" a success, and
  I am sure I shall be the happiest little girl in all the world.
  Please let Bishop Brooks know our plans, so that he may arrange
  to be with us. I am glad Miss Eleanor is interested. Please give
  her my love. I will see you to-morrow and then we can make the
  rest of our plans. Please give your dear aunt teacher's and my
  love and tell her that we enjoyed our little visit very much
  indeed.
  Lovingly yours,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO  MR. JOHN P. SPAULDING
  South Boston, May 11th, 1892.
  My dear Mr. Spaulding:--I am afraid you will think your little
  friend, Helen, very troublesome when you read this letter; but I
  am sure you will not blame me when I tell you that I am very
  anxious about something. You remember teacher and I told you
  Sunday that I wanted to have a little tea in aid of the
  kindergarten. We thought everything was arranged: but we found
  Monday that Mrs. Elliott would not be willing to let us invite
  more than fifty people, because Mrs. Howe's house is quite small.
  I am sure that a great many people would like to come to the tea,
  and help me do something to brighten the lives of little blind
  children; but some of my friends say that I shall have to give up
  the idea of having a tea unless we can find another house.
  Teacher said yesterday, that perhaps Mrs. Spaulding would be
  willing to let us have her beautiful house, and [I] thought I
  would ask you about it. Do you think Mrs. Spaulding would help
  me, if I wrote to her? I shall be so disappointed if my little
  plans fail, because I have wanted for a long time to do something
  for the poor little ones who are waiting to enter the
  kindergarten. Please let me know what you think about the house,
  and try to forgive me for troubling you so much.
  Lovingly your little friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO MR. EDWARD H. CLEMENT
  South Boston, May 18th, 1892.
  My dear Mr. Clement:--I am going to write to you this beautiful
  morning because my heart is brimful of happiness and I want you
  and all my dear friends in the Transcript office to rejoice with
  me. The preparations for my tea are nearly completed, and I am
  looking forward joyfully to the event. I know I shall not fail.
  Kind people will not disappoint me, when they know that I plead
  for helpless little children who live in darkness and ignorance.
  They will come to my tea and buy light,--the beautiful light of
  knowledge and love for many little ones who are blind and
  friendless. I remember perfectly when my dear teacher came to me.
  Then I was like the little blind children who are waiting to
  enter the kindergarten. There was no light in my soul. This
  wonderful world with all its sunlight and beauty was hidden from
  me, and I had never dreamed of its loveliness. But teacher came
  to me and taught my little fingers to use the beautiful key that
  has unlocked the door of my dark prison and set my spirit free.

  It is my earnest wish to share my happiness with others, and I
  ask the kind people of Boston to help me make the lives of little
  blind children brighter and happier.
  Lovingly your little friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  At the end of June Miss Sullivan and Helen went home to
  Tuscumbia.

  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 9th 1892.

  My dear Carrie--You are to look upon it as a most positive proof
  of my love that I write to you to-day. For a whole week it has
  been "cold and dark and dreary" in Tuscumbia, and I must confess
  the continuous rain and dismalness of the weather fills me with
  gloomy thoughts and makes the writing of letters, or any pleasant
  employment, seem quite impossible. Nevertheless, I must tell you
  that we are alive,--that we reached home safely, and that we
  speak of you daily, and enjoy your interesting letters very much.
  I had a beautiful visit at Hulton. Everything was fresh and
  spring-like, and we stayed out of doors all day. We even ate our
  breakfast out on the piazza. Sometimes we sat in the hammock, and
  teacher read to me. I rode horseback nearly every evening and
  once I rode five miles at a fast gallop. O, it was great fun! Do
  you like to ride? I have a very pretty little cart now, and if it
  ever stops raining teacher and I are going to drive every
  evening. And I have another beautiful Mastiff--the largest one I
  ever saw--and he will go along to protect us. His name is Eumer.
  A queer name, is it not? I think it is Saxon. We expect to go to
  the mountains next week. My little brother, Phillips, is not
  well, and we think the clear mountain air will benefit him.
  Mildred is a sweet little sister and I am sure you would love
  her. I thank you very much for your photograph. I like to have my
  friends' pictures even though I cannot see them. I was greatly
  amused at the idea of your writing the square hand. I do not
  write on a Braille tablet, as you suppose, but on a grooved board
  like the piece which I enclose. You could not read Braille; for
  it is written in dots, not at all like ordinary letters. Please
  give my love to Miss Derby and tell her that I hope she gave my
  sweetest love to Baby Ruth. What was the book you sent me for my
  birthday? I received several, and I do not know which was from
  you. I had one gift which especially pleased me. It was a lovely
  cape crocheted, for me, by an old gentleman, seventy-five years
  of age. And every stitch, he writes, represents a kind wish for
  my health and happiness. Tell your little cousins I think they
  had better get upon the fence with me until after the election;
  for there are so many parties and candidates that I doubt if such
  youthful politicians would make a wise selection. Please give my
  love to Rosy when you write, and believe me,
  Your loving friend
  HELEN KELLER.
  P.S. How do you like this type-written letter?
  H. K.


  TO  MRS. GROVER CLEVELAND
  My dear Mrs. Cleveland,
  I am going to write you a little letter this beautiful morning
  because I love you and dear little Ruth very much indeed, and
  also because I wish to thank you for the loving message which you
  sent me through Miss Derby. I am glad, very glad that such a
  kind, beautiful lady loves me. I have loved you for a long time,
  but I did not think you had ever heard of me until your sweet
  message came. Please kiss your dear little baby for me, and tell
  her I have a little brother nearly sixteen months old. His name
  is Phillips Brooks. I named him myself after my dear friend
  Phillips Brooks. I send you with this letter a pretty book which
  my teacher thinks will interest you, and my picture. Please
  accept them with the love and good wishes of your friend,
  HELEN KELLER.
  Tuscumbia, Alabama.
  November fourth. [1892.]


  Hitherto the letters have been given in full; from this point on
  passages are omitted and the omissions are indicated.

  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, Dec. 19, 1892.

  My Dear Mr. Hitz,
  I hardly know how to begin a letter to you, it has been such a
  long time since your kind letter reached me, and there is so much
  that I would like to write if I could. You must have wondered why
  your letter has not had an answer, and perhaps you have thought
  Teacher and me very naughty indeed. If so, you will be very sorry
  when I tell you something. Teacher's eyes have been hurting her
  so that she could not write to any one, and I have been trying to
  fulfil a promise which I made last summer. Before I left Boston,
  I was asked to write a sketch of my life for the Youth's
  Companion. I had intended to write the sketch during my vacation:
  but I was not well, and I did not feel able to write even to my
  friends. But when the bright, pleasant autumn days came, and I
  felt strong again I began to think about the sketch. It was some
  time before I could plan it to suit me. You see, it is not very
  pleasant to write all about one's self. At last, however, I got
  something bit by bit that Teacher thought would do, and I set
  about putting the scraps together, which was not an easy task:
  for, although I worked some on it every day, I did not finish it
  until a week ago Saturday. I sent the sketch to the Companion as
  soon as it was finished; but I do not know that they will accept
  it. Since then, I have not been well, and I have been obliged to
  keep very quiet, and rest; but to-day I am better, and to-morrow
  I shall be well again, I hope.

  The reports which you have read in the paper about me are not
  true at all. We received the Silent Worker which you sent, and I
  wrote right away to the editor to tell him that it was a mistake.
  Sometimes I am not well; but I am not a "wreck," and there is
  nothing "distressing" about my condition.

  I enjoyed your dear letter so much! I am always delighted when
  anyone writes me a beautiful thought which I can treasure in my
  memory forever. It is because my books are full of the riches of
  which Mr. Ruskin speaks that I love them so dearly. I did not
  realize until I began to write the sketch for the Companion, what
  precious companions books have been to me, and how blessed even
  my life has been: and now I am happier than ever because I do
  realize the happiness that has come to me. I hope you will write
  to me as often as you can. Teacher and I are always delighted to
  hear from you. I want to write to Mr. Bell and send him my
  picture. I suppose he has been too busy to write to his little
  friend. I often think of the pleasant time we had all together in
  Boston last spring.

  Now I am going to tell you a secret. I think we, Teacher, and my
  father and little sister, and myself, will visit Washington next
  March!!! Then I shall see you, and dear Mr. Bell, and Elsie and
  Daisy again! Would not it be lovely if Mrs. Pratt could meet us
  there? I think I will write to her and tell her the secret
  too....
  Lovingly your little friend,

  HELEN KELLER.
  P.S. Teacher says you want to know what kind of a pet I would
  like to have. I love all living things,--I suppose everyone does;
  but of course I cannot have a menagerie. I have a beautiful pony,
  and a large dog. And I would like a little dog to hold in my lap,
  or a big pussy (there are no fine cats in Tuscumbia) or a parrot.
  I would like to feel a parrot talk, it would be so much fun! but
  I would be pleased with, and love any little creature you send
  me.
  H. K.


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, February 18, 1893.
  ...You have often been in my thoughts during these sad days,
  while my heart has been grieving over the loss of my beloved
  friend [Phillips Brooks died January 23, 1893], and I have wished
  many times that I was in Boston with those who knew and loved him
  as I did... he was so much of a friend to me! so tender and
  loving always! I do try not to mourn his death too sadly. I do
  try to think that he is still near, very near; but sometimes the
  thought that he is not here, that I shall not see him when I go
  to Boston,--that he is gone,--rushes over my soul like a great
  wave of sorrow. But at other times, when I am happier, I do feel
  his beautiful presence, and his loving hand leading me in
  pleasant ways. Do you remember the happy hour we spent with him
  last June when he held my hand, as he always did, and talked to
  us about his friend Tennyson, and our own dear poet Dr. Holmes,
  and I tried to teach him the manual alphabet, and he laughed so
  gaily over his mistakes, and afterward I told him about my tea,
  and he promised to come? I can hear him now, saying in his
  cheerful, decided way, in reply to my wish that my tea might be a
  success, "Of course it will, Helen. Put your whole heart in the
  good work, my child, and it cannot fail." I am glad the people
  are going to raise a monument to his memory....


  In March Helen and Miss Sullivan went North, and spent the next
  few months traveling and visiting friends.

  In reading this letter about Niagara one should remember that
  Miss Keller knows distance and shape, and that the size of
  Niagara is within her experience after she has explored it,
  crossed the bridge and gone down in the elevator. Especially
  important are such details as her feeling the rush of the water
  by putting her hand on the window. Dr. Bell gave her a down
  pillow, which she held against her to increase the vibrations.

  TO  MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  South Boston, April 13, 1893.
  ...Teacher, Mrs. Pratt and I very unexpectedly decided to take a
  journey with dear Dr. Bell     Mr. Westervelt, a gentleman whom
  father met in Washington, has a school for the deaf in Rochester.
  We went there first....

  Mr. Westervelt gave us a reception one afternoon. A great many
  people came. Some of them asked odd questions. A lady seemed
  surprised that I loved flowers when I could not see their
  beautiful colors, and when I assured her I did love them, she
  said, "no doubt you feel the colors with your fingers." But of
  course, it is not alone for their bright colors that we love the
  flowers.... A gentleman asked me what BEAUTY meant to my mind. I
  must confess I was puzzled at first. But after a minute I
  answered that beauty was a form of goodness--and he went away.

  When the reception was over we went back to the hotel and teacher
  slept quite unconscious of the surprise which was in store for
  her. Mr. Bell and I planned it together, and Mr. Bell made all
  the arrangements before we told teacher anything about it. This
  was the surprise--I was to have the pleasure of taking my dear
  teacher to see Niagara Falls!...

  The hotel was so near the river that I could feel it rushing past
  by putting my hand on the window. The next morning the sun rose
  bright and warm, and we got up quickly for our hearts were full
  of pleasant expectation.... You can never imagine how I felt when
  I stood in the presence of Niagara until you have the same
  mysterious sensations yourself. I could hardly realize that it
  was water that I felt rushing and plunging with impetuous fury at
  my feet. It seemed as if it were some living thing rushing on to
  some terrible fate. I wish I could describe the cataract as it
  is, its beauty and awful grandeur, and the fearful and
  irresistible plunge of its waters over the brow of the precipice.
  One feels helpless and overwhelmed in the presence of such a vast
  force. I had the same feeling once before when I first stood by
  the great ocean and felt its waves beating against the shore. I
  suppose you feel so, too, when you gaze up to the stars in the
  stillness of the night, do you not?... We went down a hundred and
  twenty feet in an elevator that we might see the violent eddies
  and whirlpools in the deep gorge below the Falls. Within two
  miles of the Falls is a wonderful suspension bridge. It is thrown
  across the gorge at a height of two hundred and fifty-eight feet
  above the water and is supported on each bank by towers of solid
  rock, which are eight hundred feet apart. When we crossed over to
  the Canadian side, I cried, "God save the Queen!" Teacher said I
  was a little traitor. But I do not think so. I was only doing as
  the Canadians do, while I was in their country, and besides I
  honor England's good queen.

  You will be pleased, dear Mother, to hear that a kind lady whose
  name is Miss Hooker is endeavoring to improve my speech. Oh, I do
  so hope and pray that I shall speak well some day!...

  Mr. Munsell spent last Sunday evening with us. How you would have
  enjoyed hearing him tell about Venice! His beautiful
  word-pictures made us feel as if we were sitting in the shadow of
  San Marco, dreaming, or sailing upon the moonlit canal.... I hope
  when I visit Venice, as I surely shall some day, that Mr. Munsell
  will go with me. That is my castle in the air. You see, none of
  my friends describe things to me so vividly and so beautifully as
  he does....


  Her visit to the World's Fair she described in a letter to Mr.
  John P. Spaulding, which was published in St. Nicholas, and is
  much like the following letter. In a prefatory note which Miss
  Sullivan wrote for St. Nicholas, she says that people frequently
  said to her, "Helen sees more with her fingers than we do with
  our eyes." The President of the Exposition gave her this letter:

  TO THE CHIEFS OF THE DEPARTMENTS AND OFFICERS IN CHARGE OF
  BUILDINGS AND EXHIBITS

  GENTLEMEN--The bearer, Miss Helen Keller, accompanied by Miss
  Sullivan, is desirous of making a complete inspection of the
  Exposition in all Departments. She is blind and deaf, but is able
  to converse, and is introduced to me as one having a wonderful
  ability to understand the objects she visits, and as being
  possessed of a high order of intelligence and of culture beyond
  her years. Please favour her with every facility to examine the
  exhibits in the several Departments, and extend to her such other
  courtesies as may be possible.

  Thanking you in advance for the same, I am, with respect,
  Very truly yours,
  (signed) H. N. HIGINBOTHAM,
  President.


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  Hulton, Penn., August 17, 1893.

  ...Every one at the Fair was very kind to me... Nearly all of the
  exhibitors seemed perfectly willing to let me touch the most
  delicate things, and they were very nice about explaining
  everything to me. A French gentleman, whose name I cannot
  remember, showed me the great French bronzes. I believe they gave
  me more pleasure than anything else at the Fair: they were so
  lifelike and wonderful to my touch. Dr. Bell went with us himself
  to the electrical building, and showed us some of the historical
  telephones. I saw the one through which Emperor Dom Pedro
  listened to the words, "To be, or not to be," at the Centennial.
  Dr. Gillett of Illinois took us to the Liberal Arts and Woman's
  buildings. In the former I visited Tiffany's exhibit, and held
  the beautiful Tiffany diamond, which is valued at one hundred
  thousand dollars, and touched many other rare and costly things.
  I sat in King Ludwig's armchair and felt like a queen when Dr.
  Gillett remarked that I had many loyal subjects. At the Woman's
  building we met the Princess Maria Schaovskoy of Russia, and a
  beautiful Syrian lady. I liked them both very much. I went to the
  Japanese department with Prof. Morse who is a well-known
  lecturer. I never realized what a wonderful people the Japanese
  are until I saw their most interesting exhibit. Japan must indeed
  be a paradise for children to judge from the great number of
  playthings which are manufactured there. The queer-looking
  Japanese musical instruments, and their beautiful works of art
  were interesting. The Japanese books are very odd. There are
  forty-seven letters in their alphabets. Prof. Morse knows a great
  deal about Japan, and is very kind and wise. He invited me to
  visit his museum in Salem the next time I go to Boston. But I
  think I enjoyed the sails on the tranquil lagoon, and the lovely
  scenes, as my friends described them to me, more than anything
  else at the Fair. Once, while we were out on the water, the sun
  went down over the rim of the earth, and threw a soft, rosy light
  over the White City, making it look more than ever like
  Dreamland....

  Of course, we visited the Midway Plaisance. It was a bewildering
  and fascinating place. I went into the streets of Cairo, and rode
  on the camel. That was fine fun. We also rode in the Ferris
  wheel, and on the ice-railway, and had a sail in the
  Whale-back....


  In the spring of 1893 a club was started in Tuscumbia, of which
  Mrs. Keller was president, to establish a public library. Miss
  Keller says:

  "I wrote to my friends about the work and enlisted their
  sympathy. Several hundred books, including many fine ones, were
  sent to me in a short time, as well as money and encouragement.
  This generous assistance encouraged the ladies, and they have
  gone on collecting and buying books ever since, until now they
  have a very respectable public library in the town."


  TO  MRS. CHARLES E. INCHES
  Hulton, Penn., Oct. 21, 1893.
  ...We spent September at home in Tuscumbia... and were all very
  happy together.... Our quiet mountain home was especially
  attractive and restful after the excitement and fatigue of our
  visit to the World's Fair. We enjoyed the beauty and solitude of
  the hills more than ever.

  And now we are in Hulton, Penn. again where I am going to study
  this winter with a tutor assisted by my dear teacher. I study
  Arithmetic, Latin and literature. I enjoy my lessons very much.
  It is so pleasant to learn about new things. Every day I find how
  little I know, but I do not feel discouraged since God has given
  me an eternity in which to learn more. In literature I am
  studying Longfellow's poetry. I know a great deal of it by heart,
  for I loved it long before I knew a metaphor from a synecdoche. I
  used to say I did not like arithmetic very well, but now I have
  changed my mind. I see what a good and useful study it is, though
  I must confess my mind wanders from it sometimes! for, nice and
  useful as arithmetic is, it is not as interesting as a beautiful
  poem or a lovely story. But bless me, how time does fly. I have
  only a few moments left in which to answer your questions about
  the "Helen Keller" Public Library.

  1. I think there are about 3,000 people in Tuscumbia, Ala., and
  perhaps half of them are <DW52> people. 2. At present there is
  no library of any sort in the town. That is why I thought about
  starting one. My mother and several of my lady friends said they
  would help me, and they formed a club, the object of which is to
  work for the establishment of a free public library in Tuscumbia.
  They have now about 100 books and about $55 in money, and a kind
  gentleman has given us land on which to erect a library building.
  But in the meantime the club has rented a little room in a
  central part of the town, and the books which we already have are
  free to all. 3. Only a few of my kind friends in Boston know
  anything about the library. I did not like to trouble them while
  I was trying to get money for poor little Tommy, for of course it
  was more important that he should be educated than that my people
  should have books to read. 4. I do not know what books we have,
  but I think it is a miscellaneous (I think that is the word)
  collection....

  P.S. My teacher thinks it would be more businesslike to say that
  a list of the contributors toward the building fund will be kept
  and published in my father's paper, the "North Alabamian."
  H. K.


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  Hulton, Penn., December 28, 1893.
  ...Please thank dear Miss Derby for me for the pretty shield
  which she sent me. It is a very interesting souvenir of Columbus,
  and of the Fair White City; but I cannot imagine what discoveries
  I have made,--I mean new discoveries. We are all discoverers in
  one sense, being born quite ignorant of all things; but I hardly
  think that is what she meant. Tell her she must explain why I am
  a discoverer....


  TO  DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
  Hulton, Pennsylvania, January 14, [1894].
  My dear Cousin: I had thought to write to you long before this in
  answer to your kind letter which I was so glad to receive, and to
  thank you for the beautiful little book which you sent me; but I
  have been very busy since the beginning of the New Year. The
  publication of my little story in the Youth's Companion has
  brought me a large number of letters,--last week I received
  sixty-one!--and besides replying to some of these letters, I have
  many lessons to learn, among them Arithmetic and Latin; and, you
  know, Caesar is Caesar still, imperious and tyrannical, and if a
  little girl would understand so great a man, and the wars and
  conquests of which he tells in his beautiful Latin language, she
  must study much and think much, and study and thought require
  time.

  I shall prize the little book always, not only for its own value;
  but because of its associations with you. It is a delight to
  think of you as the giver of one of your books into which, I am
  sure, you have wrought your own thoughts and feelings, and I
  thank you very much for remembering me in such a very beautiful
  way....


  In February Helen and Miss Sullivan returned to Tuscumbia. They
  spent the rest of the spring reading and studying. In the summer
  they attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the American
  Association for the Promotion of the Teaching of Speech to the
  Deaf, where Miss Sullivan read a paper on Helen Keller's
  education.

  In the fall Helen and Miss Sullivan entered the Wright-Humason
  School in New York, which makes a special of lip-reading and
  voice-culture. The "singing lessons" were to strengthen her
  voice. She had taken a few piano lessons at the Perkins
  Institution. The experiment was interesting, but of course came
  to little.

  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  The Wright-Humason School.
  42 West 76th St.
  New York. Oct. 23, 1894.
  ...The school is very pleasant, and bless you! it is quite
  fashionable.... I study Arithmetic, English Literature and United
  States History as I did last winter. I also keep a diary. I enjoy
  my singing lessons with Dr. Humason more than I can say. I expect
  to take piano lessons sometime....

  Last Saturday our kind teachers planned a delightful trip to
  Bedloe's Island to see Bartholdi's great statue of Liberty
  enlightening the world.... The ancient cannon, which look
  seaward, wear a very menacing expression; but I doubt if there is
  any unkindness in their rusty old hearts.

  Liberty is a gigantic figure of a woman in Greek draperies,
  holding in her right hand a torch.... A spiral stairway leads
  from the base of this pedestal to the torch. We climbed up to the
  head which will hold forty persons, and viewed the scene on which
  Liberty gazes day and night, and O, how wonderful it was! We did
  not wonder that the great French artist thought the place worthy
  to be the home of his grand ideal. The glorious bay lay calm and
  beautiful in the October sunshine, and the ships came and went
  like idle dreams; those seaward going slowly disappeared like
  clouds that change from gold to gray; those homeward coming sped
  more quickly like birds that seek their mother's nest....


  TO  MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  The Wright-Humason School.
  New York, March 15, 1895.
  ...I think I have improved a little in lip-reading, though I
  still find it very difficult to read rapid speech; but I am sure
  I shall succeed some day if I only persevere. Dr. Humason is
  still trying to improve my speech. Oh, Carrie, how I should like
  to speak like other people! I should be willing to work night and
  day if it could only be accomplished. Think what a joy it would
  be to all of my friends to hear me speak naturally!! I wonder why
  it is so difficult and perplexing for a deaf child to learn to
  speak when it is so easy for other people; but I am sure I shall
  speak perfectly some time if I am only patient....

  Although I have been so busy, I have found time to read a good
  deal.... I have lately read "Wilhelm Tell" by Schiller, and "The
  Lost Vestal."... Now I am reading "Nathan the Wise" by Lessing
  and "King Arthur" by Miss Mulock.

  ...You know our kind teachers take us to see everything which
  they think will interest us, and we learn a great deal in that
  delightful way. On George Washington's birthday we all went to
  the Dog Show, and although there was a great crowd in the Madison
  Square Garden, and despite the bewilderment caused by the variety
  of sounds made by the dog-orchestra, which was very confusing to
  those who could hear them, we enjoyed the afternoon very much.
  Among the dogs which received the most attention were the
  bulldogs. They permitted themselves startling liberties when any
  one caressed them, crowding themselves almost into one's arms and
  helping themselves without ceremony to kisses, apparently
  unconscious of the impropriety of their conduct. Dear me, what
  unbeautiful little beasts they are! But they are so good natured
  and friendly, one cannot help liking them.

  Dr. Humason, Teacher, and I left the others at the Dog Show and
  went to a reception given by the "Metropolitan Club."... It is
  sometimes called the "Millionaires' Club." The building is
  magnificent, being built of white marble; the rooms are large and
  splendidly furnished; but I must confess, so much splendor is
  rather oppressive to me; and I didn't envy the millionaires in
  the least all the happiness their gorgeous surroundings are
  supposed to bring them....


  TO  MRS. KATE ADAMS KELLER
  New York, March 31, 1895.
  ...Teacher and I spent the afternoon at Mr. Hutton's, and had a
  most delightful time!... We met Mr. Clemens and Mr. Howells
  there! I had known about them for a long time; but I had never
  thought that I should see them, and talk to them; and I can
  scarcely realize now that this great pleasure has been mine! But,
  much as I wonder that I, only a little girl of fourteen, should
  come in contact with so many distinguished people, I do realize
  that I am a very happy child, and very grateful for the many
  beautiful privileges I have enjoyed. The two distinguished
  authors were very gentle and kind, and I could not tell which of
  them I loved best. Mr. Clemens told us many entertaining stories,
  and made us laugh till we cried. I only wish you could have seen
  and heard him! He told us that he would go to Europe in a few
  days to bring his wife and his daughter, Jeanne, back to America,
  because Jeanne, who is studying in Paris, has learned so much in
  three years and a half that if he did not bring her home, she
  would soon know more than he did. I think Mark Twain is a very
  appropriate nom de plume for Mr. Clemens because it has a funny
  and quaint sound, and goes well with his amusing writings, and
  its nautical significance suggests the deep and beautiful things
  that he has written. I think he is very handsome indeed....
  Teacher said she thought he looked something like Paradeuski. (If
  that is the way to spell the name.) Mr. Howells told me a little
  about Venice, which is one of his favorite cities, and spoke very
  tenderly of his dear little girl, Winnifred, who is now with God.
  He has another daughter, named Mildred, who knows Carrie. I might
  have seen Mrs. Wiggin, the sweet author of "Birds' Christmas
  Carol," but she had a dangerous cough and could not come. I was
  much disappointed not to see her, but I hope I shall have that
  pleasure some other time. Mr. Hutton gave me a lovely little
  glass, shaped like a thistle, which belonged to his dear mother,
  as a souvenir of my delightful visit. We also met Mr. Rogers...
  who kindly left his carriage to bring us home.


  When the Wright-Humason School closed for the summer, Miss
  Sullivan and Helen went South.

  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  Tuscumbia, Alabama, July 29, 1895.
  ...I am spending my vacation very quietly and pleasantly at my
  beautiful, sunny home, with my loving parents, my darling little
  sister and my small brother, Phillips   My precious teacher is
  with me too, and so of course I am happy I read a little, walk a
  little, write a little and play with the children a great deal,
  and the days slip by delightfully!...

  My friends are so pleased with the improvement which I made in
  speech and lip-reading last year, that it has been decided best
  for me to continue my studies in New York another year I am
  delighted at the prospect, of spending another year in your great
  city I used to think that I should never feel "at home" in New
  York, but since I have made the acquaintance of so many people,
  and can look back to such a bright and successful winter there, I
  find myself looking forward to next year, and anticipating still
  brighter and better times in the Metropolis

  Please give my kindest love to Mr Hutton, and Mrs Riggs and Mr
  Warner too, although I have never had the pleasure of knowing him
  personally As I listen Venicewards, I hear Mr Hutton's pen
  dancing over the pages of his new book It is a pleasant sound
  because it is full of promise How much I shall enjoy reading it!

  Please pardon me, my dear Mrs Hutton, for sending you a
  typewritten letter across the ocean  I have tried several times
  to write with a pencil on my little writing machine since I came
  home; but I have found it very difficult to do so on account of
  the heat  The moisture of my hand soils and blurs the paper so
  dreadfully, that I am compelled to use my typewriter altogether
  And it is not my "Remington" either, but a naughty little thing
  that gets out of order on the slightest provocation, and cannot
  be induced to make a period...


  TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
  New York, October 16, 1895.
  Here we are once more in the great metropolis! We left Hulton
  Friday night and arrived here Saturday morning. Our friends were
  greatly surprised to see us, as they had not expected us before
  the last of this month. I rested Saturday afternoon, for I was
  very tired, and Sunday I visited with my schoolmates, and now
  that I feel quite rested, I am going to write to you; for I know
  you will want to hear that we reached New York safely. We had to
  change cars at Philadelphia; but we did not mind it much. After
  we had had our breakfast, Teacher asked one of the train-men in
  the station if the New York train was made up. He said no, it
  would not be called for about fifteen minutes; so we sat down to
  wait; but in a moment the man came back and asked Teacher if we
  would like to go to the train at once. She said we would, and he
  took us way out on the track and put us on board our train. Thus
  we avoided the rush and had a nice quiet visit before the train
  started. Was that not very kind? So it always is. Some one is
  ever ready to scatter little acts of kindness along our pathway,
  making it smooth and pleasant...

  We had a quiet but very pleasant time in Hulton. Mr. Wade is just
  as dear and good as ever! He has lately had several books printed
  in England for me, "Old Mortality," "The Castle of Otranto" and
  "King of No-land."...


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  New York, December 29, 1895.
  ...Teacher and I have been very gay of late. We have seen our
  kind friends, Mrs. Dodge, Mr. and Mrs. Hutton, Mrs. Riggs and her
  husband, and met many distinguished people, among whom were Miss
  Ellen Terry, Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Stockton! Weren't we very
  fortunate? Miss Terry was lovely. She kissed Teacher and said, "I
  do not know whether I am glad to see you or not; for I feel so
  ashamed of myself when I think of how much you have done for the
  little girl." We also met Mr. and Mrs. Terry, Miss Terry's
  brother and his wife. I thought her beauty angellic, and oh, what
  a clear, beautiful voice she had! We saw Miss Terry again with
  Sir Henry in "King Charles the First," a week ago last Friday,
  and after the play they kindly let me feel of them and get an
  idea of how they looked. How noble and kingly the King was,
  especially in his misfortunes! And how pretty and faithful the
  poor Queen was! The play seemed so real, we almost forgot where
  we were, and believed we were watching the genuine scenes as they
  were acted so long ago. The last act affected us most deeply, and
  we all wept, wondering how the executioner could have the heart
  to tear the King from his loving wife's arms.

  I have just finished reading "Ivanhoe." It was very exciting; but
  I must say I did not enjoy it very much. Sweet Rebecca, with her
  strong, brave spirit, and her pure, generous nature, was the only
  character which thoroughly won my admiration. Now I am reading
  "Stories from Scottish History," and they are very thrilling and
  absorbing!...


  The next two letters were written just after the death of Mr.
  John P. Spaulding.

  TO  MRS. GEORGE H. BRADFORD
  New York, February 4, 1896.
  What can I say which will make you understand how much Teacher
  and I appreciate your thoughtful kindness in sending us those
  little souvenirs of the dear room where we first met the best and
  kindest of friends? Indeed, you can never know all the comfort
  you have given us. We have put the dear picture on the
  mantel-piece in our room where we can see it every day, and I
  often go and touch it, and somehow I cannot help feeling that our
  beloved friend is very near to me.... It was very hard to take up
  our school work again, as if nothing had happened; but I am sure
  it is well that we have duties which must be done, and which take
  our minds away for a time at least from our sorrow....


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  New York, March 2nd, 1896.
  ...We miss dear King John sadly. It was so hard to lose him, he
  was the best and kindest of friends, and I do not know what we
  shall do without him....

  We went to a poultry-show... and the man there kindly permitted
  us to feel of the birds. They were so tame, they stood perfectly
  still when I handled them. I saw great big turkeys, geese,
  guineas, ducks and many others.

  Almost two weeks ago we called at Mr. Hutton's and had a
  delightful time. We always do! We met Mr. Warner, the writer, Mr.
  Mabie, the editor of the Outlook and other pleasant people. I am
  sure you would like to know Mr. and Mrs. Hutton, they are so kind
  and interesting. I can never tell you how much pleasure they have
  given us.

  Mr. Warner and Mr. Burroughs, the great lover of nature, came to
  see us a few days after, and we had a delightful talk with them.
  They were both very, very dear! Mr. Burroughs told me about his
  home near the Hudson, and what a happy place it must be! I hope
  we shall visit it some day. Teacher has read me his lively
  stories about his boyhood, and I enjoyed them greatly. Have you
  read the beautiful poem, "Waiting"? I know it, and it makes me
  feel so happy, it has such sweet thoughts. Mr. Warner showed me a
  scarf-pin with a beetle on it which was made in Egypt fifteen
  hundred years before Christ, and told me that the beetle meant
  immortality to the Egyptians because it wrapped itself up and
  went to sleep and came out again in a new form, thus renewing
  itself.


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  New York, April 25, 1896.
  ...My studies are the same as they were when I saw you, except
  that I have taken up French with a French teacher who comes three
  times a week. I read her lips almost exclusively, (she does not
  know the manual alphabet) and we get on quite well. I have read
  "Le Medecin Malgre Lui," a very good French comedy by Moliere,
  with pleasure; and they say I speak French pretty well now, and
  German also. Anyway, French and German people understand what I
  am trying to say, and that is very encouraging. In voice-training
  I have still the same old difficulties to contend against; and
  the fulfilment of my wish to speak well seems O, so far away!
  Sometimes I feel sure that I catch a faint glimpse of the goal I
  am striving for, but in another minute a bend in the road hides
  it from my view, and I am again left wandering in the dark! But I
  try hard not to be discouraged. Surely we shall all find at last
  the ideals we are seeking....


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  Brewster, Mass. July 15, 1896.
  ...As to the book, I am sure I shall enjoy it very much when I am
  admitted, by the magic of Teacher's dear fingers, into the
  companionship of the two sisters who went to the Immortal
  Fountain.

  As I sit by the window writing to you, it is so lovely to have
  the soft, cool breezes fan my cheek and to feel that the hard
  work of last year is over! Teacher seems to feel benefitted by
  the change too; for she is already beginning to look like her
  dear old self. We only need you, dear Mr. Hitz, to complete our
  happiness. Teacher and Mrs. Hopkins both say you must come as
  soon as you can! We will try to make you comfortable.

  Teacher and I spent nine days at Philadelphia. Have you ever been
  at Dr. Crouter's Institution? Mr. Howes has probably given you a
  full account of our doings. We were busy all the time; we
  attended the meetings and talked with hundreds of people, among
  whom were dear Dr. Bell, Mr. Banerji of Calcutta, Monsieur Magnat
  of Paris with whom I conversed in French exclusively, and many
  other distinguished persons. We had looked forward to seeing you
  there, and so we were greatly disappointed that you did not come.
  We think of you so, so often! and our hearts go out to you in
  tenderest sympathy; and you know better than this poor letter can
  tell you how happy we always are to have you with us! I made a
  "speech" on July eighth, telling the members of the Association
  what an unspeakable blessing speech has been to me, and urging
  them to give every little deaf child an opportunity to learn to
  speak. Every one said I spoke very well and intelligibly. After
  my little "speech," we attended a reception at which over six
  hundred people were present. I must confess I do not like such
  large receptions; the people crowd so, and we have to do so much
  talking; and yet it is at receptions like the one in Philadelphia
  that we often meet friends whom we learn to love afterwards. We
  left the city last Thursday night, and arrived in Brewster Friday
  afternoon. We missed the Cape Cod train Friday morning, and so we
  came down to Provincetown in the steamer Longfellow. I am glad we
  did so; for it was lovely and cool on the water, and Boston
  Harbor is always interesting.

  We spent about three weeks in Boston, after leaving New York, and
  I need not tell you we had a most delightful time. We visited our
  good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlin, at Wrentham, out in the
  country, where they have a lovely home. Their house stands near a
  charming lake where we went boating and canoeing, which was great
  fun. We also went in bathing several times. Mr. and Mrs.
  Chamberlin celebrated the 17th of June by giving a picnic to
  their literary friends. There were about forty persons present,
  all of whom were writers and publishers. Our friend, Mr. Alden,
  the editor of Harper's was there, and of course we enjoyed his
  society very much....


  TO  CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
  Brewster, Mass., September 3, 1896.
  ...I have been meaning to write to you all summer; there were
  many things I wanted to tell you, and I thought perhaps you would
  like to hear about our vacation by the seaside, and our plans for
  next year; but the happy, idle days slipped away so quickly, and
  there were so many pleasant things to do every moment, that I
  never found time to clothe my thought in words, and send them to
  you. I wonder what becomes of lost opportunities. Perhaps our
  guardian angel gathers them up as we drop them, and will give
  them back to us in the beautiful sometime when we have grown
  wiser, and learned how to use them rightly. But, however this may
  be, I cannot now write the letter which has lain in my thought
  for you so long. My heart is too full of sadness to dwell upon
  the happiness the summer has brought me. My father is dead. He
  died last Saturday at my home in Tuscumbia, and I was not there.
  My own dear loving father! Oh, dear friend, how shall I ever bear
  it!...


  On the first of October Miss Keller entered the Cambridge School
  for Young Ladies, of which Mr. Arthur Gilman is Principal. The
  "examinations" mentioned in this letter were merely tests given
  in the school, but as they were old Harvard papers, it is evident
  that in some subjects Miss Keller was already fairly well
  prepared for Radcliffe.

  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  37 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass.
  October 8, 1896.
  ...I got up early this morning, so that I could write you a few
  lines. I know you want to hear how I like my school. I do wish
  you could come and see for yourself what a beautiful school it
  is! There are about a hundred girls, and they are all so bright
  and happy; it is a joy to be with them.

  You will be glad to hear that I passed my examinations
  successfully. I have been examined in English, German, French,
  and Greek and Roman history. They were the entrance examinations
  for Harvard College; so I feel pleased to think I could pass
  them. This year is going to be a very busy one for Teacher and
  myself. I am studying Arithmetic, English Literature, English
  History, German, Latin, and advanced geography; there is a great
  deal of preparatory reading required, and, as few of the books
  are in raised print, poor Teacher has to spell them all out to
  me; and that means hard work.

  You must tell Mr. Howells when you see him, that we are living in
  his house....


  TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
  37 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass.,
  December 2, 1896.
  ...It takes me a long time to prepare my lessons, because I have
  to have every word of them spelled out in my hand. Not one of the
  textbooks which I am obliged to use is in raised print; so of
  course my work is harder than it would be if I could read my
  lessons over by myself. But it is harder for Teacher than it is
  for me because the strain on her poor eyes is so great, and I
  cannot help worrying about them. Sometimes it really seems as if
  the task which we have set ourselves were more than we can
  accomplish; but at other times I enjoy my work more than I can
  say.

  It is such a delight to be with the other girls, and do
  everything that they do. I study Latin, German, Arithmetic and
  English History, all of which I enjoy except Arithmetic. I am
  afraid I have not a mathematical mind; for my figures always
  manage to get into the wrong places!...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  Cambridge, Mass., May 3, 1897.
  ...You know I am trying very hard to get through with the reading
  for the examinations in June, and this, in addition to my regular
  schoolwork keeps me awfully busy. But Johnson, and "The Plague"
  and everything else must wait a few minutes this afternoon, while
  I say, thank you, my dear Mrs. Hutton....

  ...What a splendid time we had at the "Players' Club." I always
  thought clubs were dull, smoky places, where men talked politics,
  and told endless stories, all about themselves and their
  wonderful exploits: but now I see, I must have been quite
  wrong....


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  Wrentham, Mass. July 9, 1897.
  ...Teacher and I are going to spend the summer at Wrentham, Mass.
  with our friends, the Chamberlins. I think you remember Mr.
  Chamberlin, the "Listener" in the Boston Transcript. They are
  dear, kind people....

  But I know you want to hear about my examinations. I know that
  you will be glad to hear that I passed all of them successfully.
  The subjects I offered were elementary and advanced German,
  French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman History. It seems
  almost too good to be true, does it not? All the time I was
  preparing for the great ordeal, I could not suppress an inward
  fear and trembling lest I should fail, and now it is an
  unspeakable relief to know that I have passed the examinations
  with credit. But what I consider my crown of success is the
  happiness and pleasure that my victory has brought dear Teacher.
  Indeed, I feel that the success is hers more than mine; for she
  is my constant inspiration....


  At the end of September Miss Sullivan and Miss Keller returned to
  the Cambridge School, where they remained until early in
  December. Then the interference of Mr. Gilman resulted in Mrs.
  Keller's withdrawing Miss Helen and her sister, Miss Mildred,
  from the school. Miss Sullivan and her pupil went to Wrentham,
  where they worked under Mr. Merton S. Keith, an enthusiastic and
  skilful teacher.

  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  Wrentham, February 20, 1898.
  ...I resumed my studies soon after your departure, and in a very
  little while we were working as merrily as if the dreadful
  experience of a month ago had been but a dream. I cannot tell you
  how much I enjoy the country. It is so fresh, and peaceful and
  free! I do think I could work all day long without feeling tired
  if they would let me. There are so many pleasant things to
  do--not always very easy things,--much of my work in Algebra and
  Geometry is hard: but I love it all, especially Greek. Just
  think, I shall soon finish my grammar! Then comes the "Iliad."
  What an inexpressible joy it will be to read about Achilles, and
  Ulysses, and Andromache and Athene, and the rest of my old
  friends in their own glorious language! I think Greek is the
  loveliest language that I know anything about. If it is true that
  the violin is the most perfect of musical instruments, then Greek
  is the violin of human thought.

  We have had some splendid toboganning this month. Every morning,
  before lesson-time, we all go out to the steep hill on the
  northern shore of the lake near the house, and coast for an hour
  or so. Some one balances the toboggan on the very crest of the
  hill, while we get on, and when we are ready, off we dash down
  the side of the hill in a headlong rush, and, leaping a
  projection, plunge into a snow-drift and go swimming far across
  the pond at a tremendous rate!...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  [Wrentham] April 12, 1898.
  ...I am glad Mr. Keith is so well pleased with my progress. It is
  true that Algebra and Geometry are growing easier all the time,
  especially algebra; and I have just received books in raised
  print which will greatly facilitate my work....

  I find I get on faster, and do better work with Mr. Keith than I
  did in the classes at the Cambridge School, and I think it was
  well that I gave up that kind of work. At any rate, I have not
  been idle since I left school; I have accomplished more, and been
  happier than I could have been there....


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  [Wrentham] May 29, 1898.
  ...My work goes on bravely. Each day is filled to the brim with
  hard study; for I am anxious to accomplish as much as possible
  before I put away my books for the summer vacation. You will be
  pleased to hear that I did three problems in Geometry yesterday
  without assistance. Mr. Keith and Teacher were quite enthusiastic
  over the achievement, and I must confess, I felt somewhat elated
  myself. Now I feel as if I should succeed in doing something in
  mathematics, although I cannot see why it is so very important to
  know that the lines drawn from the extremities of the base of an
  isosceles triangle to the middle points of the opposite sides are
  equal! The knowledge doesn't make life any sweeter or happier,
  does it? On the other hand, when we learn a new word, it is the
  key to untold treasures....


  TO  CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
  Wrentham, Mass., June 7, 1898.
  I am afraid you will conclude that I am not very anxious for a
  tandem after all, since I have let nearly a week pass without
  answering your letter in regard to the kind of wheel I should
  like. But really, I have been so constantly occupied with my
  studies since we returned from New York, that I have not had time
  even to think of the fun it would be to have a bicycle! You see,
  I am anxious to accomplish as much as possible before the long
  summer vacation begins. I am glad, though, that it is nearly time
  to put away my books; for the sunshine and flowers, and the
  lovely lake in front of our house are doing their best to tempt
  me away from my Greek and Mathematics, especially from the
  latter! I am sure the daisies and buttercups have as little use
  for the science of Geometry as I, in spite of the fact that they
  so beautifully illustrate its principles.

  But bless me, I mustn't forget the tandem! The truth is, I know
  very little about bicycles. I have only ridden a "sociable,"
  which is very different from the ordinary tandem. The "sociable"
  is safer, perhaps, than the tandem; but it is very heavy and
  awkward, and has a way of taking up the greater part of the road.
  Besides, I have been told that "sociables" cost more than other
  kinds of bicycles. My teacher and other friends think I could
  ride a Columbia tandem in the country with perfect safety. They
  also think your suggestion about a fixed handlebar a good one. I
  ride with a divided skirt, and so does my teacher; but it would
  be easier for her to mount a man's wheel than for me; so, if it
  could be arranged to have the ladies' seat behind, I think it
  would be better....


  TO MISS CAROLINE DERBY
  Wrentham, September 11, 1898.
  ...I am out of doors all the time, rowing, swimming, riding and
  doing a multitude of other pleasant things. This morning I rode
  over twelve miles on my tandem! I rode on a rough road, and fell
  off three or four times, and am now awfully lame! But the weather
  and the scenery were so beautiful, and it was such fun to go
  scooting over the smoother part of the road, I didn't mind the
  mishaps in the least.

  I have really learned to swim and dive--after a fashion! I can
  swim a little under water, and do almost anything I like, without
  fear of getting drowned! Isn't that fine? It is almost no effort
  for me to row around the lake, no matter how heavy the load may
  be. So you can well imagine how strong and brown I am....


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  October 23, 1898.
  This is the first opportunity I have had to write to you since we
  came here last Monday. We have been in such a whirl ever since we
  decided to come to Boston; it seemed as if we should never get
  settled. Poor Teacher has had her hands full, attending to
  movers, and express-men, and all sorts of people. I wish it were
  not such a bother to move, especially as we have to do it so
  often!...

  ...Mr. Keith comes here at half past three every day except
  Saturday. He says he prefers to come here for the present. I am
  reading the "Iliad," and the "Aeneid" and Cicero, besides doing a
  lot in Geometry and Algebra. The "Iliad" is beautiful with all
  the truth, and grace and simplicity of a wonderfully childlike
  people while the "Aeneid" is more stately and reserved. It is
  like a beautiful maiden, who always lived in a palace, surrounded
  by a magnificent court; while the "Iliad" is like a splendid
  youth, who has had the earth for his playground.

  The weather has been awfully dismal all the week; but to-day is
  beautiful, and our room floor is flooded with sunlight. By and by
  we shall take a little walk in the Public Gardens. I wish the
  Wrentham woods were round the corner! But alas! they are not, and
  I shall have to content myself with a stroll in the Gardens.
  Somehow, after the great fields and pastures and lofty
  pine-groves of the country, they seem shut-in and conventional.
  Even the trees seem citified and self-conscious. Indeed, I doubt
  if they are on speaking terms with their country cousins! Do you
  know, I cannot help feeling sorry for these trees with all their
  fashionable airs? They are like the people whom they see every
  day, who prefer the crowded, noisy city to the quiet and freedom
  of the country. They do not even suspect how circumscribed their
  lives are. They look down pityingly on the country-folk, who have
  never had an opportunity "to see the great world." Oh my! if they
  only realized their limitations, they would flee for their lives
  to the woods and fields. But what nonsense is this! You will
  think I'm pining away for my beloved Wrentham, which is true in
  one sense and not in another. I do miss Red Farm and the dear
  ones there dreadfully; but I am not unhappy. I have Teacher and
  my books, and I have the certainty that something sweet and good
  will come to me in this great city, where human beings struggle
  so bravely all their lives to wring happiness from cruel
  circumstances. Anyway, I am glad to have my share in life,
  whether it be bright or sad....


  TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
  Boston, December 6th, 1898.
  My teacher and I had a good laugh over the girls' frolic. How
  funny they must have looked in their "rough-rider" costumes,
  mounted upon their fiery steeds! "Slim" would describe them, if
  they were anything like the saw-horses I have seen. What jolly
  times they must have at--! I cannot help wishing sometimes that
  I could have some of the fun that other girls have. How quickly I
  should lock up all these mighty warriors, and hoary sages, and
  impossible heroes, who are now almost my only companions; and
  dance and sing and frolic like other girls! But I must not waste
  my time wishing idle wishes; and after all my ancient friends are
  very wise and interesting, and I usually enjoy their society very
  much indeed. It is only once in a great while that I feel
  discontented, and allow myself to wish for things I cannot hope
  for in this life. But, as you know, my heart is usually brimful
  of happiness. The thought that my dear Heavenly Father is always
  near, giving me abundantly of all those things, which truly
  enrich life and make it sweet and beautiful, makes every
  deprivation seem of little moment compared with the countless
  blessings I enjoy.


  TO MRS. WILLIAM THAW
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  December 19th, 1898.
  ...I realize now what a selfish, greedy girl I was to ask that my
  cup of happiness should be filled to overflowing, without
  stopping to think how many other people's cups were quite empty.
  I feel heartily ashamed of my thoughtlessness. One of the
  childish illusions, which it has been hardest for me to get rid
  of, is that we have only to make our wishes known in order to
  have them granted. But I am slowly learning that there is not
  happiness enough in the world for everyone to have all that he
  wants; and it grieves me to think that I should have forgotten,
  even for a moment, that I already have more than my share, and
  that like poor little Oliver Twist I should have asked for
  "more."...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  12 Newberry Street, Boston.
  December 22, [1898]
  ...I suppose Mr. Keith writes you the work-a-day news. If so, you
  know that I have finished all the geometry, and nearly all the
  Algebra required for the Harvard examinations, and after
  Christmas I shall begin a very careful review of both subjects.
  You will be glad to hear that I enjoy Mathematics now. Why, I can
  do long, complicated quadratic equations in my head quite easily,
  and it is great fun! I think Mr. Keith is a wonderful teacher,
  and I feel very grateful to him for having made me see the beauty
  of Mathematics. Next to my own dear teacher, he has done more
  than any one else to enrich and broaden my mind.


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  January 17, 1899.
  ...Have you seen Kipling's "Dreaming True," or "Kitchener's
  School?" It is a very strong poem and set me dreaming too. Of
  course you have read about the "Gordon Memorial College," which
  the English people are to erect at Khartoum. While I was thinking
  over the blessings that would come to the people of Egypt through
  this college, and eventually to England herself, there came into
  my heart the strong desire that my own dear country should in a
  similar way convert the terrible loss of her brave sons on the
  "Maine" into a like blessing to the people of Cuba. Would a
  college at Havana not be the noblest and most enduring monument
  that could be raised to the brave men of the "Maine," as well as
  a source of infinite good to all concerned? Imagine entering the
  Havana harbor, and having the pier, where the "Maine" was
  anchored on that dreadful night, when she was so mysteriously
  destroyed, pointed out to you, and being told that the great,
  beautiful building overlooking the spot was the "Maine Memorial
  College," erected by the American people, and having for its
  object the education both of Cubans and Spaniards! What a
  glorious triumph such a monument would be of the best and highest
  instincts of a Christian nation! In it there would be no
  suggestion of hatred or revenge, nor a trace of the old-time
  belief that might makes right. On the other hand, it would be a
  pledge to the world that we intend to stand by our declaration of
  war, and give Cuba to the Cubans, as soon as we have fitted them
  to assume the duties and responsibilities of a self-governing
  people....


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  February 3, 1899.
  ...I had an exceedingly interesting experience last Monday. A
  kind friend took me over in the morning to the Boston Art Museum.
  She had previously obtained permission from General Loring, Supt.
  of the Museum, for me to touch the statues, especially those
  which represented my old friends in the "Iliad" and "Aeneid." Was
  that not lovely? While I was there, General Loring himself came
  in, and showed me some of the most beautiful statues, among which
  were the Venus of Medici, the Minerva of the Parthenon, Diana, in
  her hunting costume, with her hand on the quiver and a doe by her
  side, and the unfortunate Laocoon and his two little sons,
  struggling in the fearful coils of two huge serpents, and
  stretching their arms to the skies with heart-rending cries. I
  also saw Apollo Belvidere. He had just slain the Python and was
  standing by a great pillar of rock, extending his graceful hand
  in triumph over the terrible snake. Oh, he was simply beautiful!
  Venus entranced me. She looked as if she had just risen from the
  foam of the sea, and her loveliness was like a strain of heavenly
  music. I also saw poor Niobe with her youngest child clinging
  close to her while she implored the cruel goddess not to kill her
  last darling. I almost cried, it was all so real and tragic.
  General Loring kindly showed me a copy of one of the wonderful
  bronze doors of the Baptistry of Florence, and I felt of the
  graceful pillars, resting on the backs of fierce lions. So you
  see, I had a foretaste of the pleasure which I hope some day to
  have of visiting Florence. My friend said, she would sometime
  show me the copies of the marbles brought away by Lord Elgin from
  the Parthenon. But somehow, I should prefer to see the originals
  in the place where Genius meant them to remain, not only as a
  hymn of praise to the gods, but also as a monument of the glory
  of Greece. It really seems wrong to snatch such sacred things
  away from the sanctuary of the Past where they belong....


  TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
  Boston, February 19th, 1899.
  Why, bless you, I thought I wrote to you the day after the
  "Eclogues" arrived, and told you how glad I was to have them!
  Perhaps you never got that letter. At any rate, I thank you, dear
  friend, for taking such a world of trouble for me. You will be
  glad to hear that the books from England are coming now. I
  already have the seventh and eighth books of the "Aeneid" and one
  book of the "Iliad," all of which is most fortunate, as I have
  come almost to the end of my embossed text-books.

  It gives me great pleasure to hear how much is being done for the
  deaf-blind. The more I learn of them, the more kindness I find.
  Why, only a little while ago people thought it quite impossible
  to teach the deaf-blind anything; but no sooner was it proved
  possible than hundreds of kind, sympathetic hearts were fired
  with the desire to help them, and now we see how many of those
  poor, unfortunate persons are being taught to see the beauty and
  reality of life. Love always finds its way to an imprisoned soul,
  and leads it out into the world of freedom and intelligence!

  As to the two-handed alphabet, I think it is much easier for
  those who have sight than the manual alphabet; for most of the
  letters look like the large capitals in books; but I think when
  it comes to teaching a deaf-blind person to spell, the manual
  alphabet is much more convenient, and less conspicuous....


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  March 5, 1899.
  ...I am now sure that I shall be ready for my examinations in
  June. There is but one cloud in my sky at present; but that is
  one which casts a dark shadow over my life, and makes me very
  anxious at times. My teacher's eyes are no better: indeed, I
  think they grow more troublesome, though she is very brave and
  patient, and will not give up. But it is most distressing to me
  to feel that she is sacrificing her sight for me. I feel as if I
  ought to give up the idea of going to college altogether: for not
  all the knowledge in the world could make me happy, if obtained
  at such a cost. I do wish, Mrs. Hutton, you would try to persuade
  Teacher to take a rest, and have her eyes treated. She will not
  listen to me.

  I have just had some pictures taken, and if they are good, I
  would like to send one to Mr. Rogers, if you think he would like
  to have it. I would like so much to show him in some way how
  deeply I appreciate all that he is doing for me, and I cannot
  think of anything better to do.

  Every one here is talking about the Sargent pictures. It is a
  wonderful exhibition of portraits, they say. How I wish I had
  eyes to see them! How I should delight in their beauty and color!
  However, I am glad that I am not debarred from all pleasure in
  the pictures. I have at least the satisfaction of seeing them
  through the eyes of my friends, which is a real pleasure. I am so
  thankful that I can rejoice in the beauties, which my friends
  gather and put into my hands!

  We are all so glad and thankful that Mr. Kipling did not die! I
  have his "Jungle-Book" in raised print, and what a splendid,
  refreshing book it is! I cannot help feeling as if I knew its
  gifted author. What a real, manly, lovable nature his must be!...


  TO DR. DAVID H. GREER
  12 Newbury Street, Boston,
  May 8, 1899.
  ...Each day brings me all that I can possibly accomplish, and
  each night brings me rest, and the sweet thought that I am a
  little nearer to my goal than ever before. My Greek progresses
  finely. I have finished the ninth book of the "Iliad" and am just
  beginning the "Odyssey." I am also reading the "Aeneid" and the
  "Eclogues." Some of my friends tell me that I am very foolish to
  give so much time to Greek and Latin; but I am sure they would
  not think so, if they realized what a wonderful world of
  experience and thought Homer and Virgil have opened up to me. I
  think I shall enjoy the "Odyssey" most of all. The "Iliad" tells
  of almost nothing but war, and one sometimes wearies of the clash
  of spears and the din of battle; but the "Odyssey" tells of
  nobler courage--the courage of a soul sore tried, but steadfast
  to the end. I often wonder, as I read these splendid poems why,
  at the same time that Homer's songs of war fired the Greeks with
  valor, his songs of manly virtue did not have a stronger
  influence upon the spiritual life of the people. Perhaps the
  reason is, that thoughts truly great are like seeds cast into the
  human mind, and either lie there unnoticed, or are tossed about
  and played with, like toys, until, grown wise through suffering
  and experience, a race discovers and cultivates them. Then the
  world has advanced one step in its heavenward march.

  I am working very hard just now. I intend to take my examinations
  in June, and there is a great deal to be done, before I shall
  feel ready to meet the ordeal....

  You will be glad to hear that my mother, and little sister and
  brother are coming north to spend this summer with me. We shall
  all live together in a small cottage on one of the lakes at
  Wrentham, while my dear teacher takes a much needed rest. She has
  not had a vacation for twelve years, think of it, and all that
  time she has been the sunshine of my life. Now her eyes are
  troubling her a great deal, and we all think she ought to be
  relieved, for a while, of every care and responsibility. But we
  shall not be quite separated; we shall see each other every day,
  I hope. And, when July comes, you can think of me as rowing my
  dear ones around the lovely lake in the little boat you gave me,
  the happiest girl in the world!...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  [Boston] May 28th [1899].
  ...We have had a hard day. Mr. Keith was here for three hours
  this afternoon, pouring a torrent of Latin and Greek into my poor
  bewildered brain. I really believe he knows more Latin and Greek
  Grammar than Cicero or Homer ever dreamed of! Cicero is splendid,
  but his orations are very difficult to translate. I feel ashamed
  sometimes, when I make that eloquent man say what sounds absurd
  or insipid; but how is a school-girl to interpret such genius?
  Why, I should have to be a Cicero to talk like a Cicero!...


  Linnie Haguewood is a deaf-blind girl, one of the many whom Mr.
  William Wade has helped. She is being educated by Miss Dora
  Donald who, at the beginning of her work with her pupil, was
  supplied by Mr. Hitz, Superintendent of the Volta Bureau, with
  copies of all documents relating to Miss Sullivan's work with
  Miss Keller.


  TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
  Wrentham, Mass., June 5, 1899.
  ...Linnie Haguewood's letter, which you sent me some weeks ago,
  interested me very much. It seemed to show spontaneity and great
  sweetness of character. I was a good deal amused by what she said
  about history. I am sorry she does not enjoy it; but I too feel
  sometimes how dark, and mysterious and even fearful the history
  of old peoples, old religions and old forms of government really
  is.

  Well, I must confess, I do not like the sign-language, and I do
  not think it would be of much use to the deaf-blind. I find it
  very difficult to follow the rapid motions made by the
  deaf-mutes, and besides, signs seem a great hindrance to them in
  acquiring the power of using language easily and freely. Why, I
  find it hard to understand them sometimes when they spell on
  their fingers. On the whole, if they cannot be taught
  articulation, the manual alphabet seems the best and most
  convenient means of communication. At any rate, I am sure the
  deaf-blind cannot learn to use signs with any degree of facility.

  The other day, I met a deaf Norwegian gentleman, who knows
  Ragnhild Kaata and her teacher very well, and we had a very
  interesting conversation about her. He said she was very
  industrious and happy. She spins, and does a great deal of fancy
  work, and reads, and leads a pleasant, useful life. Just think,
  she cannot use the manual alphabet! She reads the lips well, and
  if she cannot understand a phrase, her friends write it in her
  hand, and in this way she converses with strangers. I cannot make
  out anything written in my hand, so you see, Ragnhild has got
  ahead of me in some things. I do hope I shall see her sometime...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  Wrentham, July 29, 1899.
  ...I passed in all the subjects I offered, and with credit in
  advanced Latin.... But I must confess, I had a hard time on the
  second day of my examinations. They would not allow Teacher to
  read any of the papers to me; so the papers were copied for me in
  braille. This arrangement worked very well in the languages, but
  not nearly so well in the Mathematics. Consequently, I did not do
  so well as I should have done, if Teacher had been allowed to
  read the Algebra and Geometry to me. But you must not think I
  blame any one. Of course they did not realize how difficult and
  perplexing they were making the examinations for me. How could
  they--they can see and hear, and I suppose they could not
  understand matters from my point of view....

  Thus far my summer has been sweeter than anything I can remember.
  My mother, and sister and little brother have been here five
  weeks, and our happiness knows no bounds. Not only do we enjoy
  being together; but we also find our little home most delightful.
  I do wish you could see the view of the beautiful lake from our
  piazza, the islands looking like little emerald peaks in the
  golden sunlight, and the canoes flitting here and there, like
  autumn leaves in the gentle breeze, and breathe in the peculiarly
  delicious fragrance of the woods, which comes like a murmur from
  an unknown clime. I cannot help wondering if it is the same
  fragrance that greeted the Norsemen long ago, when, according to
  tradition, they visited our shores--an odorous echo of many
  centuries of silent growth and decay in flower and tree....


  TO  MRS. SAMUEL RICHARD FULLER
  Wrentham, October 20, 1899.
  ...I suppose it is time for me to tell you something about our
  plans for the winter. You know it has long been my ambition to go
  to Radcliffe, and receive a degree, as many other girls have
  done; but Dean Irwin of Radcliffe, has persuaded me to take a
  special course for the present. She said I had already shown the
  world that I could do the college work, by passing all my
  examinations successfully, in spite of many obstacles. She showed
  me how very foolish it would be for me to pursue a four years'
  course of study at Radcliffe, simply to be like other girls, when
  I might better be cultivating whatever ability I had for writing.
  She said she did not consider a degree of any real value, but
  thought it was much more desirable to do something original than
  to waste one's energies only for a degree. Her arguments seemed
  so wise and practical, that I could not but yield. I found it
  hard, very hard, to give up the idea of going to college; it had
  been in my mind ever since I was a little girl; but there is no
  use doing a foolish thing, because one has wanted to do it a long
  time, is there?

  But, while we were discussing plans for the winter, a suggestion
  which Dr. Hale had made long ago flashed across Teacher's
  mind--that I might take courses somewhat like those offered at
  Radcliffe, under the instruction of the professors in these
  courses. Miss Irwin seemed to have no objection to this proposal,
  and kindly offered to see the professors and find out if they
  would give me lessons. If they will be so good as to teach me and
  if we have money enough to do as we have planned, my studies this
  year will be English, English Literature of the Elizabethan
  period, Latin and German....


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  138 Brattle St., Cambridge,
  Nov. 11, 1899.
  ...As to the braille question, I cannot tell how deeply it
  distresses me to hear that my statement with regard to the
  examinations has been doubted. Ignorance seems to be at the
  bottom of all these contradictions. Why, you yourself seem to
  think that I taught you American braille, when you do not know a
  single letter in the system! I could not help laughing when you
  said you had been writing to me in American braille--and there
  you were writing your letter in English braille!

  The facts about the braille examinations are as follows:

  How I passed my Entrance Examinations for Radcliffe College.

  On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my examinations for
  Radcliffe College. The first day I had elementary Greek and
  advanced Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and advanced
  Greek.

  The college authorities would not permit Miss Sullivan to read
  the examination papers to me; so Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the
  instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was
  employed to copy the papers for me in braille. Mr. Vining was a
  perfect stranger to me, and could not communicate with me except
  by writing in braille. The Proctor also was a stranger, and did
  not attempt to communicate with me in any way; and, as they were
  both unfamiliar with my speech, they could not readily understand
  what I said to them.

  However, the braille worked well enough in the languages; but
  when it came to Geometry and Algebra, it was different. I was
  sorely perplexed, and felt quite discouraged, and wasted much
  precious time, especially in Algebra. It is true that I am
  perfectly familiar with all literary braille--English, American,
  and New York Point; but the method of writing the various signs
  used in Geometry and Algebra in the three systems is very
  different, and two days before the examinations I knew only the
  English method. I had used it all through my school work, and
  never any other system.

  In Geometry, my chief difficulty was, that I had always been
  accustomed to reading the propositions in Line Print, or having
  them spelled into my hand; and somehow, although the propositions
  were right before me, yet the braille confused me, and I could
  not fix in my mind clearly what I was reading. But, when I took
  up Algebra, I had a harder time still--I was terribly handicapped
  by my imperfect knowledge of the notation. The signs, which I had
  learned the day before, and which I thought I knew perfectly,
  confused me. Consequently my work was painfully slow, and I was
  obliged to read the examples over and over before I could form a
  clear idea what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now
  that I read all the signs correctly, especially as I was much
  distressed, and found it very hard to keep my wits about me....

  Now there is one more fact, which I wish to state very plainly,
  in regard to what Mr. Gilman wrote to you. I never received any
  direct instruction in the Gilman School. Miss Sullivan always sat
  beside me, and told me what the teachers said. I did teach Miss
  Hall, my teacher in Physics, how to write the American braille,
  but she never gave me any instruction by means of it, unless a
  few problems written for practice, which made me waste much
  precious time deciphering them, can be called instruction. Dear
  Frau Grote learned the manual alphabet, and used to teach me
  herself; but this was in private lessons, which were paid for by
  my friends. In the German class Miss Sullivan interpreted to me
  as well as she could what the teacher said.

  Perhaps, if you would send a copy of this to the head of the
  Cambridge School, it might enlighten his mind on a few subjects,
  on which he seems to be in total darkness just now....


  TO MISS MILDRED KELLER
  138 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
  November 26, 1899.
  ...At last we are settled for the winter, and our work is going
  smoothly. Mr. Keith comes every afternoon at four o'clock, and
  gives me a "friendly lift" over the rough stretches of road, over
  which every student must go. I am studying English history,
  English literature, French and Latin, and by and by I shall take
  up German and English composition--let us groan! You know, I
  detest grammar as much as you do; but I suppose I must go through
  it if I am to write, just as we had to get ducked in the lake
  hundreds of times before we could swim! In French Teacher is
  reading "Columba" to me. It is a delightful novel, full of
  piquant expressions and thrilling adventures, (don't dare to
  blame me for using big words, since you do the same!) and, if you
  ever read it, I think you will enjoy it immensely. You are
  studying English history, aren't you. O but it's exceedingly
  interesting! I'm making quite a thorough study of the Elizabethan
  period--of the Reformation, and the Acts of Supremacy and
  Conformity, and the maritime discoveries, and all the big things,
  which the "deuce" seems to have invented to plague innocent
  youngsters like yourself!...

  Now we have a swell winter outfit--coats, hats, gowns, flannels
  and all. We've just had four lovely dresses made by a French
  dressmaker. I have two, of which one has a black silk skirt, with
  a black lace net over it, and a waist of white poplin, with
  turquoise velvet and chiffon, and cream lace over a satin yoke.
  The other is woollen, and of a very pretty green. The waist is
  trimmed with pink and green brocaded velvet, and white lace, I
  think, and has double reefers on the front, tucked and trimmed
  with velvet, and also a row of tiny white buttons. Teacher too
  has a silk dress. The skirt is black, while the waist is mostly
  yellow, trimmed with delicate lavender chiffon, and black velvet
  bows and lace. Her other dress is purple, trimmed with purple
  velvet, and the waist has a collar of cream lace. So you may
  imagine that we look quite like peacocks, only we've no
  trains....

  A week ago yesterday there was [a] great football game between
  Harvard and Yale, and there was tremendous excitement here. We
  could hear the yells of the boys and the cheers of the lookers-on
  as plainly in our room as if we had been on the field. Colonel
  Roosevelt was there, on Harvard's side; but bless you, he wore a
  white sweater, and no crimson that we know of! There were about
  twenty-five thousand people at the game, and, when we went out,
  the noise was so terrific, we nearly jumped out of our skins,
  thinking it was the din of war, and not of a football game that
  we heard. But, in spite of all their wild efforts, neither side
  was scored, and we all laughed and said, "Oh, well now the pot
  can't call the kettle black!"...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  559 Madison Avenue, New York,
  January 2, 1900.
  ...We have been here a week now, and are going to stay with Miss
  Rhoades until Saturday. We are enjoying every moment of our
  visit, every one is so good to us. We have seen many of our old
  friends, and made some new ones. We dined with the Rogers last
  Friday, and oh, they were so kind to us! The thought of their
  gentle courtesy and genuine kindness brings a warm glow of joy
  and gratitude to my heart. I have seen Dr. Greer too. He has such
  a kind heart! I love him more than ever. We went to St.
  Bartholomew's Sunday, and I have not felt so much at home in a
  church since dear Bishop Brooks died. Dr. Greer read so slowly,
  that my teacher could tell me every word. His people must have
  wondered at his unusual deliberation. After the service he asked
  Mr. Warren, the organist to play for me. I stood in the middle of
  the church, where the vibrations from the great organ were
  strongest, and I felt the mighty waves of sound beat against me,
  as the great billows beat against a little ship at sea.


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  138 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
  Feb. 3, 1900.
  ...My studies are more interesting than ever. In Latin, I am
  reading Horace's odes. Although I find them difficult to
  translate, yet I think they are the loveliest pieces of Latin
  poetry I have read or shall ever read. In French we have finished
  "Colomba," and I am reading "Horace" by Corneille and La
  Fontaine's fables, both of which are in braille. I have not gone
  far in either; but I know I shall enjoy the fables, they are so
  delightfully written, and give such good lessons in a simple and
  yet attractive way. I do not think I have told you that my dear
  teacher is reading "The Faery Queen" to me. I am afraid I find
  fault with the poem as much as I enjoy it. I do not care much for
  the allegories, indeed I often find them tiresome, and I cannot
  help thinking that Spenser's world of knights, paynims, fairies,
  dragons and all sorts of strange creatures is a somewhat
  grotesque and amusing world; but the poem itself is lovely and as
  musical as a running brook.

  I am now the proud owner of about fifteen new books, which we
  ordered from Louisville. Among them are "Henry Esmond," "Bacon's
  Essays" and extracts from "English Literature." Perhaps next week
  I shall have some more books, "The Tempest," "A Midsummer Night's
  Dream" and possibly some selections from Green's history of
  England. Am I not very fortunate?

  I am afraid this letter savors too much of books--but really they
  make up my whole life these days, and I scarcely see or hear of
  anything else! I do believe I sleep on books every night! You
  know a student's life is of necessity somewhat circumscribed and
  narrow and crowds out almost everything that is not in books....


  TO THE CHAIRMAN OF THE ACADEMIC BOARD OF RADCLIFFE COLLEGE
  138 Brattle Street, Cambridge, Mass.,
  May 5, 1900.
  Dear Sir:
  As an aid to me in determining my plans for study the coming
  year, I apply to you for information as to the possibility of my
  taking the regular courses in Radcliffe College.

  Since receiving my certificate of admission to Radcliffe last
  July, I have been studying with a private tutor, Horace,
  Aeschylus, French, German, Rhetoric, English History, English
  Literature and Criticism, and English composition.

  In college I should wish to continue most, if not all of these
  subjects. The conditions under which I work require the presence
  of Miss Sullivan, who has been my teacher and companion for
  thirteen years, as an interpreter of oral speech and as a reader
  of examination papers. In college she, or possibly in some
  subjects some one else, would of necessity be with me in the
  lecture-room and at recitations. I should do all my written work
  on a typewriter, and if a Professor could not understand my
  speech, I could write out my answers to his questions and hand
  them to him after the recitation.

  Is it possible for the College to accommodate itself to these
  unprecedented conditions, so as to enable me to pursue my studies
  at Radcliffe? I realize that the obstacles in the way of my
  receiving a college education are very great--to others they may
  seem insurmountable; but, dear Sir, a true soldier does not
  acknowledge defeat before the battle.


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  38 Brattle Street, Cambridge,
  June 9, 1900.
  ...I have not yet heard from the Academic Board in reply to my
  letter; but I sincerely hope they will answer favorably. My
  friends think it very strange that they should hesitate so long,
  especially when I have not asked them to simplify my work in the
  least, but only to modify it so as to meet the existing
  circumstances. Cornell has offered to make arrangements suited to
  the conditions under which I work, if I should decide to go to
  that college, and the University of Chicago has made a similar
  offer, but I am afraid if I went to any other college, it would
  be thought that I did not pass my examinations for Radcliffe
  satisfactorily....


  In the fall Miss Keller entered Radcliffe College.


  TO MR. JOHN HITZ
  14 Coolidge Ave., Cambridge,
  Nov. 26, 1900.
  ...--has already communicated with you in regard to her and my
  plan of establishing an institution for deaf and blind children.
  At first I was most enthusiastic in its support, and I never
  dreamed that any grave objections could be raised except indeed
  by those who are hostile to Teacher, but now, after thinking most
  SERIOUSLY and consulting my friends, I have decided that--'s
  plan is by no means feasible. In my eagerness to make it possible
  for deaf and blind children to have the same advantages that I
  have had, I quite forgot that there might be many obstacles in
  the way of my accomplishing anything like what--proposed.

  My friends thought we might have one or two pupils in our own
  home, thereby securing to me the advantage of being helpful to
  others without any of the disadvantages of a large school. They
  were very kind; but I could not help feeling that they spoke more
  from a business than a humanitarian point of view. I am sure they
  did not quite understand how passionately I desire that all who
  are afflicted like myself shall receive their rightful
  inheritance of thought, knowledge and love. Still I could not
  shut my eyes to the force and weight of their arguments, and I
  saw plainly that I must abandon--'s scheme as impracticable.
  They also said that I ought to appoint an advisory committee to
  control my affairs while I am at Radcliffe. I considered this
  suggestion carefully, then I told Mr. Rhoades that I should be
  proud and glad to have wise friends to whom I could always turn
  for advice in all important matters. For this committee I chose
  six, my mother, Teacher, because she is like a mother to me, Mrs.
  Hutton, Mr. Rhoades, Dr. Greer and Mr. Rogers, because it is they
  who have supported me all these years and made it possible for me
  to enter college. Mrs. Hutton had already written to mother,
  asking her to telegraph if she was willing for me to have other
  advisers besides herself and Teacher. This morning we received
  word that mother had given her consent to this arrangement. Now
  it remains for me to write to Dr. Greer and Mr. Rogers....

  We had a long talk with Dr. Bell. Finally he proposed a plan
  which delighted us all beyond words. He said that it was a
  gigantic blunder to attempt to found a school for deaf and blind
  children, because then they would lose the most precious
  opportunities of entering into the fuller, richer, freer life of
  seeing and hearing children. I had had misgivings on this point;
  but I could not see how we were to help it. However Mr. Bell
  suggested that--and all her friends who are interested in her
  scheme should organize an association for the promotion of the
  education of the deaf and blind, Teacher and myself being
  included of course. Under his plan they were to appoint Teacher
  to train others to instruct deaf and blind children in their own
  homes, just as she had taught me. Funds were to be raised for the
  teachers' lodgings and also for their salaries. At the same time
  Dr. Bell added that I could rest content and fight my way through
  Radcliffe in competition with seeing and hearing girls, while the
  great desire of my heart was being fulfilled. We clapped our
  hands and shouted;--went away beaming with pleasure, and
  Teacher and I felt more light of heart than we had for sometime.
  Of course we can do nothing just now; but the painful anxiety
  about my college work and the future welfare of the deaf and
  blind has been lifted from our minds. Do tell me what you think
  about Dr. Bell's suggestion. It seems most practical and wise to
  me; but I must know all that there is to be known about it before
  I speak or act in the matter....


  TO MR. JOHN D. WRIGHT
  Cambridge, December 9, 1900.
  Do you think me a villain and--I can't think of a word bad enough
  to express your opinion of me, unless indeed horse-thief will
  answer the purpose. Tell me truly, do you think me as bad as
  that? I hope not; for I have thought many letters to you which
  never got on paper, and I am delighted to get your good letter,
  yes, I really was, and I intended to answer it immediately, but
  the days slip by unnoticed when one is busy, and I have been VERY
  busy this fall. You must believe that. Radcliffe girls are always
  up to their ears in work. If you doubt it, you'd better come and
  see for yourself.

  Yes, I am taking the regular college course for a degree. When I
  am a B.A., I suppose you will not dare call me a villain! I am
  studying English--Sophomore English, if you please, (though I
  can't see that it is different from just plain English) German,
  French and History. I'm enjoying my work even more than I
  expected to, which is another way of saying that I'm glad I came.
  It is hard, very hard at times; but it hasn't swamped me yet. No,
  I am not studying Mathematics, or Greek or Latin either. The
  courses at Radcliffe are elective, only certain courses in
  English are prescribed. I passed off my English and advanced
  French before I entered college, and I choose the courses I like
  best. I don't however intend to give up Latin and Greek entirely.
  Perhaps I shall take up these studies later; but I've said
  goodbye to Mathematics forever, and I assure you, I was delighted
  to see the last of those horrid goblins! I hope to obtain my
  degree in four years; but I'm not very particular about that.
  There's no great hurry, and I want to get as much as possible out
  of my studies. Many of my friends would be well pleased if I
  would take two or even one course a year, but I rather object to
  spending the rest of my life in college....


  TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
  14 Coolidge Avenue, Cambridge,
  December 9, 1900.
  ...Since you are so much interested in the deaf and blind, I will
  begin by telling you of several cases I have come across lately.
  Last October I heard of an unusually bright little girl in Texas.
  Her name is Ruby Rice, and she is thirteen years old, I think.
  She has never been taught; but they say she can sew and likes to
  help others in this sort of work. Her sense of smell is
  wonderful. Why, when she enters a store, she will go straight to
  the showcases, and she can also distinguish her own things. Her
  parents are very anxious indeed to find a teacher for her. They
  have also written to Mr. Hitz about her.

  I also know a child at the Institution for the Deaf in
  Mississippi. Her name is Maud Scott, and she is six years old.
  Miss Watkins, the lady who has charge of her wrote me a most
  interesting letter. She said that Maud was born deaf and lost her
  sight when she was only three months old, and that when she went
  to the Institution a few weeks ago, she was quite helpless. She
  could not even walk and had very little use of her hands. When
  they tried to teach her to string beads, her little hands fell to
  her side. Evidently her sense of touch has not been developed,
  and as yet she can walk only when she holds some one's hand; but
  she seems to be an exceedingly bright child. Miss Watkins adds
  that she is very pretty. I have written to her that when Maud
  learns to read, I shall have many stories to send her. The dear,
  sweet little girl, it makes my heart ache to think how utterly
  she is cut off from all that is good and desirable in life. But
  Miss Watkins seems to be just the kind of teacher she needs.

  I was in New York not long ago and I saw Miss Rhoades, who told
  me that she had seen Katie McGirr. She said the poor young girl
  talked and acted exactly like a little child. Katie played with
  Miss Rhoades's rings and took them away, saying with a merry
  laugh, "You shall not have them again!" She could only understand
  Miss Rhoades when she talked about the simplest things. The
  latter wished to send her some books; but she could not find
  anything simple enough for her! She said Katie was very sweet
  indeed, but sadly in need of proper instruction. I was much
  surprised to hear all this; for I judged from your letters that
  Katie was a very precocious girl....

  A few days ago I met Tommy Stringer in the railroad station at
  Wrentham. He is a great, strong boy now, and he will soon need a
  man to take care of him; he is really too big for a lady to
  manage. He goes to the public school, I hear, and his progress is
  astonishing, they say; but it doesn't show as yet in his
  conversation, which is limited to "Yes" and "No."...


  TO  MR. CHARLES T. COPELAND
  December 20, 1900.
  My dear Mr. Copeland;
  I venture to write to you because I am afraid that if I do not
  explain why I have stopped writing themes, you will think I have
  become discouraged, or perhaps that to escape criticism I have
  beat a cowardly retreat from your class. Please do not think
  either of these very unpleasant thoughts. I am not discouraged,
  nor am I afraid. I am confident that I could go on writing themes
  like those I have written, and I suppose I should get through the
  course with fairly good marks; but this sort of literary
  patch-work has lost all interest for me. I have never been
  satisfied with my work; but I never knew what my difficulty was
  until you pointed it out to me. When I came to your class last
  October, I was trying with all my might to be like everybody
  else, to forget as entirely as possible my limitations and
  peculiar environment. Now, however, I see the folly of attempting
  to hitch one's wagon to a star with harness that does not belong
  to it.

  I have always accepted other peoples experiences and observations
  as a matter of course. It never occurred to me that it might be
  worth while to make my own observations and describe the
  experiences peculiarly my own. Henceforth I am resolved to be
  myself, to live my own life and write my own thoughts when I have
  any. When I have written something that seems to be fresh and
  spontaneous and worthy of your criticisms, I will bring it to
  you, if I may, and if you think it good, I shall be happy; but if
  your verdict is unfavorable, I shall try again and yet again
  until I have succeeded in pleasing you...


  TO  MRS. LAURENCE HUTTON
  14 Coolidge Avenue, Cambridge,
  December 27, 1900.
  ...So you read about our class luncheon in the papers? How in the
  world do the papers find out everything, I wonder. I am sure no
  reporter was present. I had a splendid time; the toasts and
  speeches were great fun. I only spoke a few words, as I did not
  know I was expected to speak until a few minutes before I was
  called upon. I think I wrote you that I had been elected
  Vice-President of the Freshman Class of Radcliffe.

  Did I tell you in my last letter that I had a new dress, a real
  party dress with low neck and short sleeves and quite a train? It
  is pale blue, trimmed with chiffon of the same color. I have worn
  it only once, but then I felt that Solomon in all his glory was
  not to be compared with me! Anyway, he certainly never had a
  dress like mine!...

  A gentleman in Philadelphia has just written to my teacher about
  a deaf and blind child in Paris, whose parents are Poles. The
  mother is a physician and a brilliant woman, he says. This little
  boy could speak two or three languages before he lost his hearing
  through sickness, and he is now only about five years old. Poor
  little fellow, I wish I could do something for him; but he is so
  young, my teacher thinks it would be too bad to separate him from
  his mother. I have had a letter from Mrs. Thaw with regard to the
  possibility of doing something for these children. Dr. Bell
  thinks the present census will show that there are more than a
  thousand in the United States alone [The number of deaf-blind
  young enough to be benefited by education is not so large as
  this; but the education of this class of defectives has been
  neglected.]; and Mrs. Thaw thinks if all my friends were to unite
  their efforts, "it would be an easy matter to establish at the
  beginning of this new century a new line upon which mercy might
  travel," and the rescue of these unfortunate children could be
  accomplished....


  TO MR. WILLIAM WADE
  Cambridge, February 2, 1901.
  ...By the way, have you any specimens of English braille
  especially printed for those who have lost their sight late in
  life or have fingers hardened by long toil, so that their touch
  is less sensitive than that of other blind people? I read an
  account of such a system in one of my English magazines, and I am
  anxious to know more about it. If it is as efficient as they say,
  I see no reason why English braille should not be adopted by the
  blind of all countries. Why, it is the print that can be most
  readily adapted to many different languages. Even Greek can be
  embossed in it, as you know. Then, too, it will be rendered still
  more efficient by the "interpointing system," which will save an
  immense amount of space and paper. There is nothing more absurd,
  I think, than to have five or six different prints for the
  blind....


  This letter was written in response to a tentative offer from the
  editor of The Great Round World to have the magazine published in
  raised type for the blind, if enough were willing to subscribe.
  It is evident that the blind should have a good magazine, not a
  special magazine for the blind, but one of our best monthlies,
  printed in embossed letters. The blind alone could not support
  it, but it would not take very much money to make up the
  additional expense.


  To THE GREAT ROUND WORLD
  Cambridge, Feb. 16, 1901.
  The Great Round World,
  New York City.
  Gentlemen: I have only to-day found time to reply to your
  interesting letter. A little bird had already sung the good news
  in my ear; but it was doubly pleasant to have it straight from
  you.

  It would be splendid to have The Great Round World printed in
  "language that can be felt." I doubt if any one who enjoys the
  wondrous privilege of seeing can have any conception of the boon
  such a publication as you contemplate would be to the sightless.
  To be able to read for one's self what is being willed, thought
  and done in the world--the world in whose joys and sorrows,
  failures and successes one feels the keenest interest--that would
  indeed be a happiness too deep for words. I trust that the effort
  of The Great Round World to bring light to those who sit in
  darkness will receive the encouragement and support it so richly
  deserves.

  I doubt, however, if the number of subscribers to an embossed
  edition of The Great Round World would ever be large; for I am
  told that the blind as a class are poor. But why should not the
  friends of the blind assist The Great Round World, if necessary?
  Surely there are hearts and hands ever ready to make it possible
  for generous intentions to be wrought into noble deeds.

  Wishing you godspeed in an undertaking that is very dear to my
  heart, I am, etc.


  TO MISS NINA RHOADES
  Cambridge, Sept. 25, 1901.
  ...We remained in Halifax until about the middle of August....
  Day after day the Harbor, the warships, and the park kept us busy
  thinking and feeling and enjoying.... When the Indiana visited
  Halifax, we were invited to go on board, and she sent her own
  launch for us. I touched the immense cannon, read with my fingers
  several of the names of the Spanish ships that were captured at
  Santiago, and felt the places where she had been pierced with
  shells. The Indiana was the largest and finest ship in the
  Harbor, and we felt very proud of her.

  After we left Halifax, we visited Dr. Bell at Cape Breton. He has
  a charming, romantic house on a mountain called Beinn Bhreagh,
  which overlooks the Bras d'Or Lake....

  Dr. Bell told me many interesting things about his work. He had
  just constructed a boat that could be propelled by a kite with
  the wind in its favor, and one day he tried experiments to see if
  he could steer the kite against the wind. I was there and really
  helped him fly the kites. On one of them I noticed that the
  strings were of wire, and having had some experience in bead
  work, I said I thought they would break. Dr. Bell said "No!" with
  great confidence, and the kite was sent up. It began to pull and
  tug, and lo, the wires broke, and off went the great red dragon,
  and poor Dr. Bell stood looking forlornly after it. After that he
  asked me if the strings were all right and changed them at once
  when I answered in the negative. Altogether we had great fun....


  TO DR. EDWARD EVERETT HALE [Read by Dr. Hale at the celebration
  of the centenary of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, at Tremont Temple,
  Boston, Nov. 11, 1901.]
  Cambridge, Nov. 10, 1901.
  My teacher and I expect to be present at the meeting tomorrow in
  commemoration of the one hundredth anniversary of Dr. Howe's
  birth; but I very much doubt if we shall have an opportunity to
  speak with you; so I am writing now to tell you how delighted I
  am that you are to speak at the meeting, because I feel that you,
  better than any one I know will express the heartfelt gratitude
  of those who owe their education, their opportunities, their
  happiness to him who opened the eyes of the blind and gave the
  dumb lip language.

  Sitting here in my study, surrounded by my books, enjoying the
  sweet and intimate companionship of the great and the wise, I am
  trying to realize what my life might have been, if Dr. Howe had
  failed in the great task God gave him to perform. If he had not
  taken upon himself the responsibility of Laura Bridgman's
  education and led her out of the pit of Acheron back to her human
  inheritance, should I be a sophomore at Radcliffe College
  to-day--who can say? But it is idle to speculate about what might
  have been in connection with Dr. Howe's great achievement.

  I think only those who have escaped that death-in-life existence,
  from which Laura Bridgman was rescued, can realize how isolated,
  how shrouded in darkness, how cramped by its own impotence is a
  soul without thought or faith or hope. Words are powerless to
  describe the desolation of that prison-house, or the joy of the
  soul that is delivered out of its captivity. When we compare the
  needs and helplessness of the blind before Dr. Howe began his
  work, with their present usefulness and independence, we realize
  that great things have been done in our midst. What if physical
  conditions have built up high walls about us? Thanks to our
  friend and helper, our world lies upward; the length and breadth
  and sweep of the heavens are ours!

  It is pleasant to think that Dr. Howe's noble deeds will receive
  their due tribute of affection and gratitude, in the city, which
  was the scene of his great labors and splendid victories for
  humanity.

  With kind greetings, in which my teacher joins me, I am
  Affectionately your friend,
  HELEN KELLER.


  TO THE HON. GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR
  Cambridge, Mass., November 25, 1901.
  My Dear Senator Hoar:--
  I am glad you liked my letter about Dr. Howe. It was written out
  of my heart, and perhaps that is why it met a sympathetic
  response in other hearts. I will ask Dr. Hale to lend me the
  letter, so that I can make a copy of it for you.

  You see, I use a typewriter--it is my right hand man, so to
  speak. Without it I do not see how I could go to college. I write
  all my themes and examinations on it, even Greek. Indeed, it has
  only one drawback, and that probably is regarded as an advantage
  by the professors; it is that one's mistakes may be detected at a
  glance; for there is no chance to hide them in illegible writing.

  I know you will be amused when I tell you that I am deeply
  interested in politics. I like to have the papers read to me, and
  I try to understand the great questions of the day; but I am
  afraid my knowledge is very unstable; for I change my opinions
  with every new book I read. I used to think that when I studied
  Civil Government and Economics, all my difficulties and
  perplexities would blossom into beautiful certainties; but alas,
  I find that there are more tares than wheat in these fertile
  fields of knowledge....




III: A SUPPLEMENTARY ACCOUNT OF HELEN KELLER'S LIFE AND EDUCATION



CHAPTER I. The Writing of the Book

It is fitting that Miss Keller's "Story of My Life" should appear at
this time. What is remarkable in her career is already accomplished,
and whatever she may do in the future will be but a relatively slight
addition to the success which distinguishes her now. That success has
just been assured, for it is her work at Radcliffe during the last two
years which has shown that she can carry her education as far as if
she were studying under normal conditions. Whatever doubts Miss Keller
herself may have had are now at rest.

Several passages of her autobiography, as it appeared in serial form,
have been made the subject of a grave editorial in a Boston newspaper,
in which the writer regretted Miss Keller's apparent disillusionment in
regard to the value of her college life. He quoted the passages in which
she explains that college is not the "universal Athens" she had hoped to
find, and cited the cases of other remarkable persons whose college life
had proved disappointing. But it is to be remembered that Miss Keller
has written many things in her autobiography for the fun of writing
them, and the disillusion, which the writer of the editorial took
seriously, is in great part humorous. Miss Keller does not suppose her
views to be of great importance, and when she utters her opinions on
important matters she takes it for granted that her reader will receive
them as the opinions of a junior in college, not of one who writes with
the wisdom of maturity. For instance, it surprised her that some people
were annoyed at what she said about the Bible, and she was amused that
they did not see, what was plain enough, that she had been obliged
to read the whole Bible in a course in English literature, not as a
religious duty put upon her by her teacher or her parents.

I ought to apologize to the reader and to Miss Keller for presuming
to say what her subject matter is worth, but one more explanation is
necessary. In her account of her early education Miss Keller is not
giving a scientifically accurate record of her life, nor even of the
important events. She cannot know in detail how she was taught, and her
memory of her childhood is in some cases an idealized memory of what
she has learned later from her teacher and others. She is less able to
recall events of fifteen years ago than most of us are to recollect our
childhood. That is why her teacher's records may be found to differ in
some particulars from Miss Keller's account.

The way in which Miss Keller wrote her story shows, as nothing else can
show, the difficulties she had to overcome. When we write, we can go
back over our work, shuffle the pages, interline, rearrange, see how
the paragraphs look in proof, and so construct the whole work before
the eye, as an architect constructs his plans. When Miss Keller puts her
work in typewritten form, she cannot refer to it again unless some one
reads it to her by means of the manual alphabet.

This difficulty is in part obviated by the use of her braille machine,
which makes a manuscript that she can read; but as her work must be put
ultimately in typewritten form, and as a braille machine is somewhat
cumbersome, she has got into the habit of writing directly on her
typewriter. She depends so little on her braille manuscript, that, when
she began to write her story more than a year ago and had put in
braille a hundred pages of material and notes, she made the mistake of
destroying these notes before she had finished her manuscript. Thus she
composed much of her story on the typewriter, and in constructing it
as a whole depended on her memory to guide her in putting together the
detached episodes, which Miss Sullivan read over to her.

Last July, when she had finished under great pressure of work her final
chapter, she set to work to rewrite the whole story. Her good friend,
Mr. William Wade, had a complete braille copy made for her from the
magazine proofs. Then for the first time she had her whole manuscript
under her finger at once. She saw imperfections in the arrangement of
paragraphs and the repetition of phrases. She saw, too, that her story
properly fell into short chapters and redivided it.

Partly from temperament, partly from the conditions of her work, she has
written rather a series of brilliant passages than a unified narrative;
in point of fact, several paragraphs of her story are short themes
written in her English courses, and the small unit sometimes shows its
original limits.

In rewriting the story, Miss Keller made corrections on separate
pages on her braille machine. Long corrections she wrote out on her
typewriter, with catch-words to indicate where they belonged. Then she
read from her braille copy the entire story, making corrections as she
read, which were taken down on the manuscript that went to the printer.
During this revision she discussed questions of subject matter and
phrasing. She sat running her finger over the braille manuscript,
stopping now and then to refer to the braille notes on which she had
indicated her corrections, all the time reading aloud to verify the
manuscript.

She listened to criticism just as any author listens to his friends or
his editor. Miss Sullivan, who is an excellent critic, made suggestions
at many points in the course of composition and revision. One newspaper
suggested that Miss Keller had been led into writing the book and had
been influenced to put certain things into it by zealous friends. As a
matter of fact, most of the advice she has received and heeded has led
to excisions rather than to additions. The book is Miss Keller's and is
final proof of her independent power.


CHAPTER II. PERSONALITY

Mark Twain has said that the two most interesting characters of the
nineteenth century are Napoleon and Helen Keller. The admiration with
which the world has regarded her is more than justified by what she has
done. No one can tell any great truth about her which has not already
been written, and all that I can do is to give a few more facts about
Miss Keller's work and add a little to what is known of her personality.

Miss Keller is tall and strongly built, and has always had good health.
She seems to be more nervous than she really is, because she expresses
more with her hands than do most English-speaking people. One reason
for this habit of gesture is that her hands have been so long her
instruments of communication that they have taken to themselves the
quick shiftings of the eye, and express some of the things that we say
in a glance. All deaf people naturally gesticulate. Indeed, at one time
it was believed that the best way for them to communicate was through
systematized gestures, the sign language invented by the Abbe de l'Epee.

When Miss Keller speaks, her face is animated and expresses all the
modes of her thought--the expressions that make the features eloquent
and give speech half its meaning. On the other hand she does not know
another's expression. When she is talking with an intimate friend,
however, her hand goes quickly to her friend's face to see, as she says,
"the twist of the mouth." In this way she is able to get the meaning of
those half sentences which we complete unconsciously from the tone of
the voice or the twinkle of the eye.

Her memory of people is remarkable. She remembers the grasp of fingers
she has held before, all the characteristic tightening of the muscles
that makes one person's handshake different from that of another.

The trait most characteristic, perhaps, of Miss Keller (and also of Miss
Sullivan) is humour. Skill in the use of words and her habit of playing
with them make her ready with mots and epigrams.

Some one asked her if she liked to study.

"Yes," she replied, "but I like to play also, and I feel sometimes as if
I were a music box with all the play shut up inside me."

When she met Dr. Furness, the Shakespearean scholar, he warned her not
to let the college professors tell her too many assumed facts about
the life of Shakespeare; all we know, he said, is that Shakespeare was
baptized, married, and died.

"Well," she replied, "he seems to have done all the essential things."

Once a friend who was learning the manual alphabet kept making "g,"
which is like the hand of a sign-post, for "h," which is made with two
fingers extended. Finally Miss Keller told him to "fire both barrels."

Mr. Joseph Jefferson was once explaining to Miss Keller what the bumps
on her head meant.

"That," he said, "is your prize-fighting bump."

"I never fight," she replied, "except against difficulties."

Miss Keller's humour is that deeper kind of humour which is courage.

Thirteen years ago she made up her mind to learn to speak, and she gave
her teacher no rest until she was allowed to take lessons, although wise
people, even Miss Sullivan, the wisest of them all, regarded it as an
experiment unlikely to succeed and almost sure to make her unhappy. It
was this same perseverance that made her go to college. After she had
passed her examinations and received her certificate of admission,
she was advised by the Dean of Radcliffe and others not to go on. She
accordingly delayed a year. But she was not satisfied until she had
carried out her purpose and entered college.

Her life has been a series of attempts to do whatever other people do,
and to do it as well. Her success has been complete, for in trying to
be like other people she has come most fully to be herself. Her
unwillingness to be beaten has developed her courage. Where another
can go, she can go. Her respect for physical bravery is like
Stevenson's--the boy's contempt for the fellow who cries, with a touch
of young bravado in it. She takes tramps in the woods, plunging through
the underbrush, where she is scratched and bruised; yet you could not
get her to admit that she is hurt, and you certainly could not persuade
her to stay at home next time.

So when people try experiments with her, she displays a sportsmanlike
determination to win in any test, however unreasonable, that one may
wish to put her to.

If she does not know the answer to a question, she guesses with
mischievous assurance. Ask her the colour of your coat (no blind person
can tell colour), she will feel it and say "black." If it happens to be
blue, and you tell her so triumphantly, she is likely to answer, "Thank
you. I am glad you know. Why did you ask me?"

Her whimsical and adventuresome spirit puts her so much on her mettle
that she makes rather a poor subject for the psychological experimenter.
Moreover, Miss Sullivan does not see why Miss Keller should be subjected
to the investigation of the scientist, and has not herself made many
experiments. When a psychologist asked her if Miss Keller spelled on her
fingers in her sleep, Miss Sullivan replied that she did not think
it worth while to sit up and watch, such matters were of so little
consequence.

Miss Keller likes to be part of the company. If any one whom she is
touching laughs at a joke, she laughs, too, just as if she had heard
it. If others are aglow with music, a responding glow, caught
sympathetically, shines in her face. Indeed, she feels the movements
of Miss Sullivan so minutely that she responds to her moods, and so she
seems to know what is going on, even though the conversation has not
been spelled to her for some time. In the same way her response to music
is in part sympathetic, although she enjoys it for its own sake.

Music probably can mean little to her but beat and pulsation. She cannot
sing and she cannot play the piano, although, as some early experiments
show, she could learn mechanically to beat out a tune on the keys. Her
enjoyment of music, however, is very genuine, for she has a tactile
recognition of sound when the waves of air beat against her. Part of her
experience of the rhythm of music comes, no doubt, from the vibration
of solid objects which she is touching: the floor, or, what is more
evident, the case of the piano, on which her hand rests. But she seems
to feel the pulsation of the air itself. When the organ was played for
her in St. Bartholomew's, the whole building shook with the great
pedal notes, but that does not altogether account for what she felt and
enjoyed. The vibration of the air as the organ notes swelled made her
sway in answer. Sometimes she puts her hand on a singer's throat to
feel the muscular thrill and contraction, and from this she gets genuine
pleasure. No one knows, however, just what her sensations are. It is
amusing to read in one of the magazines of 1895 that Miss Keller "has
a just and intelligent appreciation of different composers from having
literally felt their music, Schumann being her favourite." If she knows
the difference between Schumann and Beethoven, it is because she has
read it, and if she has read it, she remembers it and can tell any one
who asks her.

Miss Keller's effort to reach out and meet other people on their own
intellectual ground has kept her informed of daily affairs. When her
education became more systematic and she was busy with books, it would
have been very easy for Miss Sullivan to let her draw into herself, if
she had been so inclined. But every one who has met her has given
his best ideas to her and she has taken them. If, in the course of a
conversation, the friend next to her has ceased for some moments to
spell into her hand, the question comes inevitably, "What are you
talking about?" Thus she picks up the fragments of the daily intercourse
of normal people, so that her detailed information is singularly full
and accurate. She is a good talker on the little occasional affairs of
life.

Much of her knowledge comes to her directly. When she is out walking she
often stops suddenly, attracted by the odour of a bit of shrubbery. She
reaches out and touches the leaves, and the world of growing things is
hers, as truly as it is ours, to enjoy while she holds the leaves in her
fingers and smells the blossoms, and to remember when the walk is done.

When she is in a new place, especially an interesting place like
Niagara, whoever accompanies her--usually, of course, Miss Sullivan--is
kept busy giving her an idea of visible details. Miss Sullivan, who
knows her pupil's mind, selects from the passing landscape essential
elements, which give a certain clearness to Miss Keller's imagined
view of an outer world that to our eyes is confused and overloaded with
particulars. If her companion does not give her enough details,
Miss Keller asks questions until she has completed the view to her
satisfaction.

She does not see with her eyes, but through the inner faculty to serve
which eyes were given to us. When she returns from a walk and tells some
one about it, her descriptions are accurate and vivid. A comparative
experience drawn from written descriptions and from her teacher's words
has kept her free from errors in her use of terms of sound and
vision. True, her view of life is highly  and full of poetic
exaggeration; the universe, as she sees it, is no doubt a little better
than it really is. But her knowledge of it is not so incomplete as one
might suppose. Occasionally she astonishes you by ignorance of some fact
which no one happens to have told her; for instance, she did not know,
until her first plunge into the sea, that it is salt. Many of the
detached incidents and facts of our daily life pass around and over her
unobserved; but she has enough detailed acquaintance with the world to
keep her view of it from being essentially defective.

Most that she knows at first hand comes from her sense of touch. This
sense is not, however, so finely developed as in some other blind
people. Laura Bridgman could tell minute shades of difference in the
size of thread, and made beautiful lace. Miss Keller used to knit and
crochet, but she has had better things to do. With her varied powers and
accomplishments, her sense of touch has not been used enough to develop
it very far beyond normal acuteness. A friend tried Miss Keller one
day with several coins. She was slower than he expected her to be in
identifying them by their relative weight and size. But it should be
said she almost never handles money--one of the many sordid and petty
details of life, by the way, which she has been spared.

She recognizes the subject and general intention of a statuette six
inches high. Anything shallower than a half-inch bas-relief is a blank
to her, so far as it expresses an idea of beauty. Large statues, of
which she can feel the sweep of line with her whole hand, she knows in
their higher esthetic value. She suggests herself that she can know
them better than we do, because she can get the true dimensions and
appreciate more immediately the solid nature of a sculptured figure.
When she was at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston she stood on a
step-ladder and let both hands play over the statues. When she felt a
bas-relief of dancing girls she asked, "Where are the singers?" When
she found them she said, "One is silent." The lips of the singer were
closed.

It is, however, in her daily life that one can best measure the delicacy
of her senses and her manual skill. She seems to have very little sense
of direction. She gropes her way without much certainty in rooms where
she is quite familiar. Most blind people are aided by the sense of
sound, so that a fair comparison is hard to make, except with other
deaf-blind persons. Her dexterity is not notable either in comparison
with the normal person, whose movements are guided by the eye, or, I am
told, with other blind people. She has practised no single constructive
craft which would call for the use of her hands. When she was twelve,
her friend Mr. Albert H. Munsell, the artist, let her experiment with a
wax tablet and a stylus. He says that she did pretty well and managed to
make, after models, some conventional designs of the outlines of leaves
and rosettes. The only thing she does which requires skill with
the hands is her work on the typewriter. Although she has used the
typewriter since she was eleven years old, she is rather careful than
rapid. She writes with fair speed and absolute sureness. Her manuscripts
seldom contain typographical errors when she hands them to Miss Sullivan
to read. Her typewriter has no special attachments. She keeps the
relative position of the keys by an occasional touch of the little
finger on the outer edge of the board.

Miss Keller's reading of the manual alphabet by her sense of touch seems
to cause some perplexity. Even people who know her fairly well have
written in the magazines about Miss Sullivan's "mysterious telegraphic
communications" with her pupil. The manual alphabet is that in use among
all educated deaf people. Most dictionaries contain an engraving of the
manual letters. The deaf person with sight looks at the fingers of his
companion, but it is also possible to feel them. Miss Keller puts her
fingers lightly over the hand of one who is talking to her and gets the
words as rapidly as they can be spelled. As she explains, she is not
conscious of the single letters or of separate words. Miss Sullivan and
others who live constantly with the deaf can spell very rapidly--fast
enough to get a slow lecture, not fast enough to get every word of a
rapid speaker.

Anybody can learn the manual letters in a few minutes, use them slowly
in a day, and in thirty days of constant use talk to Miss Keller or any
other deaf person without realizing what his fingers are doing. If more
people knew this, and the friends and relatives of deaf children learned
the manual alphabet at once the deaf all over the world would be happier
and better educated.

Miss Keller reads by means of embossed print or the various kinds of
braille. The ordinary embossed book is made with roman letters, both
small letters and capitals. These letters are of simple, square, angular
design. The small letters are about three-sixteenths of an inch high,
and are raised from the page the thickness of the thumbnail. The books
are large, about the size of a volume of an encyclopedia. Green's "Short
History of the English People" is in six large volumes. The books are
not heavy, because the leaves with the raised type do not lie close. The
time that one of Miss Keller's friends realizes most strongly that she
is blind is when he comes on her suddenly in the dark and hears the
rustle of her fingers across the page.

The most convenient print for the blind is braille, which has several
variations, too many, indeed--English, American, New York Point. Miss
Keller reads them all. Most educated blind people know several, but it
would save trouble if, as Miss Keller suggests, English braille were
universally adopted. The facsimile on page xv [omitted from etext] gives
an idea of how the raised dots look. Each character (either a letter or
a special braille contraction) is a combination made by varying in place
and number points in six possible positions. Miss Keller has a braille
writer on which she keeps notes and writes letters to her blind friends.
There are six keys, and by pressing different combinations at a stroke
(as one plays a chord on the piano) the operator makes a character at a
time in a sheet of thick paper, and can write about half as rapidly
as on a typewriter. Braille is especially useful in making single
manuscript copies of books.

Books for the blind are very limited in number. They cost a great deal
to publish and they have not a large enough sale to make them profitable
to the publisher; but there are several institutions with special funds
to pay for embossed books. Miss Keller is more fortunate than most blind
people in the kindness of her friends who have books made especially for
her, and in the willingness of gentlemen, like Mr. E. E. Allen of the
Pennsylvania Institute for the Instruction of the Blind, to print, as he
has on several occasions, editions of books that she has needed.

Miss Keller does not as a rule read very fast, but she reads
deliberately, not so much because she feels the words less quickly than
we see then, as because it is one of her habits of mind to do things
thoroughly and well. When a passage interests her, or she needs to
remember it for some future use, she flutters it off swiftly on the
fingers of her right hand. Sometimes this finger-play is unconscious.
Miss Keller talks to herself absent-mindedly in the manual alphabet.
When she is walking up or down the hall or along the veranda, her hands
go flying along beside her like a confusion of birds' wings.

There is, I am told, tactile memory as well as visual and aural memory.
Miss Sullivan says that both she and Miss Keller remember "in their
fingers" what they have said. For Miss Keller to spell a sentence in the
manual alphabet impresses it on her mind just as we learn a thing from
having heard it many times and can call back the memory of its sound.

Like every deaf or blind person, Miss Keller depends on her sense of
smell to an unusual degree. When she was a little girl she smelled
everything and knew where she was, what neighbour's house she was
passing, by the distinctive odours. As her intellect grew she became
less dependent on this sense. To what extent she now identifies objects
by their odour is hard to determine. The sense of smell has fallen into
disrepute, and a deaf person is reluctant to speak of it. Miss Keller's
acute sense of smell may account, however, in some part for that
recognition of persons and things which it has been customary to
attribute to a special sense, or to an unusual development of the power
that we all seem to have of telling when some one is near.

The question of a special "sixth sense," such as people have ascribed.
to Miss Keller, is a delicate one. This much is certain, she cannot have
any sense that other people may not have, and the existence of a special
sense is not evident to her or to any one who knows her. Miss Keller is
distinctly not a singular proof of occult and mysterious theories,
and any attempt to explain her in that way fails to reckon with her
normality. She is no more mysterious and complex than any other person.
All that she is, all that she has done, can be explained directly,
except such things in every human being as never can be explained. She
does not, it would seem, prove the existence of spirit without matter,
or of innate ideas, or of immortality, or anything else that any other
human being does not prove. Philosophers have tried to find out what was
her conception of abstract ideas before she learned language. If she had
any conception, there is no way of discovering it now; for she cannot
remember, and obviously there was no record at the time. She had no
conception of God before she heard the word "God," as her comments very
clearly show.

Her sense of time is excellent, but whether it would have developed as
a special faculty cannot be known, for she has had a watch since she was
seven years old.

Miss Keller has two watches, which have been given her. They are, I
think, the only ones of their kind in America. The watch has on the back
cover a flat gold indicator which can be pushed freely around from left
to right until, by means of a pin inside the case, it locks with the
hour hand and takes a corresponding position. The point of this gold
indicator bends over the edge of the case, round which are set eleven
raised points--the stem forms the twelfth. Thus the watch, an ordinary
watch with a white dial for the person who sees, becomes for a blind
person by this special attachment in effect one with a single raised
hour hand and raised figures. Though there is less than half an inch
between the points--a space which represents sixty minutes--Miss Keller
tells the time almost exactly. It should be said that any double-case
watch with the crystal removed serves well enough for a blind person
whose touch is sufficiently delicate to feel the position of the hands
and not disturb or injure them.

The finer traits of Miss Keller's character are so well known that one
needs not say much about them. Good sense, good humour, and imagination
keep her scheme of things sane and beautiful. No attempt is made by
those around her either to preserve or to break her illusions. When she
was a little girl, a good many unwise and tactless things that were
said for her benefit were not repeated to her, thanks to the wise
watchfulness of Miss Sullivan. Now that she has grown up, nobody thinks
of being less frank with her than with any other intelligent young
woman. What her good friend, Charles Dudley Warner, wrote about her in
Harper's Magazine in 1896 was true then, and it remains true now:

"I believe she is the purest-minded human ever in existence.... The
world to her is what her own mind is. She has not even learned
that exhibition on which so many pride themselves, of 'righteous
indignation.'

"Some time ago, when a policeman shot dead her dog, a dearly loved daily
companion, she found in her forgiving heart no condemnation for the
man; she only said, 'If he had only known what a good dog she was, he
wouldn't have shot her.' It was said of old time, 'Lord forgive them,
they know not what they do!'

"Of course the question will arise whether, if Helen Keller had not
been guarded from the knowledge of evil, she would have been what she
is to-day.... Her mind has neither been made effeminate by the weak and
silly literature, nor has it been vitiated by that which is suggestive
of baseness. In consequence her mind is not only vigorous, but it is
pure. She is in love with noble things, with noble thoughts, and with
the characters of noble men and women."

She still has a childlike aversion to tragedies. Her imagination is so
vital that she falls completely under the illusion of a story, and lives
in its world. Miss Sullivan writes in a letter of 1891:

"Yesterday I read to her the story of 'Macbeth,' as told by Charles
and Mary Lamb. She was very greatly excited by it, and said: 'It is
terrible! It makes me tremble!' After thinking a little while, she
added, 'I think Shakespeare made it very terrible so that people would
see how fearful it is to do wrong.'"

Of the real world she knows more of the good and less of the evil than
most people seem to know. Her teacher does not harass her with the
little unhappy things; but of the important difficulties they have
been through, Miss Keller was fully informed, took her share of
the suffering, and put her mind to the problems. She is logical and
tolerant, most trustful of a world that has treated her kindly.

Once when some one asked her to define "love," she replied, "Why, bless
you, that is easy; it is what everybody feels for everybody else."

"Toleration," she said once, when she was visiting her friend Mrs.
Laurence Hutton, "is the greatest gift of the mind; it requires the same
effort of the brain that it takes to balance oneself on a bicycle."

She has a large, generous sympathy and absolute fairness of temper. So
far as she is noticeably different from other people she is less bound
by convention. She has the courage of her metaphors and lets them take
her skyward when we poor self-conscious folk would think them rather
too bookish for ordinary conversation. She always says exactly what she
thinks, without fear of the plain truth; yet no one is more tactful and
adroit than she in turning an unpleasant truth so that it will do the
least possible hurt to the feelings of others. Not all the attention
that has been paid her since she was a child has made her take herself
too seriously. Sometimes she gets started on a very solemn preachment.
Then her teacher calls her an incorrigible little sermonizer, and she
laughs at herself. Often, however, her sober ideas are not to be laughed
at, for her earnestness carries her listeners with her. There is never
the least false sententiousness in what she says. She means everything
so thoroughly that her very quotations, her echoes from what she has
read, are in truth original.

Her logic and her sympathy are in excellent balance. Her sympathy is
of the swift and ministering sort which, fortunately, she has found
so often in other people. And her sympathies go further and shape her
opinions on political and national movements. She was intensely pro-Boer
and wrote a strong argument in favour of Boer independence. When she was
told of the surrender of the brave little people, her face clouded
and she was silent a few minutes. Then she asked clear, penetrating
questions about the terms of the surrender, and began to discuss them.

Both Mr. Gilman and Mr. Keith, the teachers who prepared her for
college, were struck by her power of constructive reasoning; and she was
excellent in pure mathematics, though she seems never to have enjoyed
it much. Some of the best of her writing, apart from her fanciful
and imaginative work, is her exposition in examinations and technical
themes, and in some letters which she found it necessary to write to
clear up misunderstandings, and which are models of close thinking
enforced with sweet vehemence.

She is an optimist and an idealist.

"I hope," she writes in a letter, "that L---- isn't too practical, for
if she is, I'm afraid she'll miss a great deal of pleasure."

In the diary that she kept at the Wright-Humason School in New York she
wrote on October 18, 1894, "I find that I have four things to learn in
my school life here, and indeed, in life--to think clearly without hurry
or confusion, to love everybody sincerely, to act in everything with the
highest motives, and to trust in dear God unhesitatingly."



CHAPTER III. EDUCATION

It is now sixty-five years since Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe knew that he
had made his way through Laura Bridgman's fingers to her intelligence.
The names of Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller will always be linked
together, and it is necessary to understand what Dr. Howe did for his
pupil before one comes to an account of Miss Sullivan's work. For Dr.
Howe is the great pioneer on whose work that of Miss Sullivan and other
teachers of the deaf-blind immediately depends.

Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe was born in Boston, November 10, 1801, and died
in Boston, January 9, 1876. He was a great philanthropist, interested
especially in the education of all defectives, the feeble-minded, the
blind, and the deaf. Far in advance of his time he advocated many public
measures for the relief of the poor and the diseased, for which he was
laughed at then, but which have since been put into practice. As head
of the Perkins Institution for the Blind in Boston, he heard of Laura
Bridgman and had her brought to the Institution on October 4, 1837.

Laura Bridgman was born at Hanover, New Hampshire, December 21, 1829; so
she was almost eight years old when Dr. Howe began his experiments with
her. At the age of twenty-six months scarlet fever left her without
sight or hearing. She also lost her sense of smell and taste. Dr. Howe
was an experimental scientist and had in him the spirit of New England
transcendentalism with its large faith and large charities. Science and
faith together led him to try to make his way into the soul which he
believed was born in Laura Bridgman as in every other human being.
His plan was to teach Laura by means of raised types. He pasted raised
labels on objects and made her fit the labels to the objects and the
objects to the labels. When she had learned in this way to associate
raised words with things, in much the same manner, he says, as a dog
learns tricks, he began to resolve the words into their letter elements
and to teach her to put together "k-e-y," "c-a-p." His success convinced
him that language can be conveyed through type to the mind of the
blind-deaf child, who, before education, is in the state of the baby who
has not learned to prattle; indeed, is in a much worse state, for the
brain has grown in years without natural nourishment.

After Laura's education had progressed for two months with the use only
of raised letters, Dr. Howe sent one of his teachers to learn the manual
alphabet from a deaf-mute. She taught it to Laura, and from that time on
the manual alphabet was the means of communicating with her.

After the first year or two Dr. Howe did not teach Laura Bridgman
himself, but gave her over to other teachers, who under his direction
carried on the work of teaching her language.

Too much cannot be said in praise of Dr. Howe's work. As an investigator
he kept always the scientist's attitude. He never forgot to keep
his records of Laura Bridgman in the fashion of one who works in
a laboratory. The result is, his records of her are systematic and
careful. From a scientific standpoint it is unfortunate that it was
impossible to keep such a complete record of Helen Keller's development.
This in itself is a great comment on the difference between Laura
Bridgman and Helen Keller. Laura always remained an object of curious
study. Helen Keller became so rapidly a distinctive personality that she
kept her teacher in a breathless race to meet the needs of her pupil,
with no time or strength to make a scientific study.

In some ways this is unfortunate. Miss Sullivan knew at the beginning
that Helen Keller would be more interesting and successful than Laura
Bridgman, and she expresses in one of her letters the need of keeping
notes. But neither temperament nor training allowed her to make her
pupil the object of any experiment or observation which did not help in
the child's development. As soon as a thing was done, a definite goal
passed, the teacher did not always look back and describe the way she
had come. The explanation of the fact was unimportant compared to the
fact itself and the need of hurrying on. There are two other reasons why
Miss Sullivan's records are incomplete. It has always been a severe tax
on her eyes to write, and she was early discouraged from publishing data
by the inaccurate use made of what she at first supplied.

When she first wrote from Tuscumbia to Mr. Michael Anagnos, Dr. Howes
son-in-law and his successor as Director of the Perkins Institution,
about her work with her pupil, the Boston papers began at once to
publish exaggerated accounts of Helen Keller. Miss Sullivan protested.
In a letter dated April 10, 1887, only five weeks after she went to
Helen Keller, she wrote to a friend:

"--sent me a Boston Herald containing a stupid article about Helen. How
perfectly absurd to say that Helen is 'already talking fluently!' Why,
one might just as well say that a two-year-old child converses fluently
when he says 'apple give,' or 'baby walk go.' I suppose if you included
his screaming, crowing, whimpering, grunting, squalling, with occasional
kicks, in his conversation, it might be regarded as fluent--even
eloquent. Then it is amusing to read of the elaborate preparation I
underwent to fit me for the great task my friends entrusted to me. I am
sorry that preparation didn't include spelling, it would have saved me
such a lot of trouble."

On March 4, 1888, she writes in a letter:

"Indeed, I am heartily glad that I don't know all that is being said and
written about Helen and myself. I assure you I know quite enough. Nearly
every mail brings some absurd statement, printed or written. The truth
is not wonderful enough to suit the newspapers; so they enlarge upon it
and invent ridiculous embellishments. One paper has Helen demonstrating
problems in geometry by means of her playing blocks. I expect to hear
next that she has written a treatise on the origin and future of the
planets!"

In December, 1887, appeared the first report of the Director of the
Perkins Institution, which deals with Helen Keller. For this report
Miss Sullivan prepared, in reluctant compliance with the request of
Mr. Anagnos, an account of her work. This with the extracts from her
letters, scattered through the report, is the first valid source of
information about Helen Keller. Of this report Miss Sullivan wrote in a
letter dated October 30, 1887:

"Have you seen the paper I wrote for the 'report'? Mr. Anagnos was
delighted with it. He says Helen's progress has been 'a triumphal march
from the beginning,' and he has many flattering things to say about
her teacher. I think he is inclined to exaggerate; at all events, his
language is too glowing, and simple facts are set forth in such a manner
that they bewilder one. Doubtless the work of the past few months does
seem like a triumphal march to him; but then people seldom see the
halting and painful steps by which the most insignificant success is
achieved."

As Mr. Anagnos was the head of a great institution, what he said had
much more effect than the facts in Miss Sullivan's account on which he
based his statements. The newspapers caught Mr. Anagnos's spirit and
exaggerated a hundred-fold. In a year after she first went to Helen
Keller, Miss Sullivan found herself and her pupil the centre of a
stupendous fiction. Then the educators all over the world said their
say and for the most part did not help matters. There grew up a mass of
controversial matter which it is amusing to read now. Teachers of the
deaf proved a priori that what Miss Sullivan had done could not be,
and some discredit was reflected on her statements, because they were
surrounded by the vague eloquence of Mr. Anagnos. Thus the story of
Helen Keller, incredible when told with moderation, had the misfortune
to be heralded by exaggerated announcements, and naturally met either an
ignorant credulity or an incredulous hostility.

In November, 1888, another report of the Perkins Institution appeared
with a second paper by Miss Sullivan, and then nothing official was
published until November, 1891, when Mr. Anagnos issued the last Perkins
Institution report containing anything about Helen Keller. For this
report Miss Sullivan wrote the fullest and largest account she has
ever written; and in this report appeared the "Frost King," which is
discussed fully in a later chapter. Then the controversy waxed fiercer
than ever.

Finding that other people seemed to know so much more about Helen Keller
than she did, Miss Sullivan kept silent and has been silent for ten
years, except for her paper in the first volta Bureau Souvenir of Helen
Keller and the paper which, at Dr. Bell's request, she prepared in 1894
for the meeting at Chautauqua of the American Association to Promote the
Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. When Dr. Bell and others tell her, what
is certainly true from an impersonal point of view, that she owes it
to the cause of education to write what she knows, she answers very
properly that she owes all her time and all her energies to her pupil.

Although Miss Sullivan is still rather amused than distressed when some
one, even one of her friends, makes mistakes in published articles
about her and Miss Keller, still she sees that Miss Keller's book should
include all the information that the teacher could at present furnish.
So she consented to the publication of extracts from letters which she
wrote during the first year of her work with her pupil. These letters
were written to Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins, the only person to whom Miss
Sullivan ever wrote freely. Mrs. Hopkins has been a matron at the
Perkins Institution for twenty years, and during the time that Miss
Sullivan was a pupil there she was like a mother to her. In these
letters we have an almost weekly record of Miss Sullivan's work. Some of
the details she had forgotten, as she grew more and more to generalize.
Many people have thought that any attempt to find the principles in
her method would be nothing but a later theory superimposed on Miss
Sullivan's work. But it is evident that in these letters she was making
a clear analysis of what she was doing. She was her own critic, and in
spite of her later declaration, made with her modest carelessness, that
she followed no particular method, she was very clearly learning from
her task and phrasing at the time principles of education of unique
value not only in the teaching of the deaf but in the teaching of all
children. The extracts from her letters and reports form an important
contribution to pedagogy, and more than justify the opinion of Dr.
Daniel C. Gilman, who wrote in 1893, when he was President of Johns
Hopkins University:

"I have just read... your most interesting account of the various steps
you have taken in the education of your wonderful pupil, and I hope you
will allow me to express my admiration for the wisdom that has guided
your methods and the affection which has inspired your labours."


Miss Anne Mansfield Sullivan was born at Springfield, Massachusetts.
Very early in her life she became almost totally blind, and she entered
the Perkins Institution October 7, 1880, when she was fourteen years
old. Later her sight was partially restored.

Mr. Anagnos says in his report of 1887: "She was obliged to begin her
education at the lowest and most elementary point; but she showed from
the very start that she had in herself the force and capacity which
insure success.... She has finally reached the goal for which she strove
so bravely. The golden words that Dr. Howe uttered and the example that
he left passed into her thoughts and heart and helped her on the road
to usefulness; and now she stands by his side as his worthy successor
in one of the most cherished branches of his work.... Miss Sullivan's
talents are of the highest order."

In 1886 she graduated from the Perkins Institution. When Captain Keller
applied to the director for a teacher, Mr. Anagnos recommended her. The
only time she had to prepare herself for the work with her pupil was
from August, 1886, when Captain Keller wrote, to February, 1887. During
this time she read Dr. Howe's reports. She was further aided by the fact
that during the six years of her school life she had lived in the
house with Laura Bridgman. It was Dr. Howe who, by his work with Laura
Bridgman, made Miss Sullivan's work possible: but it was Miss Sullivan
who discovered the way to teach language to the deaf-blind.

It must be remembered that Miss Sullivan had to solve her problems
unaided by previous experience or the assistance of any other teacher.
During the first year of her work with Helen Keller, in which she taught
her pupil language, they were in Tuscumbia; and when they came North
and visited the Perkins Institution, Helen Keller was never a regular
student there or subject to the discipline of the Institution. The
impression that Miss Sullivan educated Helen Keller "under the direction
of Mr. Anagnos" is erroneous. In the three years during which at
various times Miss Keller and Miss Sullivan were guests of the Perkins
Institution, the teachers there did not help Miss Sullivan, and Mr.
Anagnos did not even use the manual alphabet with facility as a means
of communication. Mr. Anagnos wrote in the report of the Perkins
Institution, dated November 27, 1888: "At my urgent request, Helen,
accompanied by her mother and her teacher, came to the North in the
last week of May, and spent several months with us as our guests....
We gladly allowed her to use freely our library of embossed books, our
collection of stuffed animals, sea-shells, models of flowers and plants,
and the rest of our apparatus for instructing the blind through the
sense of touch. I do not doubt that she derived from them much pleasure
and not a little profit. But whether Helen stays at home or makes
visits in other parts of the country, her education is always under
the immediate direction and exclusive control of her teacher. No one
interferes with Miss Sullivan's plans, or shares in her tasks. She
has been allowed entire freedom in the choice of means and methods for
carrying on her great work; and, as we can judge by the results, she
has made a most judicious and discreet use of this privilege. What
the little pupil has thus far accomplished is widely known, and her
wonderful attainments command general admiration; but only those who
are familiar with the particulars of the grand achievement know that the
credit is largely due to the intelligence, wisdom, sagacity, unremitting
perseverance and unbending will of the instructress, who rescued the
child from the depths of everlasting night and stillness, and watched
over the different phases of her mental and moral development with
maternal solicitude and enthusiastic devotion."

Here follow in order Miss Sullivan's letters and the most important
passages from the reports. I have omitted from each succeeding report
what has already been explained and does not need to be repeated. For
the ease of the reader I have, with Miss Sullivan's consent, made the
extracts run together continuously and supplied words of connection and
the resulting necessary changes in syntax, and Miss Sullivan has made
slight changes in the phrasing of her reports and also of her letters,
which were carelessly written. I have also italicized a few important
passages. Some of her opinions Miss Sullivan would like to enlarge and
revise. That remains for her to do at another time. At present we have
here the fullest record that has been published. The first letter is
dated March 6, 1887, three days after her arrival in Tuscumbia.

...It was 6.30 when I reached Tuscumbia. I found Mrs. Keller and Mr.
James Keller waiting for me. They said somebody had met every train for
two days. The drive from the station to the house, a distance of one
mile, was very lovely and restful. I was surprised to find Mrs. Keller
a very young-looking woman, not much older than myself, I should think.
Captain Keller met us in the yard and gave me a cheery welcome and a
hearty handshake. My first question was, "Where is Helen?" I tried with
all my might to control the eagerness that made me tremble so that I
could hardly walk. As we approached the house I saw a child standing in
the doorway, and Captain Keller said, "There she is. She has known all
day that some one was expected, and she has been wild ever since her
mother went to the station for you." I had scarcely put my foot on the
steps, when she rushed toward me with such force that she would have
thrown me backward if Captain Keller had not been behind me. She felt
my face and dress and my bag, which she took out of my hand and tried to
open. It did not open easily, and she felt carefully to see if there was
a keyhole. Finding that there was, she turned to me, making the sign
of turning a key and pointing to the bag. Her mother interfered at this
point and showed Helen by signs that she must not touch the bag. Her
face flushed, and when her mother attempted to take the bag from her,
she grew very angry. I attracted her attention by showing her my watch
and letting her hold it in her hand. Instantly the tempest subsided, and
we went upstairs together. Here I opened the bag, and she went through
it eagerly, probably expecting to find something to eat. Friends had
probably brought her candy in their bags, and she expected to find some
in mine. I made her understand, by pointing to a trunk in the hall and
to myself and nodding my head, that I had a trunk, and then made the
sign that she had used for eating, and nodded again. She understood in a
flash and ran downstairs to tell her mother, by means of emphatic signs,
that there was some candy in a trunk for her. She returned in a few
minutes and helped me put away my things. It was too comical to see her
put on my bonnet and cock her head first on one side, then on the other,
and look in the mirror, just as if she could see. Somehow I had expected
to see a pale, delicate child--I suppose I got the idea from Dr. Howe's
description of Laura Bridgman when she came to the Institution. But
there's nothing pale or delicate about Helen. She is large, strong, and
ruddy, and as unrestrained in her movements as a young colt. She has
none of those nervous habits that are so noticeable and so distressing
in blind children. Her body is well formed and vigorous, and Mrs. Keller
says she has not been ill a day since the illness that deprived her
of her sight and hearing. She has a fine head, and it is set on her
shoulders just right. Her face is hard to describe. It is intelligent,
but lacks mobility, or soul, or something. Her mouth is large and finely
shaped. You see at a glance that she is blind. One eye is larger than
the other, and protrudes noticeably. She rarely smiles; indeed, I have
seen her smile only once or twice since I came. She is unresponsive and
even impatient of caresses from any one except her mother. She is very
quick-tempered and wilful, and nobody, except her brother James, has
attempted to control her. The greatest problem I shall have to solve is
how to discipline and control her without breaking her spirit. I shall
go rather slowly at first and try to win her love. I shall not attempt
to conquer her by force alone; but I shall insist on reasonable
obedience from the start. One thing that impresses everybody is Helen's
tireless activity. She is never still a moment. She is here, there, and
everywhere. Her hands are in everything; but nothing holds her attention
for long. Dear child, her restless spirit gropes in the dark. Her
untaught, unsatisfied hands destroy whatever they touch because they do
not know what else to do with things.

She helped me unpack my trunk when it came, and was delighted when
she found the doll the little girls sent her. I thought it a good
opportunity to teach her her first word. I spelled "d-o-l-l" slowly in
her hand and pointed to the doll and nodded my head, which seems to be
her sign for possession. Whenever anybody gives her anything, she points
to it, then to herself, and nods her head. She looked puzzled and felt
my hand, and I repeated the letters. She imitated them very well and
pointed to the doll. Then I took the doll, meaning to give it back to
her when she had made the letters; but she thought I meant to take it
from her, and in an instant she was in a temper, and tried to seize the
doll. I shook my head and tried to form the letters with her fingers;
but she got more and more angry. I forced her into a chair and held her
there until I was nearly exhausted. Then it occurred to me that it
was useless to continue the struggle--I must do something to turn the
current of her thoughts. I let her go, but refused to give up the doll.
I went downstairs and got some cake (she is very fond of sweets). I
showed Helen the cake and spelled "c-a-k-e" in her hand, holding the
cake toward her. Of course she wanted it and tried to take it; but
I spelled the word again and patted her hand. She made the letters
rapidly, and I gave her the cake, which she ate in a great hurry,
thinking, I suppose, that I might take it from her. Then I showed her
the doll and spelled the word again, holding the doll toward her as I
held the cake. She made the letters "d-o-l"' and I made the other "l"
and gave her the doll. She ran downstairs with it and could not be
induced to return to my room all day.

Yesterday I gave her a sewing-card to do. I made the first row of
vertical lines and let her feel it and notice that there were several
rows of little holes. She began to work delightedly and finished the
card in a few minutes, and did it very neatly indeed. I thought I would
try another word; so I spelled "c-a-r-d." She made the "c-a," then
stopped and thought, and making the sign for eating and pointing
downward she pushed me toward the door, meaning that I must go
downstairs for some cake. The two letters "c-a," you see, had reminded
her of Fridays "lesson"--not that she had any idea that cake was the
name of the thing, but it was simply a matter of association, I suppose.
I finished the word "c-a-k-e" and obeyed her command. She was delighted.
Then I spelled "d-o-l-l" and began to hunt for it. She follows with her
hands every motion you make, and she knew that I was looking for the
doll. She pointed down, meaning that the doll was downstairs. I made
the signs that she had used when she wished me to go for the cake,
and pushed her toward the door. She started forward, then hesitated a
moment, evidently debating within herself whether she would go or not.
She decided to send me instead. I shook my head and spelled "d-o-l-l"
more emphatically, and opened the door for her; but she obstinately
refused to obey. She had not finished the cake she was eating, and I
took it away, indicating that if she brought the doll I would give her
back the cake. She stood perfectly still for one long moment, her face
crimson; then her desire for the cake triumphed, and she ran downstairs
and brought the doll, and of course I gave her the cake, but could not
persuade her to enter the room again.

She was very troublesome when I began to write this morning. She kept
coming up behind me and putting her hand on the paper and into the
ink-bottle. These blots are her handiwork. Finally I remembered the
kindergarten beads, and set her to work stringing them. First I put on
two wooden beads and one glass bead, then made her feel of the string
and the two boxes of beads. She nodded and began at once to fill the
string with wooden beads. I shook my head and took them all off and made
her feel of the two wooden beads and the one glass bead. She examined
them thoughtfully and began again. This time she put on the glass bead
first and the two wooden ones next. I took them off and showed her that
the two wooden ones must go on first, then the glass bead. She had no
further trouble and filled the string quickly, too quickly, in fact.
She tied the ends together when she had finished the string, and put the
beads round her neck. I did not make the knot large enough in the next
string, and the beads came off as fast as she put them on; but she
solved the difficulty herself by putting the string through a bead and
tying it. I thought this very clever. She amused herself with the
beads until dinner-time, bringing the strings to me now and then for my
approval.

My eyes are very much inflamed. I know this letter is very carelessly
written. I had a lot to say, and couldn't stop to think how to express
things neatly. Please do not show my letter to any one. If you want to,
you may read it to my friends.


Monday P.M.

I had a battle royal with Helen this morning. Although I try very hard
not to force issues, I find it very difficult to avoid them.

Helen's table manners are appalling. She puts her hands in our plates
and helps herself, and when the dishes are passed, she grabs them and
takes out whatever she wants. This morning I would not let her put
her hand in my plate. She persisted, and a contest of wills followed.
Naturally the family was much disturbed, and left the room. I locked
the dining-room door, and proceeded to eat my breakfast, though the food
almost choked me. Helen was lying on the floor, kicking and screaming
and trying to pull my chair from under me. She kept this up for half an
hour, then she got up to see what I was doing. I let her see that I was
eating, but did not let her put her hand in the plate. She pinched me,
and I slapped her every time she did it. Then she went all round the
table to see who was there, and finding no one but me, she seemed
bewildered. After a few minutes she came back to her place and began to
eat her breakfast with her fingers. I gave her a spoon, which she threw
on the floor. I forced her out of the chair and made her pick it up.
Finally I succeeded in getting her back in her chair again, and held the
spoon in her hand, compelling her to take up the food with it and put
it in her mouth. In a few minutes she yielded and finished her breakfast
peaceably. Then we had another tussle over folding her napkin. When she
had finished, she threw it on the floor and ran toward the door. Finding
it locked, she began to kick and scream all over again. It was another
hour before I succeeded in getting her napkin folded. Then I let her out
into the warm sunshine and went up to my room and threw myself on the
bed exhausted. I had a good cry and felt better. I suppose I shall have
many such battles with the little woman before she learns the only two
essential things I can teach her, obedience and love.

Good-by, dear. Don't worry; I'll do my best and leave the rest to
whatever power manages that which we cannot. I like Mrs. Keller very
much.


Tuscumbia, Alabama, March 11, 1887.

Since I wrote you, Helen and I have gone to live all by ourselves in
a little garden-house about a quarter of a mile from her home, only a
short distance from Ivy Green, the Keller homestead. I very soon made up
my mind that I could do nothing with Helen in the midst of the family,
who have always allowed her to do exactly as she pleased. She has
tyrannized over everybody, her mother, her father, the servants, the
little <DW54>s who play with her, and nobody had ever seriously disputed
her will, except occasionally her brother James, until I came; and
like all tyrants she holds tenaciously to her divine right to do as she
pleases. If she ever failed to get what she wanted, it was because of
her inability to make the vassals of her household understand what it
was. Every thwarted desire was the signal for a passionate outburst, and
as she grew older and stronger, these tempests became more violent. As I
began to teach her, I was beset by many difficulties. She wouldn't yield
a point without contesting it to the bitter end. I couldn't coax her
or compromise with her. To get her to do the simplest thing, such as
combing her hair or washing her hands or buttoning her boots, it was
necessary to use force, and, of course, a distressing scene followed.
The family naturally felt inclined to interfere, especially her father,
who cannot bear to see her cry. So they were all willing to give in for
the sake of peace. Besides, her past experiences and associations were
all against me. I saw clearly that it was useless to try to teach her
language or anything else until she learned to obey me. I have thought
about it a great deal, and the more I think, the more certain I am that
obedience is the gateway through which knowledge, yes, and love, too,
enter the mind of the child. As I wrote you, I meant to go slowly at
first. I had an idea that I could win the love and confidence of my
little pupil by the same means that I should use if she could see and
hear. But I soon found that I was cut off from all the usual approaches
to the child's heart. She accepted everything I did for her as a matter
of course, and refused to be caressed, and there was no way of appealing
to her affection or sympathy or childish love of approbation. She would
or she wouldn't, and there was an end of it. Thus it is, we study, plan
and prepare ourselves for a task, and when the hour for action arrives,
we find that the system we have followed with such labour and pride does
not fit the occasion; and then there's nothing for us to do but rely on
something within us, some innate capacity for knowing and doing, which
we did not know we possessed until the hour of our great need brought it
to light.

I had a good, frank talk with Mrs. Keller, and explained to her how
difficult it was going to be to do anything with Helen under the
existing circumstances. I told her that in my opinion the child ought
to be separated from the family for a few weeks at least--that she must
learn to depend on and obey me before I could make any headway. After a
long time Mrs. Keller said that she would think the matter over and
see what Captain Keller thought of sending Helen away with me. Captain
Keller fell in with the scheme most readily and suggested that the
little garden-house at the "old place" be got ready for us. He said that
Helen might recognize the place, as she had often been there, but she
would have no idea of her surroundings, and they could come every day to
see that all was going well, with the understanding, of course, that she
was to know nothing of their visits. I hurried the preparations for our
departure as much as possible, and here we are.

The little house is a genuine bit of paradise. It consists of one large
square room with a great fireplace, a spacious bay-window, and a small
room where our servant, a little <DW64> boy, sleeps. There is a piazza in
front, covered with vines that grow so luxuriantly that you have to part
them to see the garden beyond. Our meals are brought from the house,
and we usually eat on the piazza. The little <DW64> boy takes care of the
fire when we need one, so I can give my whole attention to Helen.

She was greatly excited at first, and kicked and screamed herself into a
sort of stupor, but when supper was brought she ate heartily and seemed
brighter, although she refused to let me touch her. She devoted herself
to her dolls the first evening, and when it was bedtime she undressed
very quietly, but when she felt me get into bed with her, she jumped out
on the other side, and nothing that I could do would induce her to get
in again. But I was afraid she would take cold, and I insisted that she
must go to bed. We had a terrific tussle, I can tell you. The struggle
lasted for nearly two hours. I never saw such strength and endurance in
a child. But fortunately for us both, I am a little stronger, and quite
as obstinate when I set out. I finally succeeded in getting her on the
bed and covered her up, and she lay curled up as near the edge of the
bed as possible.

The next morning she was very docile, but evidently homesick. She kept
going to the door, as if she expected some one, and every now and then
she would touch her cheek, which is her sign for her mother, and shake
her head sadly. She played with her dolls more than usual, and would
have nothing to do with me. It is amusing and pathetic to see Helen with
her dolls. I don't think she has any special tenderness for them--I
have never seen her caress them; but she dresses and undresses them many
times during the day and handles them exactly as she has seen her mother
and the nurse handle her baby sister.

This morning Nancy, her favourite doll, seemed to have some difficulty
about swallowing the milk that was being administered to her in large
spoonfuls; for Helen suddenly put down the cup and began to slap her on
the back and turn her over on her knees, trotting her gently and patting
her softly all the time. This lasted for several minutes; then this mood
passed, and Nancy was thrown ruthlessly on the floor and pushed to one
side, while a large, pink-cheeked, fuzzy-haired member of the family
received the little mother's undivided attention.

Helen knows several words now, but has no idea how to use them, or that
everything has a name. I think, however, she will learn quickly enough
by and by. As I have said before, she is wonderfully bright and active
and as quick as lightning in her movements.


March 13, 1887.

You will be glad to hear that my experiment is working out finely. I
have not had any trouble at all with Helen, either yesterday or to-day.
She has learned three new words, and when I give her the objects, the
names of which she has learned, she spells them unhesitatingly; but she
seems glad when the lesson is over.

We had a good frolic this morning out in the garden. Helen evidently
knew where she was as soon as she touched the boxwood hedges, and made
many signs which I did not understand. No doubt they were signs for the
different members of the family at Ivy Green.

I have just heard something that surprised me very much. It seems that
Mr. Anagnos had heard of Helen before he received Captain Keller's
letter last summer. Mr. Wilson, a teacher at Florence, and a friend
of the Kellers', studied at Harvard the summer before and went to the
Perkins Institution to learn if anything could be done for his friend's
child. He saw a gentleman whom he presumed to be the director, and told
him about Helen. He says the gentleman was not particularly interested,
but said he would see if anything could be done. Doesn't it seem strange
that Mr. Anagnos never referred to this interview?


March 20, 1887.

My heart is singing for joy this morning. A miracle has happened!
The light of understanding has shone upon my little pupil's mind, and
behold, all things are changed!

The wild little creature of two weeks ago has been transformed into
a gentle child. She is sitting by me as I write, her face serene and
happy, crocheting a long red chain of Scotch wool. She learned the
stitch this week, and is very proud of the achievement. When she
succeeded in making a chain that would reach across the room, she patted
herself on the arm and put the first work of her hands lovingly against
her cheek. She lets me kiss her now, and when she is in a particularly
gentle mood, she will sit in my lap for a minute or two; but she does
not return my caresses. The great step--the step that counts--has been
taken. The little savage has learned her first lesson in obedience, and
finds the yoke easy. It now remains my pleasant task to direct and mould
the beautiful intelligence that is beginning to stir in the child-soul.
Already people remark the change in Helen. Her father looks in at us
morning and evening as he goes to and from his office, and sees her
contentedly stringing her beads or making horizontal lines on her
sewing-card, and exclaims, "How quiet she is!" When I came, her
movements were so insistent that one always felt there was something
unnatural and almost weird about her. I have noticed also that she eats
much less, a fact which troubles her father so much that he is anxious
to get her home. He says she is homesick. I don't agree with him; but I
suppose we shall have to leave our little bower very soon.

Helen has learned several nouns this week. "M-u-g" and "m-i-l-k," have
given her more trouble than other words. When she spells "milk," she
points to the mug, and when she spells "mug," she makes the sign for
pouring or drinking, which shows that she has confused the words. She
has no idea yet that everything has a name.

Yesterday I had the little <DW64> boy come in when Helen was having
her lesson, and learn the letters, too. This pleased her very much and
stimulated her ambition to excel Percy. She was delighted if he made
a mistake, and made him form the letter over several times. When he
succeeded in forming it to suit her, she patted him on his woolly head
so vigorously that I thought some of his slips were intentional.

One day this week Captain Keller brought Belle, a setter of which he
is very proud, to see us. He wondered if Helen would recognize her old
playmate. Helen was giving Nancy a bath, and didn't notice the dog at
first. She usually feels the softest step and throws out her arms to
ascertain if any one is near her. Belle didn't seem very anxious to
attract her attention. I imagine she has been rather roughly handled
sometimes by her little mistress. The dog hadn't been in the room more
than half a minute, however, before Helen began to sniff, and dumped
the doll into the wash-bowl and felt about the room. She stumbled
upon Belle, who was crouching near the window where Captain Keller was
standing. It was evident that she recognized the dog; for she put her
arms round her neck and squeezed her. Then Helen sat down by her and
began to manipulate her claws. We couldn't think for a second what she
was doing; but when we saw her make the letters "d-o-l-l" on her own
fingers, we knew that she was trying to teach Belle to spell.


March 28, 1887.

Helen and I came home yesterday. I am sorry they wouldn't let us
stay another week; but I think I have made the most I could of the
opportunities that were mine the past two weeks, and I don't expect that
I shall have any serious trouble with Helen in the future. The back of
the greatest obstacle in the path of progress is broken. I think "no"
and "yes," conveyed by a shake or a nod of my head, have become facts
as apparent to her as hot and cold or as the difference between pain and
pleasure. And I don't intend that the lesson she has learned at the cost
of so much pain and trouble shall be unlearned. I shall stand between
her and the over-indulgence of her parents. I have told Captain and Mrs.
Keller that they must not interfere with me in any way. I have done my
best to make them see the terrible injustice to Helen of allowing her to
have her way in everything, and I have pointed out that the processes of
teaching the child that everything cannot be as he wills it, are apt to
be painful both to him and to his teacher. They have promised to let me
have a free hand and help me as much as possible. The improvement they
cannot help seeing in their child has given them more confidence in me.
Of course, it is hard for them. I realize that it hurts to see their
afflicted little child punished and made to do things against her will.
Only a few hours after my talk with Captain and Mrs. Keller (and they
had agreed to everything), Helen took a notion that she wouldn't use
her napkin at table. I think she wanted to see what would happen. I
attempted several times to put the napkin round her neck; but each time
she tore it off and threw it on the floor and finally began to kick the
table. I took her plate away and started to take her out of the room.
Her father objected and said that no child of his should be deprived of
his food on any account.

Helen didn't come up to my room after supper, and I didn't see her again
until breakfast-time. She was at her place when I came down. She had put
the napkin under her chin, instead of pinning it at the back, as was her
custom. She called my attention to the new arrangement, and when I did
not object she seemed pleased and patted herself. When she left the
dining-room, she took my hand and patted it. I wondered if she was
trying to "make up." I thought I would try the effect of a little
belated discipline. I went back to the dining-room and got a napkin.
When Helen came upstairs for her lesson, I arranged the objects on the
table as usual, except that the cake, which I always give her in bits
as a reward when she spells a word quickly and correctly, was not there.
She noticed this at once and made the sign for it. I showed her the
napkin and pinned it round her neck, then tore it off and threw it on
the floor and shook my head. I repeated this performance several times.
I think she understood perfectly well; for she slapped her hand two or
three times and shook her head. We began the lesson as usual. I gave
her an object, and she spelled the name (she knows twelve now). After
spelling half the words, she stopped suddenly, as if a thought had
flashed into her mind, and felt for the napkin. She pinned it round her
neck and made the sign for cake (it didn't occur to her to spell the
word, you see). I took this for a promise that if I gave her some cake
she would be a good girl. I gave her a larger piece than usual, and she
chuckled and patted herself.


April 3, 1887.

We almost live in the garden, where everything is growing and blooming
and glowing. After breakfast we go out and watch the men at work. Helen
loves to dig and play in the dirt like any other child. This morning she
planted her doll and showed me that she expected her to grow as tall
as I. You must see that she is very bright, but you have no idea how
cunning she is.

At ten we come in and string beads for a few minutes. She can make a
great many combinations now, and often invents new ones herself. Then I
let her decide whether she will sew or knit or crochet. She learned to
knit very quickly, and is making a wash-cloth for her mother. Last week
she made her doll an apron, and it was done as well as any child of her
age could do it. But I am always glad when this work is over for the
day. Sewing and crocheting are inventions of the devil, I think. I'd
rather break stones on the king's highway than hem a handkerchief. At
eleven we have gymnastics. She knows all the free-hand movements and the
"Anvil Chorus" with the dumb-bells. Her father says he is going to fit
up a gymnasium for her in the pump-house; but we both like a good romp
better than set exercises. The hour from twelve to one is devoted to
the learning of new words. BUT YOU MUSTN'T THINK THIS IS THE ONLY TIME
I SPELL TO HELEN; FOR I SPELL IN HER HAND EVERYTHING WE DO ALL DAY LONG,
ALTHOUGH SHE HAS NO IDEA AS YET WHAT THE SPELLING MEANS. After dinner I
rest for an hour, and Helen plays with her dolls or frolics in the yard
with the little <DW54>s, who were her constant companions before I came.
Later I join them, and we make the rounds of the outhouses. We visit the
horses and mules in their stalls and hunt for eggs and feed the turkeys.
Often, when the weather is fine, we drive from four to six, or go to see
her aunt at Ivy Green or her cousins in the town. Helen's instincts are
decidedly social; she likes to have people about her and to visit her
friends, partly, I think, because they always have things she likes
to eat. After supper we go to my room and do all sorts of things until
eight, when I undress the little woman and put her to bed. She sleeps
with me now. Mrs. Keller wanted to get a nurse for her, but I concluded
I'd rather be her nurse than look after a stupid, lazy negress. Besides,
I like to have Helen depend on me for everything, AND I FIND IT MUCH
EASIER TO TEACH HER THINGS AT ODD MOMENTS THAN AT SET TIMES.

On March 31st I found that Helen knew eighteen nouns and three verbs.
Here is a list of the words. Those with a cross after them are words she
asked for herself: DOLL, MUG, PIN, KEY, DOG, HAT, CUP, BOX, WATER, MILK,
CANDY, EYE (X), FINGER (X), TOE (X), HEAD (X), CAKE, BABY, MOTHER, SIT,
STAND, WALK. On April 1st she learned the nouns KNIFE, FORK, SPOON,
SAUCER, TEA, PAPA, BED, and the verb RUN.


April 5, 1887.

I must write you a line this morning because something very important
has happened. Helen has taken the second great step in her education.
She has learned that EVERYTHING HAS A NAME, AND THAT THE MANUAL ALPHABET
IS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING SHE WANTS TO KNOW.

In a previous letter I think I wrote you that "mug" and "milk" had given
Helen more trouble than all the rest. She confused the nouns with the
verb "drink." She didn't know the word for "drink," but went through
the pantomime of drinking whenever she spelled "mug" or "milk." This
morning, while she was washing, she wanted to know the name for "water."
When she wants to know the name of anything, she points to it and pats
my hand. I spelled "w-a-t-e-r" and thought no more about it until after
breakfast. Then it occurred to me that with the help of this new word
I might succeed in straightening out the "mug-milk" difficulty. We went
out to the pump-house, and I made Helen hold her mug under the spout
while I pumped. As the cold water gushed forth, filling the mug, I
spelled "w-a-t-e-r" in Helen's free hand. The word coming so close upon
the sensation of cold water rushing over her hand seemed to startle her.
She dropped the mug and stood as one transfixed. A new light came into
her face. She spelled "water" several times. Then she dropped on the
ground and asked for its name and pointed to the pump and the trellis,
and suddenly turning round she asked for my name. I spelled "Teacher."
Just then the nurse brought Helen's little sister into the pump-house,
and Helen spelled "baby" and pointed to the nurse. All the way back to
the house she was highly excited, and learned the name of every object
she touched, so that in a few hours she had adDED THIRTY NEW WORDS TO
HER VOCABULARY. HERE ARE SOME OF THEM: DOOR, OPEN, SHUT, GIVE, GO, COME,
and a great many more.

P.S.--I didn't finish my letter in time to get it posted last night; so
I shall add a line. Helen got up this morning like a radiant fairy. She
has flitted from object to object, asking the name of everything and
kissing me for very gladness. Last night when I got in bed, she stole
into my arms of her own accord and kissed me for the first time, and I
thought my heart would burst, so full was it of joy.


April 10, 1887.

I see an improvement in Helen day to day, almost from hour to hour.
Everything must have a name now. Wherever we go, she asks eagerly for
the names of things she has not learned at home. She is anxious for her
friends to spell, and eager to teach the letters to every one she meets.
She drops the signs and pantomime she used before, as soon as she has
words to supply their place, and the acquirement of a new word affords
her the liveliest pleasure. And we notice that her face grows more
expressive each day.

I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO TRY TO HAVE REGULAR LESSONS FOR THE PRESENT. I AM
GOING TO TREAT HELEN EXACTLY LIKE A TWO-YEAR-OLD CHILD. IT OCCURRED
TO ME THE OTHER DAY THAT IT IS ABSURD TO REQUIRE A CHILD TO COME TO A
CERTAIN PLACE AT A CERTAIN TIME AND RECITE CERTAIN LESSONS, WHEN HE HAS
NOT YET ACQUIRED A WORKING VOCABULARY. I sent Helen away and sat down
to think. I asked myself, "How does a normal child learn language?" The
answer was simple, "By imitation." The child comes into the world with
the ability to learn, and he learns of himself, provided he is supplied
with sufficient outward stimulus. He sees people do things, and he
tries to do them. He hears others speak, and he tried to speak. BUT LONG
BEFORE HE UTTERS HIS FIRST WORD, HE UNDERSTANDS WHAT IS SAID TO HIM. I
have been observing Helen's little cousin lately. She is about fifteen
months old, and already understands a great deal. In response to
questions she points out prettily her nose, mouth, eye, chin, cheek,
ear. If I say, "Where is baby's other ear?" she points it out correctly.
If I hand her a flower, and say, "Give it to mamma," she takes it to
her mother. If I say, "Where is the little rogue?" she hides behind her
mother's chair, or covers her face with her hands and peeps out at me
with an expression of genuine roguishness. She obeys many commands
like these: "Come," "Kiss," "Go to papa," "Shut the door," "Give me
the biscuit." But I have not heard her try to say any of these words,
although they have been repeated hundreds of times in her hearing, and
it is perfectly evident that she understands them. These observations
have given me a clue to the method to be followed in teaching Helen
language.I SHALL TALK INTO HER HAND AS WE TALK INTO THE BABY'S EARS. I
shall assume that she has the normal child's capacity of assimilation
and imitation. I SHALL USE COMPLETE SENTENCES IN TALKING TO HER, and
fill out the meaning with gestures and her descriptive signs when
necessity requires it; but I shall not try to keep her mind fixed on any
one thing. I shall do all I can to interest and stimulate it, and wait
for results.


April 24, 1887.

The new scheme works splendidly. Helen knows the meaning of more than
a hundred words now, and learns new ones daily without the slightest
suspicion that she is performing a most difficult feat. She learns
because she can't help it, just as the bird learns to fly. But don't
imagine that she "talks fluently." Like her baby cousin, she expresses
whole sentences by single words. "Milk," with a gesture means, "Give me
more milk." "Mother," accompanied by an inquiring look, means, "Were is
mother?" "Go" means, "I want to go out." But when I spell into her hand,
"Give me some bread," she hands me the bread, or if I say, "Get your hat
and we will go to walk," she obeys instantly. The two words, "hat" and
"walk" would have the same effect; BUT THE WHOLE SENTENCE, REPEATED MANY
TIMES DURING THE DAY, MUST IN TIME IMPRESS ITSELF UPON THE BRAIN, AND BY
AND BY SHE WILL USE IT HERSELF.

We play a little game which I find most useful in developing the
intellect, and which incidentally answers the purpose of a language
lesson. It is an adaptation of hide-the-thimble. I hide something, a
ball or a spool, and we hunt for it. When we first played this game two
or three days ago, she showed no ingenuity at all in finding the object.
She looked in places where it would have been impossible to put the ball
or the spool. For instance, when I hid the ball, she looked under her
writing-board. Again, when I hid the spool, she looked for it in a
little box not more than an inch long; and she very soon gave up the
search. Now I can keep up her interest in the game for an hour or
longer, and she shows much more intelligence, and often great ingenuity
in the search. This morning I hid a cracker. She looked everywhere
she could think of without success, and was evidently in despair when
suddenly a thought struck her, and she came running to me and made me
open my mouth very wide, while she gave it a thorough investigation.
Finding no trace of the cracker there, she pointed to my stomach and
spelled "eat," meaning, "Did you eat it?"

Friday we went down town and met a gentleman who gave Helen some candy,
which she ate, except one small piece which she put in her apron pocket.
When we reached home, she found her mother, and of her own accord said,
"Give baby candy." Mrs. Keller spelled, "No--baby eat--no." Helen went
to the cradle and felt of Mildred's mouth and pointed to her own teeth.
Mrs. Keller spelled "teeth." Helen shook her head and spelled "Baby
teeth--no, baby eat--no," meaning of course, "Baby cannot eat because
she has no teeth."


May 8, 1887.

No, I don't want any more kindergarten materials. I used my little stock
of beads, cards and straws at first because I didn't know what else to
do; but the need for them is past, for the present at any rate.

I am beginning to suspect all elaborate and special systems of
education. They seem to me to be built up on the supposition that every
child is a kind of idiot who must be taught to think. Whereas, if
the child is left to himself, he will think more and better, if less
showily. Let him go and come freely, let him touch real things and
combine his impressions for himself, instead of sitting indoors at a
little round table, while a sweet-voiced teacher suggests that he build
a stone wall with his wooden blocks, or make a rainbow out of strips of
 paper, or plant straw trees in bead flower-pots. Such teaching
fills the mind with artificial associations that must be got rid
of, before the child can develop independent ideas out of actual
experiences.

Helen is learning adjectives and adverbs as easily as she learned nouns.
The idea always precedes the word. She had signs for SMALL and LARGE
long before I came to her. If she wanted a small object and was given a
large one, she would shake her head and take up a tiny bit of the skin
of one hand between the thumb and finger of the other. If she wanted to
indicate something large, she spread the fingers of both hands as wide
as she could, and brought them together, as if to clasp a big ball. The
other day I substituted the words SMALL and LARGE for these signs, and
she at once adopted the words and discarded the signs. I can now tell
her to bring me a large book or a small plate, to go upstairs slowly, to
run fast and to walk quickly. This morning she used the conjunction AND
for the first time. I told her to shut the door, and she added, "and
lock."

She came tearing upstairs a few minutes ago in a state of great
excitement. I couldn't make out at first what it was all about. She kept
spelling "dog--baby" and pointing to her five fingers one after another,
and sucking them. My first thought was, one of the dogs has hurt
Mildred; but Helen's beaming face set my fears at rest. Nothing would
do but I must go somewhere with her to see something. She led the way to
the pump-house, and there in the corner was one of the setters with five
dear little pups! I taught her the word "puppy" and drew her hand
over them all, while they sucked, and spelled "puppies." She was much
interested in the feeding process, and spelled "mother-dog" and "baby"
several times. Helen noticed that the puppies' eyes were closed, and
she said, "Eyes--shut. Sleep--no," meaning, "The eyes are shut, but the
puppies are not asleep." She screamed with glee when the little things
squealed and squirmed in their efforts to get back to their mother, and
spelled, "Baby--eat large." I suppose her idea was "Baby eats much." She
pointed to each puppy, one after another, and to her five fingers, and I
taught her the word FIVE. Then she held up one finger and said "baby."
I knew she was thinking of Mildred, and I spelled, "One baby and five
puppies." After she had played with them a little while, the thought
occurred to her that the puppies must have special names, like people,
and she asked for the name of each pup. I told her to ask her father,
and she said, "No--mother." She evidently thought mothers were more
likely to know about babies of all sorts. She noticed that one of the
puppies was much smaller than the others, and she spelled "small,"
making the sign at the same time, and I said "very small." She evidently
understood that VERY was the name of the new thing that had come into
her head; for all the way back to the house she used the word VERY
correctly. One stone was "small," another was "very small." When she
touched her little sister, she said: "Baby--small. Puppy--very small."
Soon after, she began to vary her steps from large to small, and little
mincing steps were "very small." She is going through the house now,
applying the new words to all kinds of objects.

Since I have abandoned the idea of regular lessons, I find that Helen
learns much faster. I am convinced that the time spent by the teacher
in digging out of the child what she has put into him, for the sake of
satisfying herself that it has taken root, is so much time thrown away.
IT'S MUCH BETTER, I THINK, TO ASSUME THAT THE CHILD IS DOING HIS PART,
AND THAT THE SEED YOU HAVE SOWN WILL BEAR FRUIT IN DUE TIME. It's only
fair to the child, anyhow, and it saves you much unnecessary trouble.


May 16, 1887.

We have begun to take long walks every morning, immediately after
breakfast. The weather is fine, and the air is full of the scent of
strawberries. Our objective point is Keller's Landing, on the Tennessee,
about two miles distant. We never know how we get there, or where we are
at a given moment; but that only adds to our enjoyment, especially when
everything is new and strange. Indeed, I feel as if I had never seen
anything until now, Helen finds so much to ask about along the way. We
chase butterflies, and sometimes catch one. Then we sit down under a
tree, or in the shade of a bush, and talk about it. Afterwards, if it
has survived the lesson, we let it go; but usually its life and beauty
are sacrificed on the altar of learning, though in another sense it
lives forever; for has it not been transformed into living thoughts? It
is wonderful how words generate ideas! Every new word Helen learns seems
to carry with it necessity for many more. Her mind grows through its
ceaseless activity.

Keller's Landing was used during the war to land troops, but has long
since gone to pieces, and is overgrown with moss and weeds. The solitude
of the place sets one dreaming. Near the landing there is a beautiful
little spring, which Helen calls "squirrel-cup," because I told her the
squirrels came there to drink. She has felt dead squirrels and rabbits
and other wild animals, and is anxious to see a "walk-squirrel,"
which interpreted, means, I think, a "live squirrel." We go home about
dinner-time usually, and Helen is eager to tell her mother everything
she has seen. THIS DESIRE TO REPEAT WHAT HAS BEEN TOLD HER SHOWS A
MARKED ADVANCE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF HER INTELLECT, AND IS AN INVALUABLE
STIMULUS TO THE ACQUISITION OF LANGUAGE. I ASK ALL HER FRIENDS TO
ENCOURAGE HER TO TELL THEM OF HER DOINGS, AND TO MANIFEST AS MUCH
CURIOSITY AND PLEASURE IN HER LITTLE ADVENTURES AS THEY POSSIBLY CAN.
This gratifies the child's love of approbation and keeps up her interest
in things. This is the basis of real intercourse. She makes many
mistakes, of course, twists words and phrases, puts the cart before the
horse, and gets herself into hopeless tangles of nouns and verbs; but so
does the hearing child. I am sure these difficulties will take care of
themselves. The impulse to tell is the important thing. I supply a word
here and there, sometimes a sentence, and suggest something which she
has omitted or forgotten. Thus her vocabulary grows apace, and the new
words germinate and bring forth new ideas; and they are the stuff out of
which heaven and earth are made.


May 22, 1887.

My work grows more absorbing and interesting every day. Helen is a
wonderful child, so spontaneous and eager to learn. She knows about 300
words now and A GREAT MANY COMMON IDIOMS, and it is not three months yet
since she learned her first word. It is a rare privilege to watch
the birth, growth, and first feeble struggles of a living mind; this
privilege is mine; and moreover, it is given me to rouse and guide this
bright intelligence.

If only I were better fitted for the great task! I feel every day more
and more inadequate. My mind is full of ideas; but I cannot get them
into working shape. You see, my mind is undisciplined, full of skips
and jumps, and here and there a lot of things huddled together in dark
corners. How I long to put it in order! Oh, if only there were some one
to help me! I need a teacher quite as much as Helen. I know that the
education of this child will be the distinguishing event of my life, if
I have the brains and perseverance to accomplish it. I have made up my
mind about one thing: Helen must learn to use books--indeed, we must
both learn to use them, and that reminds me--will you please ask Mr.
Anagnos to get me Perez's and Sully's Psychologies? I think I shall find
them helpful.

We have reading lessons every day. Usually we take one of the little
"Readers" up in a big tree near the house and spend an hour or two
finding the words Helen already knows. WE MAKE A SORT OF GAME OF IT and
try to see who can find the words most quickly, Helen with her fingers,
or I with my eyes, and she learns as many new words as I can explain
with the help of those she knows. When her fingers light upon words she
knows, she fairly screams with pleasure and hugs and kisses me for joy,
especially if she thinks she has me beaten. It would astonish you to see
how many words she learns in an hour in this pleasant manner. Afterward
I put the new words into little sentences in the frame, and sometimes it
is possible to tell a little story about a bee or a cat or a little boy
in this way. I can now tell her to go upstairs or down, out of doors
or into the house, lock or unlock a door, take or bring objects, sit,
stand, walk, run, lie, creep, roll, or climb. She is delighted with
action-words; so it is no trouble at all to teach her verbs. She is
always ready for a lesson, and the eagerness with which she absorbs
ideas is very delightful. She is as triumphant over the conquest of a
sentence as a general who has captured the enemy's stronghold.

One of Helen's old habits, that is strongest and hardest to correct, is
a tendency to break things. If she finds anything in her way, she flings
it on the floor, no matter what it is: a glass, a pitcher, or even a
lamp. She has a great many dolls, and every one of them has been broken
in a fit of temper or ennui. The other day a friend brought her a new
doll from Memphis, and I thought I would see if I could make Helen
understand that she must not break it. I made her go through the motion
of knocking the doll's head on the table and spelled to her: "No,
no, Helen is naughty. Teacher is sad," and let her feel the grieved
expression on my face. Then I made her caress the doll and kiss the hurt
spot and hold it gently in her arms, and I spelled to her, "Good Helen,
teacher is happy," and let her feel the smile on my face. She went
through these motions several times, mimicking every movement, then she
stood very still for a moment with a troubled look on her face, which
suddenly cleared, and she spelled, "Good Helen," and wreathed her face
in a very large, artificial smile. Then she carried the doll upstairs
and put it on the top shelf of the wardrobe, and she has not touched it
since.

Please give my kind regards to Mr. Anagnos and let him see my letter, if
you think best. I hear there is a deaf and blind child being educated at
the Baltimore Institution.


June 2, 1887.

The weather is scorching. We need rain badly. We are all troubled about
Helen. She is very nervous and excitable. She is restless at night and
has no appetite. It is hard to know what to do with her. The doctor says
her mind is too active; but how are we to keep her from thinking? She
begins to spell the minute she wakes up in the morning, and continues
all day long. If I refuse to talk to her, she spells into her own hand,
and apparently carries on the liveliest conversation with herself.

I gave her my braille slate to play with, thinking that the mechanical
pricking of holes in the paper would amuse her and rest her mind. But
what was my astonishment when I found that the little witch was writing
letters! I had no idea she knew what a letter was. She has often
gone with me to the post-office to mail letters, and I suppose I have
repeated to her things I wrote to you. She knew, too, that I sometimes
write "letters to blind girls" on the slate; but I didn't suppose that
she had any clear idea what a letter was. One day she brought me a sheet
that she had punched full of holes, and wanted to put it in an envelope
and take it to the post-office. She said, "Frank--letter." I asked
her what she had written to Frank. She replied, "Much words. Puppy
motherdog--five. Baby--cry. Hot. Helen walk--no. Sunfire--bad.
Frank--come. Helen--kiss Frank. Strawberries--very good."

Helen is almost as eager to read as she is to talk. I find she grasps
the import of whole sentences, catching from the context the meaning
of words she doesn't know; and her eager questions indicate the outward
reaching of her mind and its unusual powers.

The other night when I went to bed, I found Helen sound asleep with a
big book clasped tightly in her arms. She had evidently been reading,
and fallen asleep. When I asked her about it in the morning, she said,
"Book--cry," and completed her meaning by shaking and other signs of
fear. I taught her the word AFRAID, and she said: "Helen is not afraid.
Book is afraid. Book will sleep with girl." I told her that the book
wasn't afraid, and must sleep in its case, and that "girl" mustn't read
in bed. She looked very roguish, and apparently understood that I saw
through her ruse.

I am glad Mr. Anagnos thinks so highly of me as a teacher. But "genius"
and "originality" are words we should not use lightly. If, indeed, they
apply to me even remotely, I do not see that I deserve any laudation on
that account.

And right here I want to say something which is for your ears alone.
Something within me tells me that I shall succeed beyond my dreams. Were
it not for some circumstances that make such an idea highly improbable,
even absurd, I should think Helen's education would surpass in interest
and wonder Dr. Howe's achievement. I know that she has remarkable
powers, and I believe that I shall be able to develop and mould them. I
cannot tell how I know these things. I had no idea a short time ago how
to go to work; I was feeling about in the dark; but somehow I know
now, and I know that I know. I cannot explain it; but when difficulties
arise, I am not perplexed or doubtful. I know how to meet them; I seem
to divine Helen's peculiar needs. It is wonderful.

Already people are taking a deep interest in Helen. No one can see her
without being impressed. She is no ordinary child, and people's interest
in her education will be no ordinary interest. Therefore let us be
exceedingly careful what we say and write about her. I shall write
freely to you and tell you everything, on one condition: It is this:
you must promise never to show my letters to any one. My beautiful Helen
shall not be transformed into a prodigy if I can help it.


June 5, 1887.

The heat makes Helen languid and quiet. Indeed, the Tophetic weather
has reduced us all to a semi-liquid state. Yesterday Helen took off her
clothes and sat in her skin all the afternoon. When the sun got round to
the window where she was sitting with her book, she got up impatiently
and shut the window. But when the sun came in just the same, she came
over to me with a grieved look and spelled emphatically: "Sun is bad
boy. Sun must go to bed."

She is the dearest, cutest little thing now, and so loving! One day,
when I wanted her to bring me some water, she said: "Legs very tired.
Legs cry much."

She is much interested in some little chickens that are pecking their
way into the world this morning. I let her hold a shell in her hand, and
feel the chicken "chip, chip." Her astonishment, when she felt the tiny
creature inside, cannot be put in a letter. The hen was very gentle, and
made no objection to our investigations. Besides the chickens, we have
several other additions to the family--two calves, a colt, and a penful
of funny little pigs. You would be amused to see me hold a squealing
pig in my arms, while Helen feels it all over, and asks countless
questions--questions not easy to answer either. After seeing the chicken
come out of the egg, she asked: "Did baby pig grow in egg? Where are
many shells?"

Helen's head measures twenty and one-half inches, and mine measures
twenty-one and one-half inches. You see, I'm only one inch ahead!


June 12, 1887.

The weather continues hot. Helen is about the same--pale and thin; but
you mustn't think she is really ill. I am sure the heat, and not
the natural, beautiful activity of her mind, is responsible for her
condition. Of course, I shall not overtax her brain. We are bothered a
good deal by people who assume the responsibility of the world when God
is neglectful. They tell us that Helen is "overdoing," that her mind
is too active (these very people thought she had no mind at all a few
months ago!) and suggest many absurd and impossible remedies. But so far
nobody seems to have thought of chloroforming her, which is, I
think, the only effective way of stopping the natural exercise of her
faculties. It's queer how ready people always are with advice in any
real or imaginary emergency, and no matter how many times experience has
shown them to be wrong, they continue to set forth their opinions, as if
they had received them from the Almighty!

I am teaching Helen the square-hand letters as a sort of diversion.
It gives her something to do, and keeps her quiet, which I think is
desirable while this enervating weather lasts. She has a perfect mania
for counting. She has counted everything in the house, and is now busy
counting the words in her primer. I hope it will not occur to her to
count the hairs of her head. If she could see and hear, I suppose
she would get rid of her superfluous energy in ways which would not,
perhaps, tax her brain so much, although I suspect that the ordinary
child takes his play pretty seriously. The little fellow who whirls his
"New York Flyer" round the nursery, making "horseshoe curves" undreamed
of by less imaginative engineers, is concentrating his whole soul on his
toy locomotive.

She just came to say, with a worried expression, "Girl--not count
very large (many) words." I said, "No, go and play with Nancy." This
suggestion didn't please her, however; for she replied, "No. Nancy is
very sick." I asked what was the matter, and she said, "Much (many)
teeth do make Nancy sick." (Mildred is teething.)

I happened to tell her the other day that the vine on the fence was a
"creeper." She was greatly amused, and began at once to find analogies
between her movements and those of the plants. They run, creep, hop, and
skip, bend, fall, climb, and swing; but she tells me roguishly that she
is "walk-plant."

Helen held some worsted for me last night while I wound it. Afterward
she began to swing round and round, spelling to herself all the time,
"Wind fast, wind slow," and apparently enjoying her conceit very much.


June 15, 1887.

We had a glorious thunder-tempest last night, and it's much cooler
to-day. We all feel refreshed, as if we'd had a shower-bath. Helen's as
lively as a cricket. She wanted to know if men were shooting in the sky
when she felt the thunder, and if the trees and flowers drank all the
rain.


June 19, 1887.

My little pupil continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at
first. Her every waking moment is spent in the endeavour to satisfy her
innate desire for knowledge, and her mind works so incessantly that we
have feared for her health. But her appetite, which left her a few weeks
ago, has returned, and her sleep seems more quiet and natural. She will
be seven years old the twenty-seventh of this month. Her height is
four feet one inch, and her head measures twenty and one-half inches in
circumference, the line being drawn round the head so as to pass over
the prominences of the parietal and frontal bones. Above this line the
head rises one and one-fourth inches.

During our walks she keeps up a continual spelling, and delights to
accompany it with actions such as skipping, hopping, jumping, running,
walking fast, walking slow, and the like. When she drops stitches she
says, "Helen wrong, teacher will cry." If she wants water she says,
"Give Helen drink water." She knows four hundred words besides numerous
proper nouns. In one lesson I taught her these words: BEDSTEAD,
MATTRESS, SHEET, BLANKET, COMFORTER, SPREAD, PILLOW. The next day I
found that she remembered all but spread. The same day she had learned,
at different times, the words: hOUSE, WEED, DUST, SWING, MOLASSES, FAST,
SLOW, MAPLE-SUGAR and COUNTER, and she had not forgotten one of these
last. This will give you an idea of the retentive memory she possesses.
She can count to thirty very quickly, and can write seven of the
square-hand letters and the words which can be made with them. She seems
to understand about writing letters, and is impatient to "write Frank
letter." She enjoys punching holes in paper with the stiletto, and I
supposed it was because she could examine the result of her work; but we
watched her one day, and I was much surprised to find that she imagined
she was writing a letter. She would spell "Eva" (a cousin of whom she
is very fond) with one hand, then make believe to write it; then spell,
"sick in bed," and write that. She kept this up for nearly an hour.
She was (or imagined she was) putting on paper the things which had
interested her. When she had finished the letter she carried it to her
mother and spelled, "Frank letter," and gave it to her brother to
take to the post-office. She had been with me to take letters to the
post-office.

She recognizes instantly a person whom she has once met, and spells the
name. Unlike Laura Bridgman, she is fond of gentlemen, and we notice
that she makes friends with a gentleman sooner than with a lady.

She is always ready to share whatever she has with those about her,
often keeping but very little for herself. She is very fond of dress
and of all kinds of finery, and is very unhappy when she finds a hole in
anything she is wearing. She will insist on having her hair put in curl
papers when she is so sleepy she can scarcely stand. She discovered a
hole in her boot the other morning, and, after breakfast, she went to
her father and spelled, "Helen new boot Simpson (her brother) buggy
store man." One can easily see her meaning.


July 3, 1887.

There was a great rumpus downstairs this morning. I heard Helen
screaming, and ran down to see what was the matter. I found her in a
terrible passion. I had hoped this would never happen again. She has
been so gentle and obedient the past two months, I thought love had
subdued the lion; but it seems he was only sleeping. At all events,
there she was, tearing and scratching and biting Viney like some wild
thing. It seems Viney had attempted to take a glass, which Helen was
filling with stones, fearing that she would break it. Helen resisted,
and Viney tried to force it out of her hand, and I suspect that she
slapped the child, or did something which caused this unusual outburst
of temper. When I took her hand she was trembling violently, and began
to cry. I asked what was the matter, and she spelled: "Viney--bad,"
and began to slap and kick her with renewed violence. I held her hands
firmly until she became more calm.

Later Helen came to my room, looking very sad, and wanted to kiss me. I
said, "I cannot kiss naughty girl." She spelled, "Helen is good, Viney
is bad." I said: "You struck Viney and kicked her and hurt her. You were
very naughty, and I cannot kiss naughty girl." She stood very still
for a moment, and it was evident from her face, which was flushed and
troubled, that a struggle was going on in her mind. Then she said:
"Helen did (does) not love teacher. Helen do love mother. Mother will
whip Viney." I told her that she had better not talk about it any more,
but think. She knew that I was much troubled, and would have liked to
stay near me; but I thought it best for her to sit by herself. At
the dinner-table she was greatly disturbed because I didn't eat, and
suggested that "Cook make tea for teacher." But I told her that my heart
was sad, and I didn't feel like eating. She began to cry and sob and
clung to me.

She was very much excited when we went upstairs; so I tried to interest
her in a curious insect called a stick-bug. It's the queerest thing I
ever saw--a little bundle of fagots fastened together in the middle. I
wouldn't believe it was alive until I saw it move. Even then it looked
more like a mechanical toy than a living creature. But the poor little
girl couldn't fix her attention. Her heart was full of trouble, and she
wanted to talk about it. She said: "Can bug know about naughty girl? Is
bug very happy?" Then, putting her arms round my neck, she said: "I am
(will be) good to-morrow. Helen is (will be) good all days." I said,
"Will you tell Viney you are very sorry you scratched and kicked her?"
She smiled and answered, "Viney (can) not spell words." "I will tell
Viney you are very sorry," I said. "Will you go with me and find Viney?"
She was very willing to go, and let Viney kiss her, though she didn't
return the caress. She has been unusually affectionate since, and it
seems to me there is a sweetness-a soul-beauty in her face which I have
not seen before.


July 31, 1887.

Helen's pencil-writing is excellent, as you will see from the enclosed
letter, which she wrote for her own amusement. I am teaching her the
braille alphabet, and she is delighted to be able to make words herself
that she can feel.

She has now reached the question stage of her development. It is "what?"
"why?" "when?" especially "why?" all day long, and as her intelligence
grows her inquiries become more insistent. I remember how unbearable I
used to find the inquisitiveness of my friends' children; but I know now
that these questions indicate the child's growing interest in the cause
of things. The "why?" is the DOOR THROUGH WHICH HE ENTERS THE WORLD OF
REASON AND REFLECTION. "How does carpenter know to build house?" "Who
put chickens in eggs?" "Why is Viney black?" "Flies bite--why?" "Can
flies know not to bite?" "Why did father kill sheep?" Of course she asks
many questions that are not as intelligent as these. Her mind isn't more
logical than the minds of ordinary children. On the whole, her questions
are analogous to those that a bright three-year-old child asks; but her
desire for knowledge is so earnest, the questions are never tedious,
though they draw heavily upon my meager store of information, and tax my
ingenuity to the utmost.

I had a letter from Laura Bridgman last Sunday. Please give her my
love, and tell her Helen sends her a kiss. I read the letter at the
supper-table, and Mrs. Keller exclaimed: "My, Miss Annie, Helen writes
almost as well as that now!" It is true.


August 21, 1887.

We had a beautiful time in Huntsville. Everybody there was delighted
with Helen, and showered her with gifts and kisses. The first evening
she learned the names of all the people in the hotel, about twenty, I
think. The next morning we were astonished to find that she remembered
all of them, and recognized every one she had met the night before. She
taught the young people the alphabet, and several of them learned to
talk with her. One of the girls taught her to dance the polka, and a
little boy showed her his rabbits and spelled their names for her. She
was delighted, and showed her pleasure by hugging and kissing the little
fellow, which embarrassed him very much.

We had Helen's picture taken with a fuzzy, red-eyed little poodle, who
got himself into my lady's good graces by tricks and cunning devices
known only to dogs with an instinct for getting what they want.

She has talked incessantly since her return about what she did in
Huntsville, and we notice a very decided improvement in her ability
to use language. Curiously enough, a drive we took to the top of Monte
Sano, a beautiful mountain not far from Huntsville, seems to have
impressed her more than anything else, except the wonderful poodle.
She remembers all that I told her about it, and in telling her mother
REPEATED THE VERY WORDS AND PHRASES I HAD USED IN DESCRIBING IT TO HER.
In conclusion she asked her mother if she should like to see "very high
mountain and beautiful cloudcaps." I hadn't used this expression. I
said, "The clouds touch the mountain softly, like beautiful flowers."
You see, I had to use words and images with which she was familiar
through the sense of touch. But it hardly seems possible that any mere
words should convey to one who has never seen a mountain the faintest
idea of its grandeur; and I don't see how any one is ever to know what
impression she did receive, or the cause of her pleasure in what was
told her about it. All that we do know certainly is that she has a good
memory and imagination and the faculty of association.


August 28, 1887.

I do wish things would stop being born! "New puppies," "new calves" and
"new babies" keep Helen's interest in the why and wherefore of things at
white heat. The arrival of a new baby at Ivy Green the other day was the
occasion of a fresh outburst of questions about the origin of babies and
live things in general. "Where did Leila get new baby? How did doctor
know where to find baby? Did Leila tell doctor to get very small new
baby? Where did doctor find Guy and Prince?" (puppies) "Why is Elizabeth
Evelyn's sister?" etc., etc. These questions were sometimes asked under
circumstances which rendered them embarrassing, and I made up my mind
that something must be done. If it was natural for Helen to ask such
questions, it was my duty to answer them. It's a great mistake, I think,
to put children off with falsehoods and nonsense, when their growing
powers of observation and discrimination excite in them a desire to know
about things. From the beginning, I HAVE MADE IT A PRACTICE TO ANSWER
ALL HELEN'S QUESTIONS TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY IN A WAY INTELLIGIBLE
TO HER, and at the same time truthfully. "Why should I treat these
questions differently?" I asked myself. I decided that there was no
reason, except my deplorable ignorance of the great facts that underlie
our physical existence. It was no doubt because of this ignorance that
I rushed in where more experienced angels fear to tread. There isn't
a living soul in this part of the world to whom I can go for advice in
this, or indeed, in any other educational difficulty. The only thing for
me to do in a perplexity is to go ahead, and learn by making mistakes.
But in this case I don't think I made a mistake. I took Helen and my
Botany, "How Plants Grow," up in the tree, where we often go to read and
study, and I told her in simple words the story of plantlife. I reminded
her of the corn, beans and watermelon-seed she had planted in the
spring, and told her that the tall corn in the garden, and the beans and
watermelon vines had grown from those seeds. I explained how the earth
keeps the seeds warm and moist, until the little leaves are strong
enough to push themselves out into the light and air where they can
breathe and grow and bloom and make more seeds, from which other
baby-plants shall grow. I drew an analogy between plant and animal-life,
and told her that seeds are eggs as truly as hens' eggs and birds'
eggs--that the mother hen keeps her eggs warm and dry until the little
chicks come out. I made her understand that all life comes from an egg.
The mother bird lays her eggs in a nest and keeps them warm until the
birdlings are hatched. The mother fish lays her eggs where she knows
they will be moist and safe, until it is time for the little fish to
come out. I told her that she could call the egg the cradle of life.
Then I told her that other animals like the dog and cow, and human
beings, do not lay their eggs, but nourish their young in their own
bodies. I had no difficulty in making it clear to her that if plants and
animals didn't produce offspring after their kind, they would cease to
exist, and everything in the world would soon die. But the function of
sex I passed over as lightly as possible. I did, however, try to give
her the idea that love is the great continuer of life. The subject was
difficult, and my knowledge inadequate; but I am glad I didn't shirk
my responsibility; for, stumbling, hesitating, and incomplete as my
explanation was, it touched deep responsive chords in the soul of my
little pupil, and the readiness with which she comprehended the great
facts of physical life confirmed me in the opinion that the child has
dormant within him, when he comes into the world, all the experiences
of the race. These experiences are like photographic negatives, until
language develops them and brings out the memory-images.


September 4, 1887.

Helen had a letter this morning from her uncle, Doctor Keller. He
invited her to come to see him at Hot Springs. The name Hot Springs
interested her, and she asked many questions about it. She knows about
cold springs. There are several near Tuscumbia; one very large one
from which the town got its name. "Tuscumbia" is the Indian for "Great
Spring." But she was surprised that hot water should come out of the
ground. She wanted to know who made fire under the ground, and if it was
like the fire in stoves, and if it burned the roots of plants and trees.

She was much pleased with the letter, and after she had asked all the
questions she could think of, she took it to her mother, who was sewing
in the hall, and read it to her. It was amusing to see her hold it
before her eyes and spell the sentences out on her fingers, just as I
had done. Afterward she tried to read it to Belle (the dog) and Mildred.
Mrs. Keller and I watched the nursery comedy from the door. Belle was
sleepy, and Mildred inattentive. Helen looked very serious, and, once
or twice, when Mildred tried to take the letter, she put her hand away
impatiently. Finally Belle got up, shook herself, and was about to
walk away, when Helen caught her by the neck and forced her to lie down
again. In the meantime Mildred had got the letter and crept away with
it. Helen felt on the floor for it, but not finding it there, she
evidently suspected Mildred; for she made the little sound which is her
"baby call." Then she got up and stood very still, as if listening with
her feet for Mildred's "thump, thump." When she had located the sound,
she went quickly toward the little culprit and found her chewing the
precious letter! This was too much for Helen. She snatched the letter
and slapped the little hands soundly. Mrs. Keller took the baby in her
arms, and when we had succeeded in pacifying her, I asked Helen, "What
did you do to baby?" She looked troubled, and hesitated a moment before
answering. Then she said: "Wrong girl did eat letter. Helen did slap
very wrong girl." I told her that Mildred was very small, and didn't
know that it was wrong to put the letter in her mouth.

"I did tell baby, no, no, much (many) times," was Helen's reply.

I said, "Mildred doesn't understand your fingers, and we must be very
gentle with her."

She shook her head.

"Baby--not think. Helen will give baby pretty letter," and with that she
ran upstairs and brought down a neatly folded sheet of braille, on which
she had written some words, and gave it to Mildred, saying, "Baby can
eat all words."


September 18, 1887.

I do not wonder you were surprised to hear that I was going to write
something for the report. I do not know myself how it happened, except
that I got tired of saying "no," and Captain Keller urged me to do
it. He agreed with Mr. Anagnos that it was my duty to give others
the benefit of my experience. Besides, they said Helen's wonderful
deliverance might be a boon to other afflicted children.

When I sit down to write, my thoughts freeze, and when I get them on
paper they look like wooden soldiers all in a row, and if a live one
happens along, I put him in a strait-jacket. It's easy enough, however,
to say Helen is wonderful, because she really is. I kept a record of
everything she said last week, and I found that she knows six hundred
words. This does not mean, however, that she always uses them correctly.
Sometimes her sentences are like Chinese puzzles; but they are the kind
of puzzles children make when they try to express their half-formed
ideas by means of arbitrary language. She has the true language-impulse,
and shows great fertility of resource in making the words at her command
convey her meaning.

Lately she has been much interested in colour. She found the word
"brown" in her primer and wanted to know its meaning. I told her that
her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?" After we had
been all over the house, and I had told her the colour of everything
she touched, she suggested that we go to the hen-houses and barns; but
I told her she must wait until another day because I was very tired. We
sat in the hammock; but there was no rest for the weary there. Helen
was eager to know "more colour." I wonder if she has any vague idea of
colour--any reminiscent impression of light and sound. It seems as if a
child who could see and hear until her nineteenth month must retain some
of her first impressions, though ever so faintly. Helen talks a great
deal about things that she cannot know of through the sense of touch.
She asks many questions about the sky, day and night, the ocean and
mountains. She likes to have me tell her what I see in pictures.

But I seem to have lost the thread of my discourse. "What colour is
think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we swung to and
fro in the hammock. I told her that when we are happy our thoughts are
bright, and when we are naughty they are sad. Quick as a flash she said,
"My think is white, Viney's think is black." You see, she had an idea
that the colour of our thoughts matched that of our skin. I couldn't
help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of
her voice:

"I long to sit on dem jasper walls And see dem sinners stumble and
fall!"


October 3, 1887.

My account for the report is finished and sent off. I have two copies,
and will send you one; but you mustn't show it to anybody. It's Mr.
Anagnos's property until it is published.

I suppose the little girls enjoyed Helen's letter. She wrote it out of
her own head, as the children say.

She talks a great deal about what she will do when she goes to Boston.
She asked the other day, "Who made all things and Boston?" She says
Mildred will not go there because "Baby does cry all days."


October 25, 1887.

Helen wrote another letter to the little girls yesterday, and her father
sent it to Mr. Anagnos. Ask him to let you see it. She has begun to use
the pronouns of her own accord. This morning I happened to say, "Helen
will go upstairs." She laughed and said, "Teacher is wrong. You will
go upstairs." This is another great forward step. Thus it always is.
Yesterday's perplexities are strangely simple to-day, and to-day's
difficulties become to-morrow's pastime.

The rapid development of Helen's mind is beautiful to watch. I doubt if
any teacher ever had a work of such absorbing interest. There must have
been one lucky star in the heavens at my birth, and I am just beginning
to feel its beneficent influence.

I had two letters from Mr. Anagnos last week. He is more grateful for my
report than the English idiom will express. Now he wants a picture "of
darling Helen and her illustrious teacher, to grace the pages of the
forthcoming annual report."


October, 1887.

You have probably read, ere this, Helen's second letter to the little
girls. I am aware that the progress which she has made between the
writing of the two letters must seem incredible. Only those who are with
her daily can realize the rapid advancement which she is making in the
acquisition of language. You will see from her letter that she uses many
pronouns correctly. She rarely misuses or omits one in conversation. Her
passion for writing letters and putting her thoughts upon paper grows
more intense. She now tells stories in which the imagination plays an
important part. She is also beginning to realize that she is not like
other children. The other day she asked, "What do my eyes do?" I told
her that I could see things with my eyes, and that she could see them
with her fingers. After thinking a moment she said, "My eyes are bad!"
then she changed it into "My eyes are sick!"


Miss Sullivan's first report, which was published in the official report
of the Perkins Institution for the year 1887, is a short summary of what
is fully recorded in the letters. Here follows the last part, beginning
with the great day, April 5th, when Helen learned water.

In her reports Miss Sullivan speaks of "lessons" as if they came in
regular order. This is the effect of putting it all in a summary.
"Lesson" is too formal for the continuous daily work.


One day I took her to the cistern. As the water gushed from the pump I
spelled "w-a-t-e-r." Instantly she tapped my hand for a repetition, and
then made the word herself with a radiant face. Just then the nurse came
into the cistern-house bringing her little sister. I put Helen's hand
on the baby and formed the letters "b-a-b-y," which she repeated without
help and with the light of a new intelligence in her face.

On our way back to the house everything she touched had to be named for
her, and repetition was seldom necessary. Neither the length of the
word nor the combination of letters seems to make any difference to the
child. Indeed, she remembers HELIOTROPE and CHRYSANTHEMUM more readily
than she does shorter names. At the end of August she knew 625 words.

This lesson was followed by one on words indicative of place-relations.
Her dress was put IN a trunk, and then ON it, and these prepositions
were spelled for her. Very soon she learned the difference between ON
and IN, though it was some time before she could use these words in
sentences of her own. Whenever it was possible she was made the actor in
the lesson, and was delighted to stand ON the chair, and to be put INTO
the wardrobe. In connection with this lesson she learned the names
of the members of the family and the word IS. "Helen is in wardrobe,"
"Mildred is in crib," "Box is on table," "Papa is on bed," are specimens
of sentences constructed by her during the latter part of April.

Next came a lesson on words expressive of positive quality. For the
first lesson I had two balls, one made of worsted, large and soft, the
other a bullet. She perceived the difference in size at once. Taking
the bullet she made her habitual sign for SMALL--that is, by pinching
a little bit of the skin of one hand. Then she took the other ball and
made her sign for LARGE by spreading both hands over it. I substituted
the adjectives LARGE and SMALL for those signs. Then her attention was
called to the hardness of the one ball and the softness of the other,
and she learned SOFT and HARD. A few minutes afterward she felt of her
little sister's head and said to her mother, "Mildred's head is small
and hard." Next I tried to teach her the meaning of FAST and SLOW. She
helped me wind some worsted one day, first rapidly and afterward slowly.
I then said to her with the finger alphabet, "wind fast," or "wind
slow," holding her hands and showing her how to do as I wished. The next
day, while exercising, she spelled to me, "Helen wind fast," and began
to walk rapidly. Then she said, "Helen wind slow," again suiting the
action to the words.

I now thought it time to teach her to read printed words. A slip on
which was printed, in raised letters, the word BOX was placed on the
object, and the same experiment was tried with a great many articles,
but she did not immediately comprehend that the label-name represented
the thing. Then I took an alphabet sheet and put her finger on the
letter A, at the same time making A with my fingers. She moved her
finger from one printed character to another as I formed each letter on
my fingers. She learned all the letters, both capital and small, in one
day. Next I turned to the first page of the primer and made her touch
the word CAT, spelling it on my fingers at the same time. Instantly she
caught the idea, and asked me to find DOG and many other words. Indeed,
she was much displeased because I could not find her name in the
book. Just then I had no sentences in raised letters which she could
understand; but she would sit for hours feeling each word in her book.
When she touched one with which she was familiar, a peculiarly sweet
expression lighted her face, and we saw her countenance growing sweeter
and more earnest every day. About this time I sent a list of the words
she knew to Mr. Anagnos, and he very kindly had them printed for her.
Her mother and I cut up several sheets of printed words so that she
could arrange them into sentences. This delighted her more than anything
she had yet done; and the practice thus obtained prepared the way for
the writing lessons. There was no difficulty in making her understand
how to write the same sentences with pencil and paper which she made
every day with the slips, and she very soon perceived that she need not
confine herself to phrases already learned, but could communicate any
thought that was passing through her mind. I put one of the writing
boards used by the blind between the folds of the paper on the table,
and allowed her to examine an alphabet of the square letters, such as
she was to make. I then guided her hand to form the sentence, "Cat does
drink milk." When she finished it she was overjoyed. She carried it to
her mother, who spelled it to her.

Day after day she moved her pencil in the same tracks along the grooved
paper, never for a moment expressing the least impatience or sense of
fatigue.

As she had now learned to express her ideas on paper, I next taught her
the braille system. She learned it gladly when she discovered that she
could herself read what she had written; and this still affords her
constant pleasure. For a whole evening she will sit at the table writing
whatever comes into her busy brain; and I seldom find any difficulty in
reading what she has written.

Her progress in arithmetic has been equally remarkable. She can add and
subtract with great rapidity up to the sum of one hundred; and she knows
the multiplication tables as far as the FIVES. She was working recently
with the number forty, when I said to her, "Make twos." She replied
immediately, "Twenty twos make forty." Later I said, "Make fifteen
threes and count." I wished her to make the groups of threes and
supposed she would then have to count them in order to know what
number fifteen threes would make. But instantly she spelled the answer:
"Fifteen threes make forty-five."

On being told that she was white and that one of the servants was black,
she concluded that all who occupied a similar menial position were of
the same hue; and whenever I asked her the colour of a servant she would
say "black." When asked the colour of some one whose occupation she did
not know she seemed bewildered, and finally said "blue."

She has never been told anything about death or the burial of the body,
and yet on entering the cemetery for the first time in her life, with
her mother and me, to look at some flowers, she laid her hand on our
eyes and repeatedly spelled "cry--cry." Her eyes actually filled with
tears. The flowers did not seem to give her pleasure, and she was very
quiet while we stayed there.

On another occasion while walking with me she seemed conscious of the
presence of her brother, although we were distant from him. She spelled
his name repeatedly and started in the direction in which he was coming.

When walking or riding she often gives the names of the people we meet
almost as soon as we recognize them.


The letters take up the account again.

November 13, 1887.

We took Helen to the circus, and had "the time of our lives"! The circus
people were much interested in Helen, and did everything they could to
make her first circus a memorable event. They let her feel the animals
whenever it was safe. She fed the elephants, and was allowed to climb
up on the back of the largest, and sit in the lap of the "Oriental
Princess," while the elephant marched majestically around the ring. She
felt some young lions. They were as gentle as kittens; but I told her
they would get wild and fierce as they grew older. She said to the
keeper, "I will take the baby lions home and teach them to be mild." The
keeper of the bears made one big black fellow stand on his hind legs
and hold out his great paw to us, which Helen shook politely. She
was greatly delighted with the monkeys and kept her hand on the star
performer while he went through his tricks, and laughed heartily when
he took off his hat to the audience. One cute little fellow stole her
hair-ribbon, and another tried to snatch the flowers out of her hat. I
don't know who had the best time, the monkeys, Helen or the spectators.
One of the leopards licked her hands, and the man in charge of the
giraffes lifted her up in his arms so that she could feel their ears
and see how tall they were. She also felt a Greek chariot, and the
charioteer would have liked to take her round the ring; but she was
afraid of "many swift horses." The riders and clowns and rope-walkers
were all glad to let the little blind girl feel their costumes and
follow their motions whenever it was possible, and she kissed them all,
to show her gratitude. Some of them cried, and the wild man of Borneo
shrank from her sweet little face in terror. She has talked about
nothing but the circus ever since. In order to answer her questions, I
have been obliged to read a great deal about animals. At present I feel
like a jungle on wheels!


December 12, 1887.

I find it hard to realize that Christmas is almost here, in spite of the
fact that Helen talks about nothing else. Do you remember what a happy
time we had last Christmas?

Helen has learned to tell the time at last, and her father is going to
give her a watch for Christmas.

Helen is as eager to have stories told her as any hearing child I ever
knew. She has made me repeat the story of little Red Riding Hood so
often that I believe I could say it backward. She likes stories that
make her cry--I think we all do, it's so nice to feel sad when you've
nothing particular to be sad about. I am teaching her little rhymes and
verses, too. They fix beautiful thoughts in her memory. I think, too,
that they quicken all the child's faculties, because they stimulate
the imagination. Of course I don't try to explain everything. If I
did, there would be no opportunity for the play of fancy. TOO MUCH
EXPLANATION DIRECTS THE CHILD'S ATTENTION TO WORDS AND SENTENCES, SO
THAT HE FAILS TO GET THE THOUGHT AS A WHOLE. I do not think anyone can
read, or talk for that matter, until he forgets words and sentences in
the technical sense.


January 1, 1888.

It is a great thing to feel that you are of some use in the world,
that you are necessary to somebody. Helen's dependence on me for almost
everything makes me strong and glad.

Christmas week was a very busy one here, too. Helen is invited to all
the children's entertainments, and I take her to as many as I can.
I want her to know children and to be with them as much as possible.
Several little girls have learned to spell on their fingers and are very
proud of the accomplishment. One little chap, about seven, was persuaded
to learn the letters, and he spelled his name for Helen. She was
delighted, and showed her joy, by hugging and kissing him, much to his
embarrassment.

Saturday the school-children had their tree, and I took Helen. It was
the first Christmas tree she had ever seen, and she was puzzled, and
asked many questions. "Who made tree grow in house? Why? Who put many
things on tree?" She objected to its miscellaneous fruits and began to
remove them, evidently thinking they were all meant for her. It was not
difficult, however, to make her understand that there was a present for
each child, and to her great delight she was permitted to hand the gifts
to the children. There were several presents for herself. She placed
them in a chair, resisting all temptation to look at them until every
child had received his gifts. One little girl had fewer presents than
the rest, and Helen insisted on sharing her gifts with her. It was very
sweet to see the children's eager interest in Helen, and their readiness
to give her pleasure. The exercises began at nine, and it was one
o'clock before we could leave. My fingers and head ached; but Helen was
as fresh and full of spirit as when we left home.

After dinner it began to snow, and we had a good frolic and an
interesting lesson about the snow. Sunday morning the ground was
covered, and Helen and the cook's children and I played snowball. By
noon the snow was all gone. It was the first snow I had seen here, and
it made me a little homesick. The Christmas season has furnished many
lessons, and added scores of new words to Helen's vocabulary.

For weeks we did nothing but talk and read and tell each other stories
about Christmas. Of course I do not try to explain all the new words,
nor does Helen fully understand the little stories I tell her; but
constant repetition fixes the words and phrases in the mind, and little
by little the meaning will come to her. I SEE NO SENSE IN "FAKING"
CONVERSATION FOR THE SAKE OF TEACHING LANGUAGE. IT'S STUPID AND
DEADENING TO PUPIL AND TEACHER. TALK SHOULD BE NATURAL AND HAVE FOR ITS
OBJECT AN EXCHANGE OF IDEAS. If there is nothing in the child's mind to
communicate, it hardly seems worth while to require him to write on the
blackboard, or spell on his fingers, cut and dried sentences about
"the cat," "the bird," "a dog." I HAVE TRIED FROM THE BEGINNING TO TALK
NATURALLY TO HELEN AND TO TEACH HER TO TELL ME ONLY THINGS THAT INTEREST
HER AND ASK QUESTIONS ONLY FOR THE SAKE OF FINDING OUT WHAT SHE WANTS TO
KNOW. When I see that she is eager to tell me something, but is hampered
because she does not know the words, I supply them and the necessary
idioms, and we get along finely. The child's eagerness and interest
carry her over many obstacles that would be our undoing if we stopped to
define and explain everything. What would happen, do you think, if some
one should try to measure our intelligence by our ability to define
the commonest words we use? I fear me, if I were put to such a test,
I should be consigned to the primary class in a school for the
feeble-minded.

It was touching and beautiful to see Helen enjoy her first Christmas.
Of course, she hung her stocking--two of them lest Santa Claus should
forget one, and she lay awake for a long time and got up two or three
times to see if anything had happened. When I told her that Santa Claus
would not come until she was asleep, she shut her eyes and said,
"He will think girl is asleep." She was awake the first thing in the
morning, and ran to the fireplace for her stocking; and when she found
that Santa Claus had filled both stockings, she danced about for a
minute, then grew very quiet, and came to ask me if I thought Santa
Claus had made a mistake, and thought there were two little girls, and
would come back for the gifts when he discovered his mistake. The ring
you sent her was in the toe of the stocking, and when I told her you
gave it to Santa Claus for her, she said, "I do love Mrs. Hopkins." She
had a trunk and clothes for Nancy, and her comment was, "Now Nancy will
go to party." When she saw the braille slate and paper, she said, "I
will write many letters, and I will thank Santa Claus very much." It was
evident that every one, especially Captain and Mrs. Keller, was deeply
moved at the thought of the difference between this bright Christmas and
the last, when their little girl had no conscious part in the Christmas
festivities. As we came downstairs, Mrs. Keller said to me with tears in
her eyes, "Miss Annie, I thank God every day of my life for sending you
to us; but I never realized until this morning what a blessing you have
been to us." Captain Keller took my hand, but could not speak. But
his silence was more eloquent than words. My heart, too, was full of
gratitude and solemn joy.

The other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story
and asked her mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather.
Mrs. Keller replied, "He is dead." "Did father shoot him?" Helen
asked, and added, "I will eat grandfather for dinner." So far, her only
knowledge of death is in connection with things to eat. She knows that
her father shoots partridges and deer and other game.

This morning she asked me the meaning of "carpenter," and the question
furnished the text for the day's lesson. After talking about the various
things that carpenters make, she asked me, "Did carpenter make me?" and
before I could answer, she spelled quickly, "No, no, photographer made
me in Sheffield."

One of the greatest iron furnaces has been started in Sheffield, and
we went over the other evening to see them make a "run." Helen felt the
heat and asked, "Did the sun fall?"


January 9, 1888.

The report came last night. I appreciate the kind things Mr. Anagnos has
said about Helen and me; but his extravagant way of saying them rubs me
the wrong way. The simple facts would be so much more convincing! Why,
for instance, does he take the trouble to ascribe motives to me that I
never dreamed of? You know, and he knows, and I know, that my motive in
coming here was not in any sense philanthropic. How ridiculous it is to
say I had drunk so copiously of the noble spirit of Dr. Howe that I was
fired with the desire to rescue from darkness and obscurity the little
Alabamian! I came here simply because circumstances made it necessary
for me to earn my living, and I seized upon the first opportunity that
offered itself, although I did not suspect nor did he, that I had any
special fitness for the work.


January 26, 1888.

I suppose you got Helen's letter. The little rascal has taken it into
her head not to write with a pencil. I wanted her to write to her Uncle
Frank this morning, but she objected. She said: "Pencil is very tired in
head. I will write Uncle Frank braille letter." I said, "But Uncle Frank
cannot read braille." "I will teach him," she said. I explained that
Uncle Frank was old, and couldn't learn braille easily. In a flash she
answered, "I think Uncle Frank is much (too) old to read very small
letters." Finally I persuaded her to write a few lines; but she broke
her pencil six times before she finished it. I said to her, "You are
a naughty girl." "No," she replied, "pencil is very weak." I think her
objection to pencil-writing is readily accounted for by the fact that
she has been asked to write so many specimens for friends and strangers.
You know how the children at the Institution detest it. It is irksome
because the process is so slow, and they cannot read what they have
written or correct their mistakes.

Helen is more and more interested in colour. When I told her that
Mildred's eyes were blue, she asked, "Are they like wee skies?" A little
while after I had told her that a carnation that had been given her was
red, she puckered up her mouth and said, "Lips are like one pink."
I told her they were tulips; but of course she didn't understand the
word-play. I can't believe that the colour-impressions she received
during the year and a half she could see and hear are entirely lost.
Everything we have seen and heard is in the mind somewhere. It may be
too vague and confused to be recognizable, but it is there all the same,
like the landscape we lose in the deepening twilight.


February 10, 1888.

We got home last night. We had a splendid time in Memphis, but I didn't
rest much. It was nothing but excitement from first to last--drives,
luncheons, receptions, and all that they involve when you have an eager,
tireless child like Helen on your hands. She talked incessantly. I don't
know what I should have done, had some of the young people not learned
to talk with her. They relieved me as much as possible. But even then
I can never have a quiet half hour to myself. It is always: "Oh, Miss
Sullivan, please come and tell us what Helen means," or "Miss Sullivan,
won't you please explain this to Helen? We can't make her understand."
I believe half the white population of Memphis called on us. Helen was
petted and caressed enough to spoil an angel; but I do not think it
is possible to spoil her, she is too unconscious of herself, and too
loving.

The stores in Memphis are very good, and I managed to spend all the
money that I had with me. One day Helen said, "I must buy Nancy a very
pretty hat." I said, "Very well, we will go shopping this afternoon."
She had a silver dollar and a dime. When we reached the shop, I asked
her how much she would pay for Nancy's hat. She answered promptly, "I
will pay ten cents." "What will you do with the dollar?" I asked. "I
will buy some good candy to take to Tuscumbia," was her reply.

We visited the Stock Exchange and a steamboat. Helen was greatly
interested in the boat, and insisted on being shown every inch of it
from the engine to the flag on the flagstaff. I was gratified to read
what the Nation had to say about Helen last week.

Captain Keller has had two interesting letters since the publication of
the "Report," one from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, and the other from Dr.
Edward Everett Hale. Dr. Hale claims kinship with Helen, and seems very
proud of his little cousin. Dr. Bell writes that Helen's progress is
without a parallel in the education of the deaf, or something like that
and he says many nice things about her teacher.


March 5, 1888.

I did not have a chance to finish my letter yesterday. Miss Ev. came up
to help me make a list of words Helen has learned. We have got as far
as P, and there are 900 words to her credit. I had Helen begin a journal
March 1st.[Most of this journal was lost. Fortunately, however, Helen
Keller wrote so many letters and exercises that there is no lack of
records of that sort.] I don't know how long she will keep it up. It's
rather stupid business, I think. Just now she finds it great fun. She
seems to like to tell all she knows. This is what Helen wrote Sunday:

"I got up, washed my face and hands, combed my hair, picked three dew
violets for Teacher and ate my breakfast. After breakfast I played with
dolls short. Nancy was cross. Cross is cry and kick. I read in my book
about large, fierce animals. Fierce is much cross and strong and very
hungry. I do not love fierce animals. I wrote letter to Uncle James. He
lives in Hotsprings. He is doctor. Doctor makes sick girl well. I do not
like sick. Then I ate my dinner. I like much icecream very much. After
dinner father went to Birmingham on train far away. I had letter from
Robert. He loves me. He said Dear Helen, Robert was glad to get a letter
from dear, sweet little Helen. I will come to see you when the sun
shines. Mrs. Newsum is Robert's wife. Robert is her husband. Robert and
I will run and jump and hop and dance and swing and talk about birds and
flowers and trees and grass and Jumbo and Pearl will go with us. Teacher
will say, We are silly. She is funny. Funny makes us laugh. Natalie is a
good girl and does not cry. Mildred does cry. She will be a nice girl in
many days and run and play with me. Mrs. Graves is making short dresses
for Natalie. Mr. Mayo went to Duckhill and brought home many sweet
flowers. Mr. Mayo and Mr. Farris and Mr. Graves love me and Teacher.
I am going to Memphis to see them soon, and they will hug and kiss
me. Thornton goes to school and gets his face dirty. Boy must be very
careful. After supper I played romp with Teacher in bed. She buried me
under the pillows and then I grew very slow like tree out of ground.
Now, I will go to bed. HELEN KELLER."


April 16, 1888.

We are just back from church. Captain Keller said at breakfast this
morning that he wished I would take Helen to church. The Presbytery
would be there in a body, and he wanted the ministers to see Helen. The
Sunday-school was in session when we arrived, and I wish you could have
seen the sensation Helen's entrance caused. The children were so pleased
to see her at Sunday-school, they paid no attention to their teachers,
but rushed out of their seats and surrounded us. She kissed them all,
boys and girls, willing or unwilling. She seemed to think at first
that the children all belonged to the visiting ministers; but soon she
recognized some little friends among them, and I told her the ministers
didn't bring their children with them. She looked disappointed and said,
"I'll send them many kisses." One of the ministers wished me to ask
Helen, "What do ministers do?" She said, "They read and talk loud to
people to be good." He put her answer down in his note book. When it
was time for the church service to begin, she was in such a state of
excitement that I thought it best to take her away; but Captain Keller
said, "No, she will be all right." So there was nothing to do but stay.
It was impossible to keep Helen quiet. She hugged and kissed me, and the
quiet-looking divine who sat on the other side of her. He gave her his
watch to play with; but that didn't keep her still. She wanted to show
it to the little boy in the seat behind us. When the communion service
began, she smelt the wine, and sniffed so loud that every one in the
church could hear. When the wine was passed to our neighbour, he was
obliged to stand up to prevent her taking it away from him. I never was
so glad to get out of a place as I was to leave that church! I tried
to hurry Helen out-of-doors, but she kept her arm extended, and every
coat-tail she touched must needs turn round and give an account of the
children he left at home, and receive kisses according to their number.
Everybody laughed at her antics, and you would have thought they were
leaving a place of amusement rather than a church. Captain Keller
invited some of the ministers to dinner. Helen was irrepressible. She
described in the most animated pantomime, supplemented by spelling, what
she was going to do in Brewster. Finally she got up from the table and
went through the motion of picking seaweed and shells, and splashing
in the water, holding up her skirts higher than was proper under the
circumstances. Then she threw herself on the floor and began to swim
so energetically that some of us thought we should be kicked out of our
chairs! Her motions are often more expressive than any words, and she is
as graceful as a nymph.

I wonder if the days seem as interminable to you as they do to me. We
talk and plan and dream about nothing but Boston, Boston, Boston. I
think Mrs. Keller has definitely decided to go with us, but she will not
stay all summer.


May 15, 1888.

Do you realize that this is the last letter I shall write to you for
a long, long time? The next word that you receive from me will be in a
yellow envelope, and it will tell you when we shall reach Boston. I
am too happy to write letters; but I must tell you about our visit to
Cincinnati.

We spent a delightful week with the "doctors." Dr. Keller met us in
Memphis. Almost every one on the train was a physician, and Dr. Keller
seemed to know them all. When we reached Cincinnati, we found the place
full of doctors. There were several prominent Boston physicians among
them. We stayed at the Burnet House. Everybody was delighted with Helen.
All the learned men marveled at her intelligence and gaiety. There
is something about her that attracts people. I think it is her joyous
interest in everything and everybody.

Wherever she went she was the centre of interest. She was delighted
with the orchestra at the hotel, and whenever the music began she danced
round the room, hugging and kissing every one she happened to touch. Her
happiness impressed all; nobody seemed to pity her. One gentleman said
to Dr. Keller, "I have lived long and seen many happy faces; but I have
never seen such a radiant face as this child's before to-night." Another
said, "Damn me! but I'd give everything I own in the world to have
that little girl always near me." But I haven't time to write all the
pleasant things people said--they would make a very large book, and
the kind things they did for us would fill another volume. Dr. Keller
distributed the extracts from the report that Mr. Anagnos sent me, and
he could have disposed of a thousand if he had had them. Do you remember
Dr. Garcelon, who was Governor of Maine several years ago? He took us to
drive one afternoon, and wanted to give Helen a doll; but she said: "I
do not like too many children. Nancy is sick, and Adeline is cross, and
Ida is very bad." We laughed until we cried, she was so serious about
it. "What would you like, then?" asked the Doctor. "Some beautiful
gloves to talk with," she answered. The Doctor was puzzled. He had never
heard of "talking-gloves"; but I explained that she had seen a glove
on which the alphabet was printed, and evidently thought they could be
bought. I told him he could buy some gloves if he wished, and that I
would have the alphabet stamped on them.

We lunched with Mr. Thayer (your former pastor) and his wife. He asked
me how I had taught Helen adjectives and the names of abstract ideas
like goodness and happiness. These same questions had been asked me
a hundred times by the learned doctors. It seems strange that people
should marvel at what is really so simple. Why, it is as easy to teach
the name of an idea, if it is clearly formulated in the child's mind, as
to teach the name of an object. It would indeed be a herculean task to
teach the words if the ideas did not already exist in the child's mind.
If his experiences and observations hadn't led him to the concepts,
SMALL, LARGE, GOOD, BAD, SWEET, SOUR, he would have nothing to attach
the word-tags to.

I, little ignorant I, found myself explaining to the wise men of the
East and the West such simple things as these: If you give a child
something sweet, and he wags his tongue and smacks his lips and looks
pleased, he has a very definite sensation; and if, every time he has
this experience, he hears the word SWEET, or has it spelled into his
hand, he will quickly adopt this arbitrary sign for his sensation.
Likewise, if you put a bit of lemon on his tongue, he puckers up his
lips and tries to spit it out; and after he has had this experience a
few times, if you offer him a lemon, he shuts his mouth and makes faces,
clearly indicating that he remembers the unpleasant sensation. You label
it SOUR, and he adopts your symbol. If you had called these sensations
respectively BLACK and WHITE, he would have adopted them as readily; but
he would mean by BLACK and WHITE the same things that he means by SWEET
and SOUR. In the same way the child learns from many experiences to
differentiate his feelings, and we name them for him--GOOD, BAD, GENTLE,
ROUGH, HAPPY, SAD. It is not the word, but the capacity to experience
the sensation that counts in his education.


This extract from one of Miss Sullivan's letters is added because it
contains interesting casual opinions stimulated by observing the methods
of others.


We visited a little school for the deaf. We were very kindly received,
and Helen enjoyed meeting the children. Two of the teachers knew the
manual alphabet, and talked to her without an interpreter. They were
astonished at her command of language. Not a child in the school, they
said, had anything like Helen's facility of expression, and some of them
had been under instruction for two or three years. I was incredulous
at first; but after I had watched the children at work for a couple
of hours, I knew that what I had been told was true, and I wasn't
surprised. In one room some little tots were standing before the
blackboard, painfully constructing "simple sentences." A little girl
had written: "I have a new dress. It is a pretty dress. My mamma made my
pretty new dress. I love mamma." A curly-headed little boy was writing:
"I have a large ball. I like to kick my large ball." When we entered the
room, the children's attention was riveted on Helen. One of them pulled
me by the sleeve and said, "Girl is blind." The teacher was writing on
the blackboard: "The girl's name is Helen. She is deaf. She cannot see.
We are very sorry." I said: "Why do you write those sentences on the
board? Wouldn't the children understand if you talked to them
about Helen?" The teacher said something about getting the correct
construction, and continued to construct an exercise out of Helen. I
asked her if the little girl who had written about the new dress was
particularly pleased with her dress. "No," she replied, "I think not;
but children learn better if they write about things that concern them
personally." It seemed all so mechanical and difficult, my heart ached
for the poor little children. Nobody thinks of making a hearing child
say, "I have a pretty new dress," at the beginning. These children
were older in years, it is true, than the baby who lisps, "Papa kiss
baby--pretty," and fills out her meaning by pointing to her new dress;
but their ability to understand and use language was no greater.

There was the same difficulty throughout the school. In every classroom
I saw sentences on the blackboard, which evidently had been written to
illustrate some grammatical rule, or for the purpose of using words that
had previously been taught in the same, or in some other connection.
This sort of thing may be necessary in some stages of education; but it
isn't the way to acquire language. NOTHING, I THINK, CRUSHES THE
CHILD'S IMPULSE TO TALK NATURALLY MORE EFFECTUALLY THAN THESE BLACKBOARD
EXERCISES. The schoolroom is not the place to teach any young child
language, least of all the deaf child. He must be kept as unconscious as
the hearing child of the fact that he is learning words,AND HE SHOULD BE
ALLOWED TO PRATTLE ON HIS FINGERS, OR WITH HIS PENCIL, IN MONOSYLLABLES
IF HE CHOOSES, UNTIL SUCH TIME AS HIS GROWING INTELLIGENCE DEMANDS THE
SENTENCE. Language should not be associated in his mind with endless
hours in school, with puzzling questions in grammar, or with anything
that is an enemy to joy. But I must not get into the habit of
criticizing other people's methods too severely. I may be as far from
the straight road as they.


Miss Sullivan's second report brings the account down to October 1st,
1888.


During the past year Helen has enjoyed excellent health. Her eyes and
ears have been examined by specialists, and it is their opinion that she
cannot have the slightest perception of either light or sound.

It is impossible to tell exactly to what extent the senses of smell and
taste aid her in gaining information respecting physical qualities; but,
according to eminent authority, these senses do exert a great influence
on the mental and moral development. Dugald Stewart says, "Some of the
most significant words relating to the human mind are borrowed from the
sense of smell; and the conspicuous place which its sensations occupy in
the poetical language of all nations shows how easily and naturally they
ally themselves with the refined operations of the fancy and the moral
emotions of the heart." Helen certainly derives great pleasure from
the exercise of these senses. On entering a greenhouse her countenance
becomes radiant, and she will tell the names of the flowers with which
she is familiar, by the sense of smell alone. Her recollections of the
sensations of smell are very vivid. She enjoys in anticipation the
scent of a rose or a violet; and if she is promised a bouquet of these
flowers, a peculiarly happy expression lights her face, indicating that
in imagination she perceives their fragrance, and that it is pleasant to
her. It frequently happens that the perfume of a flower or the flavour
of a fruit recalls to her mind some happy event in home life, or a
delightful birthday party.

Her sense of touch has sensibly increased during the year, and has
gained in acuteness and delicacy. Indeed, her whole body is so finely
organized that she seems to use it as a medium for bringing herself
into closer relations with her fellow creatures. She is able not only to
distinguish with great accuracy the different undulations of the air and
the vibrations of the floor made by various sounds and motions, and to
recognize her friends and acquaintances the instant she touches their
hands or clothing, but she also perceives the state of mind of those
around her. It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing
to be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact
from her.

She observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation,
and she discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied
play of the muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle
pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the
firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost
infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in
interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions that she is often
able to divine our very thoughts.

In my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances where
she seemed to have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but
it now seems to me, after carefully considering the matter, that this
power may be explained by her perfect familiarity with the muscular
variations of those with whom she comes into contact, caused by their
emotions. She has been forced to depend largely upon this muscular sense
as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of those about her. She
has learned to connect certain movements of the body with anger, others
with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was out
walking with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which
startled Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements
instantly, and asked, "What are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while
walking on the Common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man
to the station-house. The agitation which I felt evidently produced a
perceptible physical change; for Helen asked, excitedly, "What do you
see?"

A striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while
her ears were being examined by the aurists in Cincinnati. Several
experiments were tried, to determine positively whether or not she had
any perception of sound. All present were astonished when she appeared
not only to hear a whistle, but also an ordinary tone of voice. She
would turn her head, smile, and act as though she had heard what was
said. I was then standing beside her, holding her hand. Thinking that
she was receiving impressions from me, I put her hands upon the table,
and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then
tried their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained
motionless through them all, not once showing the least sign that she
realized what was going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took
her hand, and the tests were repeated. This time her countenance changed
whenever she was spoken to, but there was not such a decided lighting up
of the features as when I had held her hand.

In the account of Helen last year it was stated that she knew nothing
about death, or the burial of the body; yet on entering a cemetery
for the first time in her life, she showed signs of emotion--her eyes
actually filling with tears.

A circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before
relating it, I will mention what she now knows with regard to death.
Even before I knew her, she had handled a dead chicken, or bird, or some
other small animal. Some time after the visit to the cemetery before
referred to, Helen became interested in a horse that had met with an
accident by which one of his legs had been badly injured, and she went
daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so much worse
that the horse was suspended from a beam. The animal groaned with pain,
and Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it
became necessary to kill him, and, when Helen next asked to go and see
him, I told her that he was DEAD. This was the first time that she had
heard the word. I then explained that he had been shot to relieve him
from suffering, and that he was now BURIED--put into the ground. I am
inclined to believe that the idea of his having been intentionally shot
did not make much impression upon her; but I think she did realize the
fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds she had
touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this
occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but
with no further explanation of its meaning.

While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied
my friend and me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after
another, and seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of
the flowers, but showed no desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered
a few for her, she refused to have them pinned on her dress. When her
attention was drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE
in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something,
then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is poor
little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted. Turning to
my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor little Florence?" Then
she added: "I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?" As she
continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery.
Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time
of her death; but Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she
even know that my friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed
and carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any
other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery,
she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and carried them to
my friend, saying, "They are poor little Florence's." This was true,
although we were at a loss to understand how she guessed it. A letter
written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an
account of her impression in her own words:

"I put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I take
them to ride in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead. She was very
sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got
in the ground, and she is very dirty, and she is cold. Florence was very
lovely like Sadie, and Mrs. H. kissed her and hugged her much. Florence
is very sad in big hole. Doctor gave her medicine to make her well, but
poor Florence did not get well. When she was very sick she tossed and
moaned in bed. Mrs. H. will go to see her soon."

Notwithstanding the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural
child. She is fond of fun and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other
children. She is never fretful or irritable, and I have never seen her
impatient with her playmates because they failed to understand her.
She will play for hours together with children who cannot understand a
single word she spells, and it is pathetic to watch the eager gestures
and excited pantomime through which her ideas and emotions find
expression. Occasionally some little boy or girl will try to learn the
manual alphabet. Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience,
sweetness, and perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers
of her little friend into proper position.

One day, while Helen was wearing a little jacket of which she was very
proud, her mother said: "There is a poor little girl who has no cloak
to keep her warm. Will you give her yours?" Helen began to pull off the
jacket, saying, "I must give it to a poor little strange girl."

She is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably
calls forth all the motherly instincts of her nature. She will handle
the baby as tenderly as the most careful nurse could desire. It is
pleasant, too, to note her thoughtfulness for little children, and her
readiness to yield to their whims.

She has a very sociable disposition, and delights in the companionship
of those who can follow the rapid motions of her fingers; but if left
alone she will amuse herself for hours at a time with her knitting or
sewing.

She reads a great deal. She bends over her book with a look of intense
interest, and as the forefinger of her left hand runs along the line,
she spells out the words with the other hand; but often her motions are
so rapid as to be unintelligible even to those accustomed to reading the
swift and varied movements of her fingers.

Every shade of feeling finds expression through her mobile features.
Her behaviour is easy and natural, and it is charming because of its
frankness and evident sincerity. Her heart is too full of unselfishness
and affection to allow a dream of fear or unkindness. She does not
realize that one can be anything but kind-hearted and tender. She is
not conscious of any reason why she should be awkward; consequently, her
movements are free and graceful.

She is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have
them unkindly treated. When she is riding in the carriage she will not
allow the driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will
cry." One morning she was greatly distressed by finding that one of the
dogs had a block fastened to her collar. We explained that it was
done to keep Pearl from running away. Helen expressed a great deal of
sympathy, and at every opportunity during the day she would find Pearl
and carry the burden from place to place.

Her father wrote to her last summer that the birds and bees were eating
all his grapes. At first she was very indignant, and said the little
creatures were "very wrong"; but she seemed pleased when I explained to
her that the birds and bees were hungry, and did not know that it was
selfish to eat all the fruit. In a letter written soon afterward she
says:

"I am very sorry that bumblebees and hornets and birds and large flies
and worms are eating all of my father's delicious grapes. They like
juicy fruit to eat as well as people, and they are hungry. They are not
very wrong to eat too many grapes because they do not know much."

She continues to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language
as her experiences increase. While these were few and elementary, her
vocabulary was necessarily limited; but, as she learns more of the world
about her, her judgment grows more accurate, her reasoning powers
grow stronger, more active and subtle, and the language by which she
expresses this intellectual activity gains in fluency and logic.

When traveling she drinks in thought and language. Sitting beside her
in the car, I describe what I see from the window--hills and valleys and
the rivers; cotton-fields and gardens in which strawberries, peaches,
pears, melons, and vegetables are growing; herds of cows and horses
feeding in broad meadows, and flocks of sheep on the hillside; the
cities with their churches and schools, hotels and warehouses, and the
occupations of the busy people. While I am communicating these things,
Helen manifests intense interest; and, in default of words, she
indicates by gestures and pantomime her desire to learn more of her
surroundings and of the great forces which are operating everywhere.
In this way, she learns countless new expressions without any apparent
effort.

From the day when Helen first grasped the idea that all objects have
names, and that these can be communicated by certain movements of the
fingers, I have talked to her exactly as I should have done had she been
able to hear, with only this exception, that I have addressed the words
to her fingers instead of to her ears. Naturally, there was at first
a strong tendency on her part to use only the important words in a
sentence. She would say: "Helen milk." I got the milk to show her that
she had used the correct word; but I did not let her drink it until she
had, with my assistance, made a complete sentence, as "Give Helen some
milk to drink." In these early lessons I encouraged her in the use of
different forms of expression for conveying the same idea. If she was
eating some candy, I said: "Will Helen please give teacher some candy?"
or, "Teacher would like to eat some of Helen's candy," emphasizing the
's. She very soon perceived that the same idea could be expressed in a
great many ways. In two or three months after I began to teach her she
would say: "Helen wants to go to bed," or, "Helen is sleepy, and Helen
will go to bed."

I am constantly asked the question, "How did you teach her the meaning
of words expressive of intellectual and moral qualities?" I believe it
was more through association and repetition than through any explanation
of mine. This is especially true of her earlier lessons, when her
knowledge of language was so slight as to make explanation impossible.

I always made it a practice to use the words descriptive of emotions,
of intellectual or moral qualities and actions, in connection with the
circumstance which required these words. Soon after I became her teacher
Helen broke her new doll, of which she was very fond. She began to cry.
I said to her, "Teacher is SORRY." After a few repetitions she came to
associate the word with the feeling.

The word HAPPY she learned in the same way; ALSO, RIGHT, WRONG, GOOD,
BAD, and other adjectives. The word LOVE she learned as other children
do--by its association with caresses.

One day I asked her a simple question in a combination of numbers, which
I was sure she knew. She answered at random. I checked her, and she
stood still, the expression of her face plainly showing that she was
trying to think. I touched her forehead, and spelled "t-h-i-n-k." The
word, thus connected with the act, seemed to impress itself on her mind
much as if I had placed her hand upon an object and then spelled its
name. Since that time she has always used the word THINK.

At a later period I began to use such words as PERHAPS, SUPPOSE, EXPECT,
FORGET, REMEMBER. If Helen asked, "Where is mother now?" I replied: "I
do not know. PERHAPS she is with Leila."

She is always anxious to learn the names of people we meet in the
horse-cars or elsewhere, and to know where they are going, and what they
will do. Conversations of this kind are frequent:

HELEN. What is little boy's name?

TEACHER. I do not know, for he is a little stranger; but PERHAPS his
name is Jack.

HELEN. Where is he going?

TEACHER. He MAY BE going to the Common to have fun with other boys.

HELEN. What will he play?

TEACHER. I SUPPOSE he will play ball.

HELEN. What are boys doing now?

TEACHER. PERHAPS they are expecting Jack, and are waiting for him.

After the words have become familiar to her, she uses them in
composition.


September 26, [1888].

"This morning teacher and I sat by the window and we saw a little boy
walking on the sidewalk. It was raining very hard and he had a very
large umbrella to keep off the rain-drops.

"I do not know how old he was but THINK he MAY HAVE BEEN six years old.
PERHAPS his name was Joe. I do not know where he was going because he
was a little strange boy. But PERHAPS his mother sent him to a store
to buy something for dinner. He had a bag in one hand. I SUPPOSE he was
going to take it to his mother."

In teaching her the use of language, I have not confined myself to any
particular theory or system. I have observed the spontaneous movements
of my pupil's mind, and have tried to follow the suggestions thus given
to me.

Owing to the nervousness of Helen's temperament, every precaution has
been taken to avoid unduly exciting her already very active brain.
The greater part of the year has been spent in travel and in visits
to different places, and her lessons have been those suggested by
the various scenes and experiences through which she has passed. She
continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at first. It is
never necessary to urge her to study. Indeed, I am often obliged to coax
her to leave an example or a composition.

While not confining myself to any special system of instruction, I have
tried to add to her general information and intelligence, to enlarge
her acquaintance with things around her, and to bring her into easy and
natural relations with people. I have encouraged her to keep a diary,
from which the following selection has been made:


"March 22nd, 1888.

"Mr. Anagnos came to see me Thursday. I was glad to hug and kiss him. He
takes care of sixty little blind girls and seventy little blind boys. I
do love them. Little blind girls sent me a pretty work-basket. I found
scissors and thread, and needle-book with many needles in it, and
crochet hook and emery, and thimble, and box, and yard measure and
buttons, and pin-cushion. I will write little blind girls a letter to
thank them. I will make pretty clothes for Nancy and Adeline and Allie.
I will go to Cincinnati in May and buy another child. Then I will have
four children. New baby's name is Harry. Mr. Wilson and Mr. Mitchell
came to see us Sunday. Mr. Anagnos went to Louisville Monday to see
little blind children. Mother went to Huntsville. I slept with father,
and Mildred slept with teacher. I did learn about calm. It does mean
quiet and happy. Uncle Morrie sent me pretty stories. I read about
birds. The quail lays fifteen or twenty eggs and they are white. She
makes her nest on the ground. The blue-bird makes her nest in a hollow
tree and her eggs are blue. The robin's eggs are green. I learned a song
about spring. March, April, May are spring.

Now melts the snow. The warm winds blow The waters flow And robin dear,
Is come to show That Spring is here.


"James killed snipes for breakfast. Little chickens did get very cold
and die. I am sorry. Teacher and I went to ride on Tennessee River, in
a boat. I saw Mr. Wilson and James row with oars. Boat did glide swiftly
and I put hand in water and felt it flowing.

"I caught fish with hook and line and pole. We climbed high hill and
teacher fell and hurt her head. I ate very small fish for supper. I did
read about cow and calf. The cow loves to eat grass as well as girl does
bread and butter and milk. Little calf does run and leap in field. She
likes to skip and play, for she is happy when the sun is bright and
warm. Little boy did love his calf. And he did say, I will kiss you,
little calf, and he put his arms around calf's neck and kissed her. The
calf licked good boy's face with long rough tongue. Calf must not open
mouth much to kiss. I am tired, and teacher does not want me to write
more."

In the autumn she went to a circus. While we were standing before
his cage the lion roared, and Helen felt the vibration of the air so
distinctly that she was able to reproduce the noise quite accurately.

I tried to describe to her the appearance of a camel; but, as we were
not allowed to touch the animal, I feared that she did not get a correct
idea of its shape. A few days afterward, however, hearing a commotion in
the schoolroom, I went in and found Helen on all fours with a pillow so
strapped upon her back as to leave a hollow in the middle, thus making a
hump on either side. Between these humps she had placed her doll, which
she was giving a ride around the room. I watched her for some time as
she moved about, trying to take long strides in order to carry out the
idea I had given her of a camel's gait. When I asked her what she was
doing, she replied, "I am a very funny camel."


During the next two years neither Mr. Anagnos, who was in Europe for
a year, nor Miss Sullivan wrote anything about Helen Keller for
publication. In 1892 appeared the Perkins Institution report for
1891, containing a full account of Helen Keller, including many of her
letters, exercises, and compositions. As some of the letters and the
story of the "Frost King" are published here, there is no need of
printing any more samples of Helen Keller's writing during the third,
fourth and fifth years of her education. It was the first two years
that counted. From Miss Sullivan's part of this report I give her most
important comments and such biographical matter as does not appear
elsewhere in the present volume.


These extracts Mr. Anagnos took from Miss Sullivan's notes and
memoranda.


One day, while her pony and her donkey were standing side by side, Helen
went from one to the other, examining them closely. At last she paused
with her hand upon Neddy's head, and addressed him thus: "Yes, dear
Neddy, it is true that you are not as beautiful as Black Beauty. Your
body is not so handsomely formed, and there is no proud look in your
face, and your neck does not arch, Besides, your long ears make you look
a little funny. Of course, you cannot help it, and I love you just as
well as if you were the most beautiful creature in the world."

Helen has been greatly interested in the story of "Black Beauty." To
show how quickly she perceives and associates ideas, I will give an
instance which all who have read the book will be able to appreciate. I
was reading the following paragraph to her:

"The horse was an old, worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and
bones that showed plainly through it; the knees knuckled over, and the
forelegs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind
rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her
long, thin neck and picked it up, and then turned round and looked about
for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not
help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse
before, she looked full at me and said, 'Black Beauty, is that you?'"

At this point Helen pressed my hand to stop me. She was sobbing
convulsively. "It was poor Ginger," was all she could say at first.
Later, when she was able to talk about it, she said: "Poor Ginger! The
words made a distinct picture in my mind. I could see the way Ginger
looked; all her beauty gone, her beautiful arched neck drooping, all the
spirit gone out of her flashing eyes, all the playfulness gone out of
her manner. Oh, how terrible it was! I never knew before that there
could be such a change in anything. There were very few spots of
sunshine in poor Ginger's life, and the sadnesses were so many!" After a
moment she added, mournfully, "I fear some people's lives are just like
Ginger's."

This morning Helen was reading for the first time Bryant's poem, "Oh,
mother of a mighty race!" I said to her, "Tell me, when you have read
the poem through, who you think the mother is." When she came to the
line, "There's freedom at thy gates, and rest," she exclaimed: "It means
America! The gate, I suppose, is New York City, and Freedom is the great
statue of Liberty." After she had read "The Battlefield," by the same
author, I asked her which verse she thought was the most beautiful. She
replied, "I like this verse best:

'Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; The eternal years of God
are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his
worshipers.'"

She is at once transported into the midst of the events of a story. She
rejoices when justice wins, she is sad when virtue lies low, and
her face glows with admiration and reverence when heroic deeds are
described. She even enters into the spirit of battle; she says, "I think
it is right for men to fight against wrongs and tyrants."


Here begins Miss Sullivan's connected account in the report of 1891:

During the past three years Helen has continued to make rapid progress
in the acquisition of language. She has one advantage over ordinary
children, that nothing from without distracts her attention from her
studies.

But this advantage involves a corresponding disadvantage, the danger of
unduly severe mental application. Her mind is so constituted that she
is in a state of feverish unrest while conscious that there is something
that she does not comprehend. I have never known her to be willing to
leave a lesson when she felt that there was anything in it which she did
not understand. If I suggest her leaving a problem in arithmetic until
the next day, she answers, "I think it will make my mind stronger to do
it now."

A few evenings ago we were discussing the tariff. Helen wanted me to
tell her about it. I said: "No. You cannot understand it yet." She was
quiet for a moment, and then asked, with spirit: "How do you know that I
cannot understand? I have a good mind! You must remember, dear teacher,
that Greek parents were very particular with their children, and they
used to let them listen to wise words, and I think they understood
some of them." I have found it best not to tell her that she cannot
understand, because she is almost certain to become excited.

Not long ago I tried to show her how to build a tower with her blocks.
As the design was somewhat complicated, the slightest jar made the
structure fall. After a time I became discouraged, and told her I was
afraid she could not make it stand, but that I would build it for her;
but she did not approve of this plan. She was determined to build the
tower herself; and for nearly three hours she worked away, patiently
gathering up the blocks whenever they fell, and beginning over again,
until at last her perseverance was crowned with success. The tower stood
complete in every part.

Until October, 1889, I had not deemed it best to confine Helen to any
regular and systematic course of study. For the first two years of
her intellectual life she was like a child in a strange country, where
everything was new and perplexing; and, until she gained a knowledge
of language, it was not possible to give her a definite course of
instruction.

Moreover, Helen's inquisitiveness was so great during these years
that it would have interfered with her progress in the acquisition of
language, if a consideration of the questions which were constantly
occurring to her had been deferred until the completion of a lesson.
In all probability she would have forgotten the question, and a good
opportunity to explain something of real interest to her would have
been lost. Therefore it has always seemed best to me to teach anything
whenever my pupil needed to know it, whether it had any bearing on the
projected lesson or not, her inquiries have often led us far away from
the subject under immediate consideration.

Since October, 1889, her work has been more regular and has included
arithmetic, geography, zoology, botany and reading.

She has made considerable progress in the study of arithmetic. She
readily explains the processes of multiplication, addition, subtraction,
and division, and seems to understand the operations. She has nearly
finished Colburn's mental arithmetic, her last work being in improper
fractions. She has also done some good work in written arithmetic. Her
mind works so rapidly, that it often happens, that when I give her an
example she will give me the correct answer before I have time to write
out the question. She pays little attention to the language used in
stating a problem, and seldom stops to ask the meaning of unknown words
or phrases until she is ready to explain her work. Once, when a question
puzzled her very much, I suggested that we take a walk and then perhaps
she would understand it. She shook her head decidedly, and said: "My
enemies would think I was running away. I must stay and conquer them
now," and she did.

The intellectual improvement which Helen has made in the past two years
is shown more clearly in her greater command of language and in her
ability to recognize nicer shades of meaning in the use of words, than
in any other branch of her education.

Not a day passes that she does not learn many new words, nor are these
merely the names of tangible and sensible objects. For instance, she
one day wished to know the meaning of the following words: PHENOMENON,
COMPRISE, ENERGY, REPRODUCTION, EXTRAORDINARY, PERPETUAL and MYSTERY.
Some of these words have successive steps of meaning, beginning with
what is simple and leading on to what is abstract. It would have been a
hopeless task to make Helen comprehend the more abstruse meanings of
the word MYSTERY, but she understood readily that it signified something
hidden or concealed, and when she makes greater progress she will
grasp its more abstruse meaning as easily as she now does the simpler
signification. In investigating any subject there must occur at the
beginning words and phrases which cannot be adequately understood until
the pupil has made considerable advancement; yet I have thought it best
to go on giving my pupil simple definitions, thinking that, although
these may be somewhat vague and provisional, they will come to one
another's assistance, and that what is obscure to-day will be plain
to-morrow.

I regard my pupil as a free and active being, whose own spontaneous
impulses must be my surest guide. I have always talked to Helen exactly
as I would talk to a seeing and hearing child, and I have insisted that
other people should do the same. Whenever any one asks me if she will
understand this or that word I always reply: "Never mind whether she
understands each separate word of a sentence or not. She will guess the
meanings of the new words from their connection with others which are
already intelligible to her."

In selecting books for Helen to read, I have never chosen them with
reference to her deafness and blindness. She always reads such books as
seeing and hearing children of her age read and enjoy. Of course, in the
beginning it was necessary that the things described should be familiar
and interesting, and the English pure and simple. I remember distinctly
when she first attempted to read a little story. She had learned the
printed letters, and for some time had amused herself by making simple
sentences, using slips on which the words were printed in raised
letters; but these sentences had no special relation to one another. One
morning we caught a mouse, and it occurred to me, with a live mouse
and a live cat to stimulate her interest, that I might arrange some
sentences in such a way as to form a little story, and thus give her a
new conception of the use of language. So I put the following sentences
in the frame, and gave it to Helen: "The cat is on the box. A mouse is
in the box. The cat can see the mouse. The cat would like to eat the
mouse. Do not let the cat get the mouse. The cat can have some milk,
and the mouse can have some cake." The word THE she did not know, and
of course she wished it explained. At that stage of her advancement it
would have been impossible to explain its use, and so I did not try, but
moved her finger on to the next word, which she recognized with a bright
smile. Then, as I put her hand upon puss sitting on the box, she made
a little exclamation of surprise, and the rest of the sentence became
perfectly clear to her. When she had read the words of the second
sentence, I showed her that there really was a mouse in the box. She
then moved her finger to the next line with an expression of eager
interest. "The cat can see the mouse." Here I made the cat look at the
mouse, and let Helen feel the cat. The expression of the little girl's
countenance showed that she was perplexed. I called her attention to the
following line, and, although she knew only the three words, CAT, EAT
and MOUSE, she caught the idea. She pulled the cat away and put her on
the floor, at the same time covering the box with the frame. When she
read, "Do not let the cat get the mouse!" she recognized the negation
in the sentence, and seemed to know that the cat must not get the mouse.
GET and LET were new words. She was familiar with the words of the last
sentence, and was delighted when allowed to act them out. By signs she
made me understand that she wished another story, and I gave her a book
containing very short stories, written in the most elementary style. She
ran her fingers along the lines, finding the words she knew and
guessing at the meaning of others, in a way that would convince the
most conservative of educators that a little deaf child, if given the
opportunity, will learn to read as easily and naturally as ordinary
children.

I am convinced that Helen's use of English is due largely to her
familiarity with books. She often reads for two or three hours in
succession, and then lays aside her book reluctantly. One day as we left
the library I noticed that she appeared more serious than usual, and
I asked the cause. "I am thinking how much wiser we always are when we
leave here than we are when we come," was her reply.

When asked why she loved books so much, she once replied: "Because they
tell me so much that is interesting about things I cannot see, and they
are never tired or troubled like people. They tell me over and over what
I want to know."

While reading from Dickens's "Child's History of England," we came to
the sentence, "Still the spirit of the Britons was not broken." I asked
what she thought that meant. She replied, "I think it means that the
brave Britons were not discouraged because the Romans had won so many
battles, and they wished all the more to drive them away." It would not
have been possible for her to define the words in this sentence; and yet
she had caught the author's meaning, and was able to give it in her own
words. The next lines are still more idiomatic, "When Suetonius left the
country, they fell upon his troops and retook the island of Anglesea."
Here is her interpretation of the sentence: "It means that when the
Roman general had gone away, the Britons began to fight again; and
because the Roman soldiers had no general to tell them what to do, they
were overcome by the Britons and lost the island they had captured."

She prefers intellectual to manual occupations, and is not so fond of
fancy work as many of the blind children are; yet she is eager to join
them in whatever they are doing. She has learned to use the Caligraph
typewriter, and writes very correctly, but not rapidly as yet, having
had less than a month's practice.

More than two years ago a cousin taught her the telegraph alphabet by
making the dots and dashes on the back of her hand with his finger.
Whenever she meets any one who is familiar with this system, she is
delighted to use it in conversation. I have found it a convenient medium
of communicating with Helen when she is at some distance from me, for it
enables me to talk with her by tapping upon the floor with my foot. She
feels the vibrations and understands what is said to her.

It was hoped that one so peculiarly endowed by nature as Helen, would,
if left entirely to her own resources, throw some light upon such
psychological questions as were not exhaustively investigated by Dr.
Howe; but their hopes were not to be realized. In the case of Helen,
as in that of Laura Bridgman, disappointment was inevitable. It is
impossible to isolate a child in the midst of society, so that he shall
not be influenced by the beliefs of those with whom he associates. In
Helen's case such an end could not have been attained without depriving
her of that intercourse with others, which is essential to her nature.

It must have been evident to those who watched the rapid unfolding of
Helen's faculties that it would not be possible to keep her inquisitive
spirit for any length of time from reaching out toward the unfathomable
mysteries of life. But great care has been taken not to lead her
thoughts prematurely to the consideration of subjects which perplex
and confuse all minds. Children ask profound questions, but they often
receive shallow answers, or, to speak more correctly, they are quieted
by such answers.

"Were did I come from?" and "Where shall I go when I die?" were
questions Helen asked when she was eight years old. But the explanations
which she was able to understand at that time did not satisfy, although
they forced her to remain silent, until her mind should begin to put
forth its higher powers, and generalize from innumerable impressions
and ideas which streamed in upon it from books and from her daily
experiences. Her mind sought for the cause of things.

As her observation of phenomena became more extensive and her vocabulary
richer and more subtle, enabling her to express her own conceptions and
ideas clearly, and also to comprehend the thoughts and experiences of
others, she became acquainted with the limit of human creative power,
and perceived that some power, not human, must have created the earth,
the sun, and the thousand natural objects with which she was perfectly
familiar.

Finally she one day demanded a name for the power, the existence of
which she had already conceived in her own mind.

Through Charles Kingsley's "Greek Heroes" she had become familiar with
the beautiful stories of the Greek gods and goddesses, and she must
have met with the words GOD, HEAVEN, SOUL, and a great many similar
expressions in books.

She never asked the meaning of such words, nor made any comment when
they occurred; and until February, 1889, no one had ever spoken to her
of God. At that time, a dear relative who was also an earnest Christian,
tried to tell her about God but, as this lady did not use words suited
to the comprehension of the child, they made little impression upon
Helen's mind. When I subsequently talked with her she said: "I have
something very funny to tell you. A. says God made me and every one out
of sand; but it must be a joke. I am made of flesh and blood and bone,
am I not?" Here she examined her arm with evident satisfaction, laughing
heartily to herself. After a moment she went on: "A. says God is
everywhere, and that He is all love; but I do not think a person can
be made out of love. Love is only something in our hearts. Then A. said
another very comical thing. She says He (meaning God) is my dear father.
It made me laugh quite hard, for I know my father is Arthur Keller."

I explained to her that she was not yet able to understand what had been
told her, and so easily led her to see that it would be better not to
talk about such things until she was wiser.

She had met with the expression Mother Nature in the course of her
reading, and for a long time she was in the habit of ascribing to Mother
Nature whatever she felt to be beyond the power of man to accomplish.
She would say, when speaking of the growth of a plant, "Mother Nature
sends the sunshine and the rain to make the trees and the grass and the
flowers grow." The following extract from my notes will show what were
her ideas at this time:

Helen seemed a little serious after supper, and Mrs. H. asked her of
what she was thinking. "I am thinking how very busy dear Mother Nature
is in the springtime," she replied. When asked why, she answered:
"Because she has so many children to take care of. She is the mother of
everything; the flowers and trees and winds."

"How does Mother Nature take care of the flowers?" I asked.

"She sends the sunshine and rain to make them grow," Helen replied; and
after a moment she added, "I think the sunshine is Nature's warm smile,
and the raindrops are her tears."

Later she said: "I do not know if Mother Nature made me. I think my
mother got me from heaven, but I do not know where that place is. I
know that daisies and <DW29>s come from seeds which have been put in the
ground; but children do not grow out of the ground, I am sure. I have
never seen a plant-child! But I cannot imagine who made Mother Nature,
can you? I love the beautiful spring, because the budding trees and the
blossoming flowers and the tender green leaves fill my heart with joy.
I must go now to see my garden. The daisies and the <DW29>s will think I
have forgotten them."

After May, 1890, it was evident to me that she had reached a point where
it was impossible to keep from her the religious beliefs held by those
with whom she was in daily contact. She almost overwhelmed me
with inquiries which were the natural outgrowth of her quickened
intelligence.

Early in May she wrote on her tablet the following list of questions:

"I wish to write about things I do not understand. Who made the earth
and the seas, and everything? What makes the sun hot? Where was I before
I came to mother? I know that plants grow from seeds which are in
the ground, but I am sure people do not grow that way. I never saw a
child-plant. Little birds and chickens come out of eggs. I have seen
them. What was the egg before it was an egg? Why does not the earth
fall, it is so very large and heavy? Tell me something that Father
Nature does. May I read the book called the Bible? Please tell your
little pupil many things when you have much time."

Can any one doubt after reading these questions that the child who was
capable of asking them was also capable of understanding at least
their elementary answers? She could not, of course, have grasped such
abstractions as a complete answer to her questions would involve;
but one's whole life is nothing more than a continual advance in the
comprehension of the meaning and scope of such ideas.

Throughout Helen's education I have invariably assumed that she can
understand whatever it is desirable for her to know. Unless there had
been in Helen's mind some such intellectual process as the questions
indicate, any explanation of them would have been unintelligible to her.
Without that degree of mental development and activity which perceives
the necessity of superhuman creative power, no explanation of natural
phenomena is possible.

After she had succeeded in formulating the ideas which had been slowly
growing in her mind, they seemed suddenly to absorb all her thoughts,
and she became impatient to have everything explained. As we were
passing a large globe a short time after she had written the questions,
she stopped before it and asked, "Who made the REAL world?" I replied,
"No one knows how the earth, the sun, and all the worlds which we call
stars came to be; but I will tell you how wise men have tried to account
for their origin, and to interpret the great and mysterious forces of
nature."

She knew that the Greeks had many gods to whom they ascribed various
powers, because they believed that the sun, the lightning, and a hundred
other natural forces, were independent and superhuman powers. But after
a great deal of thought and study, I told her, men came to believe that
all forces were manifestations of one power, and to that power they gave
the name GOD.

She was very still for a few minutes, evidently thinking earnestly. She
then asked, "Who made God?" I was compelled to evade her question, for
I could not explain to her the mystery of a self-existent being. Indeed,
many of her eager questions would have puzzled a far wiser person than
I am. Here are some of them: "What did God make the new worlds out of?"
"Where did He get the soil, and the water, and the seeds, and the first
animals?" "Where is God?" "Did you ever see God?" I told her that God
was everywhere, and that she must not think of Him as a person, but
as the life, the mind, the soul of everything. She interrupted me:
"Everything does not have life. The rocks have not life, and they cannot
think." It is often necessary to remind her that there are infinitely
many things that the wisest people in the world cannot explain.

No creed or dogma has been taught to Helen, nor has any effort been made
to force religious beliefs upon her attention. Being fully aware of my
own incompetence to give her any adequate explanations of the mysteries
which underlie the names of God, soul, and immortality, I have always
felt obliged, by a sense of duty to my pupil, to say as little as
possible about spiritual matters. The Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks has
explained to her in a beautiful way the fatherhood of God.

She has not as yet been allowed to read the Bible, because I do not see
how she can do so at present without getting a very erroneous conception
of the attributes of God. I have already told her in simple language
of the beautiful and helpful life of Jesus, and of His cruel death. The
narrative affected her greatly when first she listened to it.

When she referred to our conversation again, it was to ask, "Why did not
Jesus go away, so that His enemies could not find Him?" She thought the
miracles of Jesus very strange. When told that Jesus walked on the sea
to meet His disciples, she said, decidedly, "It does not mean WALKED, it
means SWAM." When told of the instance in which Jesus raised the dead,
she was much perplexed, saying, "I did not know life could come back
into the dead body!"

One day she said, sadly: "I am blind and deaf. That is why I cannot see
God." I taught her the word INVISIBLE, and told her we could not see God
with our eyes, because He was a spirit; but that when our hearts were
full of goodness and gentleness, then we saw Him because then we were
more like Him.

At another time she asked, "What is a soul?" "No one knows what the soul
is like," I replied; "but we know that it is not the body, and it is
that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes, and which Christian
people believe will live on after the body is dead." I then asked her,
"Can you think of your soul as separate from your body?" "Oh, yes!" she
replied; "because last hour I was thinking very hard of Mr. Anagnos, and
then my mind,"--then changing the word--"my soul was in Athens, but my
body was here in the study." At this moment another thought seemed to
flash through her mind, and she added, "But Mr. Anagnos did not speak
to my soul." I explained to her that the soul, too, is invisible, or in
other words, that it is without apparent form. "But if I write what my
soul thinks," she said, "then it will be visible, and the words will be
its body."

A long time ago Helen said to me, "I would like to live sixteen hundred
years." When asked if she would not like to live ALWAYS in a beautiful
country called heaven, her first question was, "Where is heaven?" I was
obliged to confess that I did not know, but suggested that it might be
on one of the stars. A moment after she said, "Will you please go first
and tell me all about it?" and then she added, "Tuscumbia is a very
beautiful little town." It was more than a year before she alluded to
the subject again, and when she did return to it, her questions were
numerous and persistent. She asked: "Where is heaven, and what is it
like? Why cannot we know as much about heaven as we do about foreign
countries?" I told her in very simple language that there may be many
places called heaven, but that essentially it was a condition--the
fulfilment of the heart's desire, the satisfaction of its wants; and
that heaven existed wherever RIGHT was acknowledged, believed in, and
loved.

She shrinks from the thought of death with evident dismay. Recently, on
being shown a deer which had been killed by her brother, she was greatly
distressed, and asked sorrowfully, "Why must everything die, even the
fleet-footed deer?" At another time she asked, "Do you not think we
would be very much happier always, if we did not have to die?" I said,
"No; because, if there were no death, our world would soon be so crowded
with living creatures that it would be impossible for any of them to
live comfortably." "But," said Helen, quickly, "I think God could make
some more worlds as well as He made this one."

When friends have told her of the great happiness which awaits her in
another life, she instantly asked: "How do you know, if you have not
been dead?"

The literal sense in which she sometimes takes common words and idioms
shows how necessary it is that we should make sure that she receives
their correct meaning. When told recently that Hungarians were born
musicians, she asked in surprise, "Do they sing when they are born?"
When her friend added that some of the pupils he had seen in Budapest
had more than one hundred tunes in their heads, she said, laughing, "I
think their heads must be very noisy." She sees the ridiculous quickly,
and, instead of being seriously troubled by metaphorical language, she
is often amused at her own too literal conception of its meaning.

Having been told that the soul was without form, she was much perplexed
at David's words, "He leadeth my soul." "Has it feet? Can it walk? Is it
blind?" she asked; for in her mind the idea of being led was associated
with blindness.

Of all the subjects which perplex and trouble Helen, none distresses her
so much as the knowledge of the existence of evil, and of the suffering
which results from it. For a long time it was possible to keep this
knowledge from her; and it will always be comparatively easy to prevent
her from coming in personal contact with vice and wickedness. The fact
that sin exists, and that great misery results from it, dawned gradually
upon her mind as she understood more and more clearly the lives and
experiences of those around her. The necessity of laws and penalties had
to be explained to her. She found it very hard to reconcile the presence
of evil in the world with the idea of God which had been presented to
her mind.

One day she asked, "Does God take care of us all the time?" She was
answered in the affirmative. "Then why did He let little sister fall
this morning, and hurt her head so badly?" Another time she was asking
about the power and goodness of God. She had been told of a terrible
storm at sea, in which several lives were lost, and she asked, "Why did
not God save the people if He can do all things?"

Surrounded by loving friends and the gentlest influences, as Helen
had always been, she has, from the earliest stage of her intellectual
enlightenment, willingly done right. She knows with unerring instinct
what is right, and does it joyously. She does not think of one wrong
act as harmless, of another as of no consequence, and of another as not
intended. To her pure soul all evil is equally unlovely.


These passages from the paper Miss Sullivan prepared for the meeting at
Chautauqua, in July, 1894, of the American Association to Promote the
Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, contain her latest written account of
her methods.


You must not imagine that as soon as Helen grasped the idea that
everything had a name she at once became mistress of the treasury of
the English language, or that "her mental faculties emerged, full armed,
from their then living tomb, as Pallas Athene from the head of Zeus,"
as one of her enthusiastic admirers would have us believe. At first, the
words, phrases and sentences which she used in expressing her thoughts
were all reproductions of what we had used in conversation with her, and
which her memory had unconsciously retained. And indeed, this is true
of the language of all children. Their language is the memory of the
language they hear spoken in their homes. Countless repetition of the
conversation of daily life has impressed certain words and phrases upon
their memories, and when they come to talk themselves, memory supplies
the words they lisp. Likewise, the language of educated people is the
memory of the language of books.

Language grows out of life, out of its needs and experiences. At first
my little pupil's mind was all but vacant. She had been living in a
world she could not realize. LANGUAGE and KNOWLEDGE are indissolubly
connected; they are interdependent. Good work in language presupposes
and depends on a real knowledge of things. As soon as Helen grasped
the idea that everything had a name, and that by means of the manual
alphabet these names could be transmitted from one to another, I
proceeded to awaken her further interest in the OBJECTS whose names she
learned to spell with such evident joy. I NEVER TAUGHT LANGUAGE FOR THE
PURPOSE OF TEACHING IT; but invariably used language as a medium for the
communication of THOUGHT; thus the learning of language was
COINCIDENT with the acquisition of knowledge. In order to use language
intelligently, one must have something to talk ABOUT, and having
something to talk about is the result of having had experiences; no
amount of language training will enable our little children to use
language with ease and fluency unless they have something clearly in
their minds which they wish to communicate, or unless we succeed in
awakening in them a desire to know what is in the minds of others.

At first I did not attempt to confine my pupil to any system. I
always tried to find out what interested her most, and made that the
starting-point for the new lesson, whether it had any bearing on the
lesson I had planned to teach or not. During the first two years of her
intellectual life, I required Helen to write very little. In order to
write one must have something to write about, and having something to
write about requires some mental preparation. The memory must be stored
with ideas and the mind must be enriched with knowledge before writing
becomes a natural and pleasurable effort. Too often, I think, children
are required to write before they have anything to say. Teach them to
think and read and talk without self-repression, and they will write
because they cannot help it.

Helen acquired language by practice and habit rather than by study
of rules and definitions. Grammar with its puzzling array of
classifications, nomenclatures, and paradigms, was wholly discarded in
her education. She learned language by being brought in contact with
the LIVING language itself; she was made to deal with it in everyday
conversation, and in her books, and to turn it over in a variety of ways
until she was able to use it correctly. No doubt I talked much more with
my fingers, and more constantly than I should have done with my mouth;
for had she possessed the use of sight and hearing, she would have been
less dependent on me for entertainment and instruction.

I believe every child has hidden away somewhere in his being noble
capacities which may be quickened and developed if we go about it in the
right way; but we shall never properly develop the higher natures of
our little ones while we continue to fill their minds with the so-called
rudiments. Mathematics will never make them loving, nor will the
accurate knowledge of the size and shape of the world help them to
appreciate its beauties. Let us lead them during the first years to find
their greatest pleasure in Nature. Let them run in the fields, learn
about animals, and observe real things. Children will educate themselves
under right conditions. They require guidance and sympathy far more than
instruction.

I think much of the fluency with which Helen uses language is due to the
fact that nearly every impression which she receives comes through the
medium of language. But after due allowance has been made for Helen's
natural aptitude for acquiring language, and for the advantage resulting
from her peculiar environment, I think that we shall still find that the
constant companionship of good books has been of supreme importance in
her education. It may be true, as some maintain, that language cannot
express to us much beyond what we have lived and experienced; but I
have always observed that children manifest the greatest delight in
the lofty, poetic language which we are too ready to think beyond their
comprehension. "This is all you will understand," said a teacher to a
class of little children, closing the book which she had been reading
to them. "Oh, please read us the rest, even if we won't understand it,"
they pleaded, delighted with the rhythm, and the beauty which they felt,
even though they could not have explained it. It is not necessary that
a child should understand every word in a book before he can read with
pleasure and profit. Indeed, only such explanations should be given as
are really essential. Helen drank in language which she at first could
not understand, and it remained in her mind until needed, when it fitted
itself naturally and easily into her conversation and compositions.
Indeed, it is maintained by some that she reads too much, that a great
deal of originative force is dissipated in the enjoyment of books;
that when she might see and say things for herself, she sees them only
through the eyes of others, and says them in their language, but I am
convinced that original composition without the preparation of much
reading is an impossibility. Helen has had the best and purest models
in language constantly presented to her, and her conversation and her
writing are unconscious reproductions of what she has read. Reading,
I think, should be kept independent of the regular school exercises.
Children should be encouraged to read for the pure delight of it. The
attitude of the child toward his books should be that of unconscious
receptivity. The great works of the imagination ought to become a part
of his life, as they were once of the very substance of the men who
wrote them. It is true, the more sensitive and imaginative the mind is
that receives the thought-pictures and images of literature, the more
nicely the finest lines are reproduced. Helen has the vitality of
feeling, the freshness and eagerness of interest, and the spiritual
insight of the artistic temperament, and naturally she has a more active
and intense joy in life, simply as life, and in nature, books, and
people than less gifted mortals. Her mind is so filled with the
beautiful thoughts and ideals of the great poets that nothing seems
commonplace to her; for her imagination colours all life with its own
rich hues.


There has been much discussion of such of Miss Sullivan's statements and
explanations as have been published before. Too much has been written by
people who do not know the problems of the deaf at first hand, and I
do not care to add much to it. Miss Keller's education, however, is so
fundamentally a question of language teaching that it rather includes
the problems of the deaf than limits itself to the deaf alone. Teachers
can draw their own conclusions. For the majority of readers, who will
not approach Miss Keller's life from the educator's point of view, I
will summarize a few principal things in Miss Sullivan's methods.

Miss Sullivan has begun where Dr. Howe left off. He invented the
instrument, the physical means of working, but the teaching of language
is quite another thing from the mechanical means by which language may
be taught. By experiment, by studying other children, Miss Sullivan came
upon the practical way of teaching language by the natural method. It
was for this "natural method" that Dr. Howe was groping, but he never
got to this idea, that a deaf child should not be taught each word
separately by definition, but should be given language by endless
repetition of language which it does not understand. And this is
Miss Sullivan's great discovery. All day long in their play-time and
work-time Miss Sullivan kept spelling into her pupil's hand, and by that
Helen Keller absorbed words, just as the child in the cradle absorbs
words by hearing thousands of them before he uses one and by associating
the words with the occasion of their utterance. Thus he learns that
words name things and actions and feelings. Now, that is the first
principle in Miss Sullivan's method, one that had practical results, and
one which, so far as I can discover, had never been put in practice in
the education of a deaf child, not to say a deaf-blind child, until Miss
Sullivan tried it with Helen Keller. And the principle had never been
formulated clearly until Miss Sullivan wrote her letters.

The second principle in her method (the numerical order is, of course,
arbitrary) is never to talk to the child about things distasteful or
wearisome to him. In the first deaf school Miss Sullivan ever visited,
the teacher was busy at the blackboard telling the children by written
words something they did not want to know, while they were crowding
round their visitor with wide-awake curiosity, showing there were a
thousand things they did want to know. Why not, says Miss Sullivan, make
a language lesson out of what they were interested in?

Akin to this idea of talking to the child about what interests him, is
the principle never to silence a child who asks questions, but to
answer the questions as truly as possible; for, says Miss Sullivan, the
question is the door to the child's mind. Miss Sullivan never needlessly
belittled her ideas or expressions to suit the supposed state of the
child's intelligence. She urged every one to speak to Helen naturally,
to give her full sentences and intelligent ideas, never minding whether
Helen understood or not. Thus Miss Sullivan knew what so many people
do not understand, that after the first rudimentary definitions of
HAT, CUP, GO, SIT, the unit of language, as the child learns it, is the
sentence, which is also the unit of language in our adult experience.
We do not take in a sentence word by word, but as a whole. It is the
proposition, something predicated about something, that conveys an
idea. True, single words do suggest and express ideas; the child may
say simply "mamma" when he means "Where is mamma?" but he learns the
expression of the ideas that relate to mamma--he learns language--by
hearing complete sentences. And though Miss Sullivan did not force
grammatical completeness upon the first finger-lispings of her pupil,
yet when she herself repeated Helen's sentence, "mamma milk," she filled
out the construction, completed the child's ellipsis and said, "Mamma
will bring Helen some milk."

Thus Miss Sullivan was working out a natural method, which is so simple,
so lacking in artificial system, that her method seems rather to be a
destruction of method. It is doubtful if we should have heard of Helen
Keller if Miss Sullivan had not been where there were other children. By
watching them, she learned to treat her pupil as nearly as possible like
an ordinary child.

The manual alphabet was not the only means of presenting words to Helen
Keller's fingers. Books supplemented, perhaps equaled in importance the
manual alphabet, as a means of teaching language. Helen sat poring over
them before she could read, not at first for the story, but to find
words she knew; and the definition of new words which is implied in
their context, in their position with reference to words known, added to
Helen's vocabulary. Books are the storehouse of language, and any child,
whether deaf or not, if he has his attention attracted in any way to
printed pages, must learn. He learns not by reading what he understands,
but by reading and remembering words he does not understand. And though
perhaps few children will have as much precocious interest in books as
did Helen Keller, yet the natural curiosity of every healthy child may
be turned to printed pages, especially if the teacher is clever and
plays a word game as Miss Sullivan did. Helen Keller is supposed to
have a special aptitude for languages. It is true rather that she has a
special aptitude for thinking, and her leaning toward language is due to
the fact that language to her meant life. It was not a special subject,
like geography or arithmetic, but her way to outward things.

When at the age of fourteen she had had but a few lessons in German, she
read over the words of "Wilhelm Tell" and managed to get the story.
Of grammar she knew nothing and she cared nothing for it. She got the
language from the language itself, and this is, next to hearing the
language spoken, the way for any one to get a foreign tongue, more vital
and, in the end, easier than our schoolroom method of beginning with the
grammar. In the same way she played with Latin, learning not only from
the lessons her first Latin teacher gave her, but from going over and
over the words of a text, a game she played by herself.

Mr. John D. Wright, one of her teachers at the Wright-Humason School,
says in a letter to me:

"Often I found her, when she had a little leisure, sitting in her
favourite corner, in a chair whose arms supported the big volume
prepared for the blind, and passing her finger slowly over the lines of
Moliere's 'Le Medecin Malgre Lui,' chuckling to herself at the
comical situations and humorous lines. At that time her actual working
vocabulary in French was very small, but by using her judgment, as we
laughingly called the mental process, she could guess at the meanings
of the words and put the sense together much as a child puzzles out a
sliced object. The result was that in a few weeks she and I spent a most
hilarious hour one evening while she poured out to me the whole story,
dwelling with great gusto on its humour and sparkling wit. It was not a
lesson, but only one of her recreations."

So Helen Keller's aptitude for language is her whole mental aptitude,
turned to language because of its extraordinary value to her.

There have been many discussions of the question whether Helen Keller's
achievements are due to her natural ability or to the method by which
she was taught.

It is true that a teacher with ten times Miss Sullivan's genius could
not have made a pupil so remarkable as Helen Keller out of a child born
dull and mentally deficient. But it is also true that, with ten times
her native genius, Helen Keller could not have grown to what she is, if
she had not been excellently taught from the very start, and especially
at the start. And the fact remains that she was taught by a method of
teaching language to the deaf the essential principles of which are
clearly expressed in Miss Sullivan's letters, written while she was
discovering the method and putting it successfully into practice. And
it can be applied by any teacher to any healthy deaf child, and in
the broadest interpretation of the principles, can be applied to the
teaching of language of all kinds to all children.

In the many discussions of this question writers seem to throw us from
one horn to another of a dilemma--either a born genius in Helen Keller,
or a perfect method in the teacher. Both things may be true at once, and
there is another truth which makes the dilemma imperfect. Miss Sullivan
is a person of extraordinary power. Her method might not succeed so
completely in the hands of any one else. Miss Sullivan's vigorous,
original mind has lent much of its vitality to her pupil. If Miss Keller
is fond of language and not interested especially in mathematics, it is
not surprising to find Miss Sullivan's interests very similar. And this
does not mean that Miss Keller is unduly dependent on her teacher. It is
told of her that, as a child of eight, when some one tried to interfere
with her, she sat sober a few moments, and, when asked what was the
trouble, answered, "I am preparing to assert my independence." Such an
aggressive personality cannot grow up in mere dependence even under
the guidance of a will like Miss Sullivan's. But Miss Sullivan by her
"natural aptitude" has done for her pupil much that is not capable of
analysis and reduction to principle; she has given the inspiration which
is in all close friendship, and which rather develops than limits
the powers of either person. Moreover, if Miss Keller is a "marvel
of sweetness and goodness," if she has a love "of all things good and
beautiful," this implies something about the teacher who has lived with
her for sixteen years.

There is, then, a good deal that Miss Sullivan has done for Miss Keller
which no other teacher can do in just the same way for any one else. To
have another Helen Keller there must be another Miss Sullivan. To have
another, well-educated deaf and blind child, there need only be another
teacher, living under favourable conditions, among plenty of external
interests, unseparated from her pupil allowed to have a free hand, and
using as many as she needs of the principles which Miss Sullivan has
saved her the trouble of finding out for herself, modifying and adding
as she finds it necessary; and there must be a pupil in good health, of
good native powers, young enough not to have grown beyond recovery in
ignorance. Any deaf child or deaf and blind child in good health can be
taught. And the one to do it is the parent or the special teacher, not
the school. I know that this idea will be vigorously combated by those
who conduct schools for the deaf. To be sure, the deaf school is the
only thing possible for children educated by the State. But it is
evident that precisely what the deaf child needs to be taught is what
other children learn before they go to school at all. When Miss Sullivan
went out in the barnyard and picked up a little chicken and talked to
Helen about it, she was giving a kind of instruction impossible inside
four walls, and impossible with more than one pupil at a time.

Surely Dr. Howe is wrong when he says, "A teacher cannot be a child."
That is just what the teacher of the deaf child must be, a child ready
to play and romp, and interested in all childish things.

The temptation to discuss, solely in the light of Helen Keller, the
whole matter of educating the deaf is a dangerous one, and one which I
have not taken particular care to avoid, because my opinions are of no
authority and I have merely tried to suggest problems and reinforce some
of the main ideas expressed by Miss Sullivan, who is an authority. It is
a question whether Helen Keller's success has not led teachers to expect
too much of other children, and I know of deaf-blind children who are
dragged along by their teachers and friends, and become the subjects of
glowing reports, which are pathetically untrue, because one sees behind
the reports how the children are tugged at to bring them somewhere near
the exaggerated things that are said about them.

Let me sum up a few of the elements that made Helen Keller what she
is. In the first place she had nineteen months' experience of sight and
sound. This meant some mental development. She had inherited vigour of
body and mind. She expressed ideas in signs before she learned language.
Mrs. Keller writes me that before her illness Helen made signs for
everything, and her mother thought this habit the cause of her slowness
in learning to speak. After the illness, when they were dependent on
signs, Helen's tendency to gesture developed. How far she could receive
communications is hard to determine, but she knew much that was going
on around her. She recognized that others used their lips; she "saw" her
father reading a paper and when he laid it down she sat in his chair
and held the paper before her face. Her early rages were an unhappy
expression of the natural force of character which instruction was to
turn into trained and organized power.

It was, then, to a good subject that Miss Sullivan brought her
devotion and intelligence, and fearless willingness to experiment. Miss
Sullivan's methods were so good that even without the practical result,
any one would recognize the truth of the teacher's ideas. Miss Sullivan
has in addition a vigorous personality. And finally all the conditions
were good for that first nature school, in which the teacher and pupil
played together, exploring together and educating themselves, pupil and
teacher inseparable.

Miss Keller's later education is easy to understand and needs no further
explanation than she has given. Those interested may get on application
to the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C., the reports of the teachers who
prepared her for college, Mr. Arthur Gilman of the Cambridge School for
Young Ladies, and Mr. Merton S. Keith.


CHAPTER IV. SPEECH

The two persons who have written authoritatively about Miss Keller's
speech and the way she learned it are Miss Sarah Fuller, of the Horace
Mann School for the Deaf in Boston, Massachusetts, who gave her the
first lessons, and Miss Sullivan, who, by her unremitting discipline,
carried on the success of these first lessons.

Before I quote from Miss Sullivan's account, let me try to give some
impression of what Miss Keller's speech and voice qualities are at
present.

Her voice is low and pleasant to listen to. Her speech lacks variety and
modulation; it runs in a sing-song when she is reading aloud; and when
she speaks with fair degree of loudness, it hovers about two or three
middle tones. Her voice has an aspirate quality; there seems always to
be too much breath for the amount of tone. Some of her notes are musical
and charming. When she is telling a child's story, or one with pathos in
it, her voice runs into pretty slurs from one tone to another. This
is like the effect of the slow dwelling on long words, not quite well
managed, that one notices in a child who is telling a solemn story.

The principal thing that is lacking is sentence accent and variety
in the inflection of phrases. Miss Keller pronounces each word as
a foreigner does when he is still labouring with the elements of a
sentence, or as children sometimes read in school when they have to pick
out each word.

She speaks French and German. Her friend, Mr. John Hitz, whose native
tongue is German, says that her pronunciation is excellent. Another
friend, who is as familiar with French as with English, finds her French
much more intelligible than her English. When she speaks English she
distributes her emphasis as in French and so does not put sufficient
stress on accented syllables. She says for example, "pro-vo-ca-tion,"
"in-di-vi-du-al," with ever so little difference between the value of
syllables, and a good deal of inconsistency in the pronunciation of the
same word one day and the next. It would, I think, be hard to make her
feel just how to pronounce DICTIONARY without her erring either toward
DICTIONAYRY or DICTION'RY, and, of course the word is neither one nor
the other. For no system of marks in a lexicon can tell one how to
pronounce a word. The only way is to hear it, especially in a language
like English which is so full of unspellable, suppressed vowels and
quasi-vowels.

Miss Keller's vowels are not firm. Her AWFUL is nearly AWFIL. The
wavering is caused by the absence of accent on FUL, for she pronounces
FULL correctly.

She sometimes mispronounces as she reads aloud and comes on a word which
she happens never to have uttered, though she may have written it many
times. This difficulty and some others may be corrected when she and
Miss Sullivan have more time. Since 1894, they have been so much in
their books that they have neglected everything that was not necessary
to the immediate task of passing the school years successfully. Miss
Keller will never be able, I believe, to speak loud without destroying
the pleasant quality and the distinctness of her words, but she can do
much to make her speech clearer.

When she was at the Wright-Humason School in New York, Dr. Humason tried
to improve her voice, not only her word pronunciation, but the voice
itself, and gave her lessons in tone and vocal exercises.

It is hard to say whether or not Miss Keller's speech is easy to
understand. Some understand her readily; others do not. Her friends grow
accustomed to her speech and forget that it is different from that of
any one else. Children seldom have any difficulty in understanding
her; which suggests that her deliberate measured speech is like theirs,
before they come to the adult trick of running all the words of a phrase
into one movement of the breath. I am told that Miss Keller speaks
better than most other deaf people.

Miss Keller has told how she learned to speak. Miss Sullivan's account
in her address at Chautauqua, in July, 1894, at the meeting of The
American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, is
substantially like Miss Keller's in points of fact.


MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF MISS KELLER'S SPEECH

It was three years from the time when Helen began to communicate by
means of the manual alphabet that she received her first lesson in the
more natural and universal medium of human intercourse--oral language.
She had become very proficient in the use of the manual alphabet, which
was her only means of communication with the outside world; through it
she had acquired a vocabulary which enabled her to converse freely,
read intelligently, and write with comparative ease and correctness.
Nevertheless, the impulse to utter audible sounds was strong within
her, and the constant efforts which I made to repress this instinctive
tendency, which I feared in time would become unpleasant, were of no
avail. I made no effort to teach her to speak, because I regarded her
inability to watch the lips of others as an insurmountable obstacle.
But she gradually became conscious that her way of communicating was
different from that used by those around her, and one day her thoughts
found expression. "How do the blind girls know what to say with their
mouths? Why do you not teach me to talk like them? Do deaf children ever
learn to speak?" I explained to her that some deaf children were taught
to speak, but that they could see their teachers' mouths, and that that
was a very great assistance to them. But she interrupted me to say
she was very sure she could feel my mouth very well. Soon after this
conversation, a lady came to see her and told her about the deaf and
blind Norwegian child, Ragnhild Kaata, who had been taught to speak and
understand what her teacher said to her by touching his lips with her
fingers. She at once resolved to learn to speak, and from that day to
this she has never wavered in that resolution. She began immediately
to make sounds which she called speaking, and I saw the necessity of
correct instruction, since her heart was set upon learning to talk; and,
feeling my own incompetence to teach her, never having given the subject
of articulation serious study, I went with my pupil for advice and
assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller. Miss Fuller was delighted with Helen's
earnestness and enthusiasm, and at once began to teach her. In a few
lessons she learned nearly all of the English sounds, and in less than a
month she was able to articulate a great many words distinctly. From
the first she was not content to be drilled in single sounds, but was
impatient to pronounce words and sentences. The length of the word
or the difficulty of the arrangement of the elements never seemed to
discourage her. But, with all her eagerness and intelligence, learning
to speak taxed her powers to the utmost. But there was satisfaction
in seeing from day to day the evidence of growing mastery and the
possibility of final success. And Helen's success has been more complete
and inspiring than any of her friends expected, and the child's delight
in being able to utter her thoughts in living and distinct speech is
shared by all who witness her pleasure when strangers tell her that they
understand her.

I have been asked a great many times whether I think Helen will ever
speak naturally; that is, as other people speak. I am hardly prepared
to decide that question, or even give an opinion regarding it. I believe
that I have hardly begun yet to know what is possible. Teachers of the
deaf often express surprise that Helen's speech is so good when she
has not received any regular instruction in speech since the first few
lessons given her by Miss Fuller. I can only say in reply, "This is
due to habitual imitation and practice! practice! practice!" Nature has
determined how the child shall learn to speak, and all we can do is to
aid him in the simplest, easiest way possible, by encouraging him to
observe and imitate the vibrations in the voice.


Some further details appear in an earlier, more detailed account, which
Miss Sullivan wrote for the Perkins Institution Report of 1891.

I knew that Laura Bridgman had shown the same intuitive desire to
produce sounds, and had even learned to pronounce a few simple words,
which she took great delight in using, and I did not doubt that Helen
could accomplish as much as this. I thought, however, that the advantage
she would derive would not repay her for the time and labour that such
an experiment would cost.

Moreover, the absence of hearing renders the voice monotonous and often
very disagreeable; and such speech is generally unintelligible except to
those familiar with the speaker.

The acquiring of speech by untaught deaf children is always slow and
often painful. Too much stress, it seems to me, is often laid upon the
importance of teaching a deaf child to articulate--a process which may
be detrimental to the pupil's intellectual development. In the very
nature of things, articulation is an unsatisfactory means of education;
while the use of the manual alphabet quickens and invigorates mental
activity, since through it the deaf child is brought into close contact
with the English language, and the highest and most abstract ideas may
be conveyed to the mind readily and accurately. Helen's case proved it
to be also an invaluable aid in acquiring articulation. She was already
perfectly familiar with words and the construction of sentences, and
had only mechanical difficulties to overcome. Moreover, she knew what a
pleasure speech would be to her, and this definite knowledge of what
she was striving for gave her the delight of anticipation which made
drudgery easy. The untaught deaf child who is made to articulate does
not know what the goal is, and his lessons in speech are for a long time
tedious and meaningless.

Before describing the process of teaching Helen to speak, it may be well
to state briefly to what extent she had used the vocal organs before
she began to receive regular instruction in articulation. When she was
stricken down with the illness which resulted in her loss of sight and
hearing, at the age of nineteen months, she was learning to talk. The
unmeaning babblings of the infant were becoming day by day conscious and
voluntary signs of what she felt and thought. But the disease checked
her progress in the acquisition of oral language, and, when her
physical strength returned, it was found that she had ceased to speak
intelligibly because she could no longer hear a sound. She continued
to exercise her vocal organs mechanically, as ordinary children do. Her
cries and laughter and the tones of her voice as she pronounced many
word elements were perfectly natural, but the child evidently attached
no significance to them, and with one exception they were produced not
with any intention of communicating with those around her, but from
the sheer necessity of exercising her innate, organic, and hereditary
faculty of expression. She always attached a meaning to the word water,
which was one of the first sounds her baby lips learned to form, and it
was the only word which she continued to articulate after she lost her
hearing. Her pronunciation of this gradually became indistinct, and
when I first knew her it was nothing more than a peculiar noise.
Nevertheless, it was the only sign she ever made for water, and not
until she had learned to spell the word with her fingers did she forget
the spoken symbol. The word water, and the gesture which corresponds to
the word good-by,seem to have been all that the child remembered of the
natural and acquired signs with which she had been familiar before her
illness.

As she became acquainted with her surroundings through the sense of
feeling (I use the word in the broadest sense, as including all
tactile impressions), she felt more and more the pressing necessity of
communicating with those around her. Her little hands felt every object
and observed every movement of the persons about her, and she was
quick to imitate these movements. She was thus able to express her more
imperative needs and many of her thoughts.

At the time when I became her teacher, she had made for herself upward
of sixty signs, all of which were imitative and were readily understood
by those who knew her. The only signs which I think she may have
invented were her signs for SMALL and LARGE. Whenever she wished for
anything very much she would gesticulate in a very expressive manner.
Failing to make herself understood, she would become violent. In the
years of her mental imprisonment she depended entirely upon signs, and
she did not work out for herself any sort of articulate language capable
of expressing ideas. It seems, however, that, while she was still
suffering from severe pain, she noticed the movements of her mother's
lips.

When she was not occupied, she wandered restlessly about the house,
making strange though rarely unpleasant sounds. I have seen her rock
her doll, making a continuous, monotonous sound, keeping one hand on her
throat, while the fingers of the other hand noted the movements of
her lips. This was in imitation of her mother's crooning to the baby.
Occasionally she broke out into a merry laugh, and then she would reach
out and touch the mouth of any one who happened to be near her, to see
if he were laughing also. If she detected no smile, she gesticulated
excitedly, trying to convey her thought; but if she failed to make her
companion laugh, she sat still for a few moments, with a troubled and
disappointed expression. She was pleased with anything which made a
noise. She liked to feel the cat purr; and if by chance she felt a dog
in the act of barking, she showed great pleasure. She always liked to
stand by the piano when some one was playing and singing. She kept one
hand on the singer's mouth, while the other rested on the piano, and
she stood in this position as long as any one would sing to her, and
afterward she would make a continuous sound which she called singing.
The only words she had learned to pronounce with any degree of
distinctness previous to March, 1890, were PAPA, MAMMA, BABY, SISTER.
These words she had caught without instruction from the lips of
friends. It will be seen that they contain three vowel and six consonant
elements, and these formed the foundation for her first real lesson in
speaking.

At the end of the first lesson she was able to pronounce distinctly the
following sounds: a, a", a^, e, i, o, c soft like s and hard like k,
g hard, b, l, n, m, t, p, s, u, k, f and d. Hard consonants were, and
indeed still are, very difficult for her to pronounce in connection with
one another in the same word; she often suppresses the one and changes
the other, and sometimes she replaces both by an analogous sound with
soft aspiration. The confusion between l and r was very noticeable in
her speech at first. She would repeatedly use one for the other. The
great difficulty in the pronunciation of the r made it one of the last
elements which she mastered. The ch, sh and soft g also gave her much
trouble, and she does not yet enunciate them clearly. [The difficulties
which Miss Sullivan found in 1891 are, in a measure, the difficulties
which show in Miss Keller's speech today.]

When she had been talking for less than a week, she met her friend, Mr.
Rodocanachi, and immediately began to struggle with the pronunciation of
his name; nor would she give it up until she was able to articulate the
word distinctly. Her interest never diminished for a moment; and, in her
eagerness to overcome the difficulties which beset her on all sides, she
taxed her powers to the utmost, and learned in eleven lessons all of the
separate elements of speech.


Enough appears in the accounts by Miss Keller's teacher to show the
process by which she reads the lips with her fingers, the process by
which she was taught to speak, and by which, of course, she can listen
to conversation now. In reading the lips she is not so quick or so
accurate as some reports declare. It is a clumsy and unsatisfactory way
of receiving communication, useless when Miss Sullivan or some one else
who knows the manual alphabet is present to give Miss Keller the spoken
words of others. Indeed, when some friend is trying to speak to Miss
Keller, and the attempt is not proving successful, Miss Sullivan usually
helps by spelling the lost words into Miss Keller's hand.

President Roosevelt had little difficulty last spring in making Miss
Keller understand him, and especially requested Miss Sullivan not to
spell into her hand. She got every word, for the President's speech is
notably distinct. Other people say they have no success in making Miss
Keller "hear" them.

A few friends to whom she is accustomed, like Mrs. A. C. Pratt, and Mr.
J. E. Chamberlin, can pass a whole day with her and tell her everything
without the manual alphabet. The ability to read the lips helps Miss
Keller in getting corrections of her pronunciation from Miss Sullivan
and others, just as it was the means of her learning to speak at all,
but it is rather an accomplishment than a necessity.

It must be remembered that speech contributed in no way to her
fundamental education, though without the ability to speak she could
hardly have gone to higher schools and to college. But she knows better
than any one else what value speech has had for her. The following is
her address at the fifth meeting of the American Association to
Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, at Mt. Airy, Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania, July 8, 1896:


ADDRESS OF HELEN KELLER AT MT. AIRY

If you knew all the joy I feel in being able to speak to you to-day, I
think you would have some idea of the value of speech to the deaf, and
you would understand why I want every little deaf child in all this
great world to have an opportunity to learn to speak. I know that much
has been said and written on this subject, and that there is a wide
difference of opinion among teachers of the deaf in regard to oral
instruction. It seems very strange to me that there should be this
difference of opinion; I cannot understand how any one interested in our
education can fail to appreciate the satisfaction we feel in being able
to express our thoughts in living words. Why, I use speech constantly,
and I cannot begin to tell you how much pleasure it gives me to do so.
Of course I know that it is not always easy for strangers to understand
me, but it will be by and by; and in the meantime I have the unspeakable
happiness of knowing that my family and friends rejoice in my ability
to speak. My little sister and baby brother love to have me tell them
stories in the long summer evenings when I am at home; and my mother
and teacher often ask me to read to them from my favourite books. I also
discuss the political situation with my dear father, and we decide the
most perplexing questions quite as satisfactorily to ourselves as if
I could see and hear. So you see what a blessing speech is to me. It
brings me into closer and tenderer relationship with those I love, and
makes it possible for me to enjoy the sweet companionship of a great
many persons from whom I should be entirely cut off if I could not talk.

I can remember the time before I learned to speak, and how I used to
struggle to express my thoughts by means of the manual alphabet--how my
thoughts used to beat against my finger tips like little birds striving
to gain their freedom, until one day Miss Fuller opened wide the
prison-door and let them escape. I wonder if she remembers how eagerly
and gladly they spread their wings and flew away. Of course, it was not
easy at first to fly. The speech-wings were weak and broken, and had
lost all the grace and beauty that had once been theirs; indeed, nothing
was left save the impulse to fly, but that was something. One can never
consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar. But, nevertheless,
it seemed to me sometimes that I could never use my speech-wings as God
intended I should use them; there were so many difficulties in the way,
so many discouragements; but I kept on trying, knowing that patience and
perseverance would win in the end. And while I worked, I built the most
beautiful air-castles, and dreamed dreams, the pleasantest of which was
of the time when I should talk like other people, and the thought of the
pleasure it would give my mother to hear my voice once more, sweetened
every effort and made every failure an incentive to try harder next
time. So I want to say to those who are trying to learn to speak and
those who are teaching them: Be of good cheer. Do not think of to-days
failures, but of the success that may come to-morrow. You have set
yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere,
and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles--a delight in climbing
rugged paths, which you would perhaps never know if you did not sometime
slip backward--if the road was always smooth and pleasant. Remember,
no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.
Sometime, somewhere, somehow we shall find that which we seek. We shall
speak, yes, and sing, too, as God intended we should speak and sing.


CHAPTER V. LITERARY STYLE

No one can have read Miss Keller's autobiography without feeling that
she writes unusually fine English. Any teacher of composition knows that
he can bring his pupils to the point of writing without errors in syntax
or in the choice of words. It is just this accuracy which Miss Keller's
early education fixes as the point to which any healthy child can be
brought, and which the analysis of that education accounts for. Those
who try to make her an exception not to be explained by any such
analysis of her early education, fortify their position by an appeal
to the remarkable excellence of her use of language even when she was a
child.

This appeal is to a certain degree valid; for, indeed, those additional
harmonies of language and beauties of thought which make style are the
gifts of the gods. No teacher could have made Helen Keller sensitive
to the beauties of language and to the finer interplay of thought which
demands expression in melodious word groupings.

At the same time the inborn gift of style can be starved or stimulated.
No innate genius can invent fine language. The stuff of which good style
is made must be given to the mind from without and given skilfully. A
child of the muses cannot write fine English unless fine English has
been its nourishment. In this, as in all other things, Miss Sullivan has
been the wise teacher. If she had not had taste and an enthusiasm for
good English, Helen Keller might have been brought up on the "Juvenile
Literature," which belittles the language under pretense of being simply
phrased for children; as if a child's book could not, like "Treasure
Island" or "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Jungle Book," be in good style.

If Miss Sullivan wrote fine English, the beauty of Helen Keller's
style would, in part, be explicable at once. But the extracts from Miss
Sullivan's letters and from her reports, although they are clear and
accurate, have not the beauty which distinguishes Miss Keller's English.
Her service as a teacher of English is not to be measured by her own
skill in composition. The reason why she read to her pupil so many good
books is due, in some measure, to the fact that she had so recently
recovered her eyesight. When she became Helen Keller's teacher she was
just awakening to the good things that are in books, from which she had
been shut out during her years of blindness.

In Captain Keller's library she found excellent books, Lamb's "Tales
from Shakespeare," and better still Montaigne. After the first year or
so of elementary work she met her pupil on equal terms, and they read
and enjoyed good books together.

Besides the selection of good books, there is one other cause for
Miss Keller's excellence in writing, for which Miss Sullivan deserves
unlimited credit. That is her tireless and unrelenting discipline, which
is evident in all her work. She never allowed her pupil to send off
letters which contained offenses against taste, but made her write them
over until they were not only correct, but charming and well phrased.

Any one who has tried to write knows what Miss Keller owes to the
endless practice which Miss Sullivan demanded of her. Let a teacher with
a liking for good style insist on a child's writing a paragraph over and
over again until it is more than correct, and he will be training,
even beyond his own power of expression, the power of expression in the
child.

How far Miss Sullivan carried this process of refinement and selection
is evident from the humorous comment of Dr. Bell, that she made her
pupil a little old woman, too widely different from ordinary children in
her maturity of thought. When Dr. Bell said this he was arguing his own
case. For it was Dr. Bell who first saw the principles that underlie
Miss Sullivan's method, and explained the process by which Helen Keller
absorbed language from books.

There is, moreover, a reason why Helen Keller writes good English, which
lies in the very absence of sight and hearing. The disadvantages of
being deaf and blind were overcome and the advantages remained. She
excels other deaf people because she was taught as if she were normal.
On the other hand, the peculiar value to her of language, which ordinary
people take for granted as a necessary part of them like their right
hand, made her think about language and love it. Language was her
liberator, and from the first she cherished it.

The proof of Miss Keller's early skill in the use of English, and the
final comment on the excellence of this whole method of teaching,
is contained in an incident, which, although at the time it seemed
unfortunate, can no longer be regretted. I refer to the "Frost King"
episode, which I shall explain in detail. Miss Keller has given her
account of it, and the whole matter was discussed in the first Volta
Bureau Souvenir from which I quote at length:


MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF THE "FROST KING"

HON. JOHN HITZ, Superintendent of the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C.

Dear Sir: Since my paper was prepared for the second edition of the
Souvenir "Helen Keller," some facts have been brought to my notice which
are of interest in connection with the subject of the acquisition of
language by my pupil, and if it is not already too late for publication
in this issue of the Souvenir, I shall be glad if I may have opportunity
to explain them in detail.

Perhaps it will be remembered that in my paper*, where allusion is made
to Helen's remarkable memory, it is noted that she appears to retain in
her mind many forms of expression which, at the time they are received,
she probably does not understand; but when further information is
acquired, the language retained in her memory finds full or partial
expression in her conversation or writing, according as it proves of
greater or less value to her in the fitness of its application to the
new experience. Doubtless this is true in the case of every intelligent
child, and should not, perhaps, be considered worthy of especial mention
in Helen's case, but for the fact that a child who is deprived of
the senses of sight and hearing might not be expected to be as gifted
mentally as this little girl proves to be; hence it is quite possible
we may be inclined to class as marvelous many things we discover in the
development of her mind which do not merit such an explanation.

* In this paper Miss Sullivan says: "During this winter (1891-92) I went
with her into the yard while a light snow was falling, and let her feel
the falling flakes. She appeared to enjoy it very much indeed. As
we went in she repeated these words, 'Out of the cloud-folds of his
garments Winter shakes the snow.' I inquired of her where she had read
this; she did not remember having read it, did not seem to know that
she had learned it. As I had never heard it, I inquired of several of
my friends if they recalled the words; no one seemed to remember it. The
teachers at the Institution expressed the opinion that the description
did not appear in any book in raised print in that library; but one
lady, Miss Marrett, took upon herself the task of examining books of
poems in ordinary type, and was rewarded by finding the following lines
in one of Longfellow's minor poems, entitled 'Snowflakes':

'Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.'

"It would seem that Helen had learned and treasured the memory of this
expression of the poet, and this morning in the snow-storm had found its
application."


In the hope that I may be pardoned if I appear to overestimate the
remarkable mental capacity and power of comprehension and discrimination
which my pupil possesses, I wish to add that, while I have always known
that Helen made great use of such descriptions and comparisons as appeal
to her imagination and fine poetic nature, yet recent developments in
her writings convince me of the fact that I have not in the past been
fully aware to what extent she absorbs the language of her favourite
authors. In the early part of her education I had full knowledge of all
the books she read and of nearly all the stories which were read to her,
and could without difficulty trace the source of any adaptations noted
in her writing or conversation; and I have always been much pleased to
observe how appropriately she applies the expressions of a favourite
author in her own compositions.

The following extracts from a few of her published letters give evidence
of how valuable this power of retaining the memory of beautiful language
has been to her. One warm, sunny day in early spring, when we were at
the North, the balmy atmosphere appears to have brought to her mind the
sentiment expressed by Longfellow in "Hiawatha," and she almost sings
with the poet: "The ground was all aquiver with the stir of new life. My
heart sang for very joy. I thought of my own dear home. I knew that in
that sunny land spring had come in all its splendour. 'All its birds and
all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses.'"

About the same time, in a letter to a friend, in which she makes mention
of her Southern home, she gives so close a reproduction from a poem
by one of her favourite authors that I will give extracts from Helen's
letter and from the poem itself:


EXTRACTS FROM HELEN'S LETTER

[The entire letter is published on pp. 245 and 246 of the Report of the
Perkins Institution for 1891]

The blue-bird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the
robin jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of
fire, the jolly bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating
the notes of all, the red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy
little wren, are all making the trees in our front yard ring with their
glad song.


FROM THE POEM ENTITLED "SPRING" BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed
from the myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down,
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake
of fire Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire; The robin, jerking
his spasmodic throat, Repeats imperious, his staccato note; The
crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bullrush tipsy
with his weight: Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, Feels the soft
air, and spreads his idle wings.


On the last day of April she uses another expression from the same poem,
which is more an adaptation than a reproduction: "To-morrow April will
hide her tears and blushes beneath the flowers of lovely May."

In a letter to a friend at the Perkins Institution, dated May 17, 1889,
she gives a reproduction from one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories,
which I had read to her not long before. This letter is published in the
Perkins Institution Report (1891), p. 204. The original story was read
to her from a copy of "Andersen's Stories," published by Leavitt & Allen
Bros., and may be found on p. 97 of Part I. in that volume.

Her admiration for the impressive explanations which Bishop Brooks has
given her of the Fatherhood of God is well known. In one of his letters,
speaking of how God in every way tells us of His love, he says, "I think
he writes it even upon the walls of the great house of nature which we
live in, that he is our Father." The next year at Andover she said: "It
seems to me the world is full of goodness, beauty, and love; and how
grateful we must be to our heavenly Father, who has given us so much to
enjoy! His love and care are written all over the walls of nature."

In these later years, since Helen has come in contact with so many
persons who are able to converse freely with her, she has made the
acquaintance of some literature with which I am not familiar; she has
also found in books printed in raised letters, in the reading of which I
have been unable to follow her, much material for the cultivation of
the taste she possesses for poetical imagery. The pages of the book she
reads become to her like paintings, to which her imaginative powers give
life and colour. She is at once transported into the midst of the events
portrayed in the story she reads or is told, and the characters and
descriptions become real to her; she rejoices when justice wins, and is
sad when virtue goes unrewarded. The pictures the language paints on her
memory appear to make an indelible impression; and many times, when an
experience comes to her similar in character, the language starts forth
with wonderful accuracy, like the reflection from a mirror.

Helen's mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand
with only the faintest touch of explanation every possible variety
of external relations. One day in Alabama, as we were gathering wild
flowers near the springs on the hillsides, she seemed to understand for
the first time that the springs were surrounded by mountains, and she
exclaimed: "The mountains are crowding around the springs to look at
their own beautiful reflections!" I do not know where she obtained this
language, yet it is evident that it must have come to her from without,
as it would hardly be possible for a person deprived of the visual sense
to originate such an idea. In mentioning a visit to Lexington, Mass.,
she writes: "As we rode along we could see the forest monarchs bend
their proud forms to listen to the little children of the woodlands
whispering their secrets. The anemone, the wild violet, the hepatica,
and the funny little curled-up ferns all peeped out at us from beneath
the brown leaves." She closes this letter with, "I must go to bed, for
Morpheus has touched my eyelids with his golden wand." Here again, I am
unable to state where she acquired these expressions.

She has always seemed to prefer stories which exercise the imagination,
and catches and retains the poetic spirit in all such literature; but
not until this winter have I been conscious that her memory absorbed the
exact language to such an extent that she is herself unable to trace the
source.

This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of
her parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves." She was
at work upon it about two weeks, writing a little each day, at her
own pleasure. When it was finished, and we read it in the family, it
occasioned much comment on account of the beautiful imagery, and we
could not understand how Helen could describe such pictures without the
aid of sight. As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this
before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, "I did
not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday." While I was
surprised that she could write like this, I was not more astonished than
I had been many times before at the unexpected achievements of my little
pupil, especially as we had exchanged many beautiful thoughts on the
subject of the glory of the ripening foliage during the autumn of this
year.

Before Helen made her final copy of the story, it was suggested to her
to change its title to "The Frost King," as more appropriate to the
subject of which the story treated; to this she willingly assented. The
story was written by Helen in braille, as usual and copied by her in
the same manner, I then interlined the manuscript for the greater
convenience of those who desired to read it. Helen wrote a little
letter, and, enclosing the manuscript, forwarded both by mail to Mr.
Anagnos for his birthday.

The story was printed in the January number of the Mentor and, from a
review of it in the Goodson Gazette, I was startled to find that a very
similar story had been published in 1873, seven years before Helen was
born. This story, "Frost Fairies," appeared in a book written by Miss
Margaret T. Canby, entitled "Birdie and his Fairy Friends." The passages
quoted from the two stories were so much alike in thought and expression
as to convince me that Miss Canby's story must at some time have been
read to Helen.

As I had never read this story, or even heard of the book, I inquired of
Helen if she knew anything about the matter, and found she did not. She
was utterly unable to recall either the name of the story or the book.
Careful examination was made of the books in raised print in the library
of the Perkins Institution to learn if any extracts from this volume
could be found there; but nothing was discovered. I then concluded that
the story must have been read to her a long time ago, as her memory
usually retains with great distinctness facts and impressions which have
been committed to its keeping.

After making careful inquiry, I succeeded in obtaining the information
that our friend, Mrs. S. C. Hopkins, had a copy of this book in 1888
which was presented to her little daughter in 1873 or 1874. Helen and
I spent the summer of 1888 with Mrs. Hopkins at her home in Brewster,
Mass., where she kindly relieved me a part of the time, of the care
of Helen. She amused and entertained Helen by reading to her from a
collection of juvenile publications, among which was the copy of "Birdie
and his Fairy Friends"; and, while Mrs. Hopkins does not remember
this story of "Frost Fairies," she is confident that she read to Helen
extracts, if not entire stories, from this volume. But as she was not
able to find her copy, and applications for the volume at bookstores in
Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Albany, and other places resulted only
in failure, search was instituted for the author herself. This became
a difficult task, as her publishers in Philadelphia had retired from
business many years ago; however, it was eventually discovered that her
residence is at Wilmington, Delaware, and copies of the second edition
of the book, 1889, were obtained from her. She has since secured and
forwarded to me a copy of the first edition.

The most generous and gratifying letters have been received from Miss
Canby by Helen's friends, a few extracts from which are given:

Under date of February 24, 1892, after mentioning the order of the
publication of the stories in the magazine, she writes:

"All the stories were revised before publishing them in book form;
additions were made to the number as first published, I think, and some
of the titles may have been changed."

In the same letter she writes:

"I hope that you will be able to make her understand that I am glad she
enjoyed my story, and that I hope the new book will give her pleasure
by renewing her friendship with the Fairies. I shall write to her in a
short time. I am so much impressed with what I have learned of her that
I have written a little poem entitled A Silent Singer, which I may send
to her mother after a while. Can you tell me in what paper the article
appeared accusing Helen of plagiarism, and giving passages from both
stories? I should like much to see it, and to obtain a few copies if
possible."

Under date of March 9, 1892, Miss Canby writes:

"I find traces, in the Report which you so kindly sent me, of little
Helen having heard other stories than that of 'Frost Fairies.' On page
132, in a letter, there is a passage which must have been suggested by
my story called 'The Rose Fairies' (see pp. 13-16 of 'Birdie') and on
pages 93 and 94 of the Report the description of a thunderstorm is very
much like Birdie's idea of the same in the 'Dew Fairies' on page 59 and
60 of my book. What a wonderfully active and retentive mind that gifted
child must have! If she had remembered and written down accurately,
a short story, and that soon after hearing it, it would have been a
marvel; but to have heard the story once, three years ago, and in such
a way that neither her parents nor teacher could ever allude to it or
refresh her memory about it, and then to have been able to reproduce it
so vividly, even adding some touches of her own in perfect keeping with
the rest, which really improve the original, is something that very few
girls of riper age, and with every advantage of sight, hearing, and even
great talents for composition, could have done as well, if at all. Under
the circumstances, I do not see how any one can be so unkind as to call
it a plagiarism; it is a wonderful feat of memory, and stands ALONE, as
doubtless much of her work will in future, if her mental powers grow and
develop with her years as greatly as in the few years past. I have known
many children well, have been surrounded by them all my life, and love
nothing better than to talk with them, amuse them, and quietly notice
their traits of mind and character; but I do not recollect more than one
girl of Helen's age who had the love and thirst for knowledge, and the
store of literary and general information, and the skill in composition,
which Helen possesses. She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child.' Thank you very
much for the Report, Gazette, and Helen's Journal. The last made me
realize the great disappointment to the dear child more than before.
Please give her my warm love, and tell her not to feel troubled about
it any more. No one shall be allowed to think it was anything wrong; and
some day she will write a great, beautiful story or poem that will make
many people happy. Tell her there are a few bitter drops in every one's
cup, and the only way is to take the bitter patiently, and the sweet
thankfully. I shall love to hear of her reception of the book and how
she likes the stories which are new to her."

I have now (March, 1892) read to Helen "The Frost Fairies," "The Rose
Fairies," and a portion of "The Dew Fairies," but she is unable to throw
any light on the matter. She recognized them at once as her own stories,
with variations, and was much puzzled to know how they could have been
published before she was born! She thinks it is wonderful that two
people should write stories so much alike; but she still considers her
own as original.

I give below a portion of Miss Canby's story, "The Rose Fairies," and
also Helen's letter to Mr. Anagnos containing her "dream," so that the
likenesses and differences may be studied by those interested in the
subject:


THE ROSE FAIRIES

[From"Birdie and his Fairy Friends," by Margaret T. Canby]

One pleasant morning little Birdie might have been seen sitting quietly
on the grass-plat at the side of his mother's house, looking very
earnestly at the rose-bushes.

It was quite early; great Mr. Sun, who is such an early riser in summer
time, had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to chirp
their "good-mornings" to each other; and as for the flowers, they were
still asleep. But Birdie was so busy all day, trotting about the house
and garden, that he was always ready for HIS nest at night, before the
birds and flowers had thought of seeking THEIRS; and so it came to
pass that when Mr. Sun raised his head above the green woods and smiled
lovingly upon the earth, Birdie was often the first to see him, and
to smile back at him, all the while rubbing his eyes with his dimpled
fists, until between smiling and rubbing, he was wide awake.

And what do you think he did next! Why, the little rogue rolled into his
mamma's bed, and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, and her mouth, until
she began to dream that it was raining kisses; and at last she opened
her eyes to see what it all meant, and found that it was Birdie, trying
to "kiss her awake," as he said.

She loved her little boy very dearly, and liked to make him happy, and
when he said, "Please dress me, dear mamma, and let me go out to play
in the garden," she cheerfully consented; and, soon after, Birdie went
downstairs in his morning-dress of cool linen, and with his round face
bright and rosy from its bath, and ran out on the gravel path to play,
until breakfast was ready.

He stood still a moment to look about him, and think what he should do
first. The fresh morning air blew softly in his face, as if to welcome
him and be his merry playmate; and the bright eye of Mr. Sun looked at
him with a warm and glowing smile; but Birdie soon walked on to find
something to play with. As he came in sight of the rose-bushes that grew
near the side of the house, he suddenly clapped his hands, and with a
little shout of joy stopped to look at them; they were all covered with
lovely rosebuds. Some were red, some white, and others pale pink, and
they were just peeping out of the green leaves, as rosy-faced children
peep out from their warm beds in wintertime before they are quite
willing to get up. A few days before, Birdie's papa had told him that
the green balls on the rose-bushes had beautiful flowers shut up within
them, but the little boy found it hard to believe, for he was so young
that he did not remember how pretty the roses had been the summer
before. Now he found out that his father's words were true, for a few
days of warm weather had turned the green balls into rosebuds, and they
were SO beautiful that it was enough to make Birdie stand still before
them, his blue eyes dancing with delight and his little hands clasped
tightly together.

After awhile he went nearer, and looking closely at the buds, found that
they were folded up, leaf over leaf, as eyelids are folded over sleeping
eyes, so that Birdie thought they must be asleep. "Lazy roses, wake up,"
said he, giving the branches a gentle shake; but only the dew fell off
in bright drops, and the flowers were still shut up. At last Birdie
remembered how he had awakened his mother with kisses, and thought he
would try the same plan with the roses; so he drew up his red lips until
THEY looked like a rosebud, too, and bending down a branch with a lovely
pink bud upon it, he kissed it softly two or three times.


Here the similarity in the language of the story to that in the letter
ceases.


HELEN'S LETTER TO MR. ANAGNOS

(Written February 2 and 3, 1890.)

[This letter was enclosed in another written in French, dated Le 1
fevrier 1890.]

My Dear Mr. Anagnos: You will laugh when you open your little friend's
letter and see all the queer mistakes she has made in French, but I
think you will be pleased to know that I can write even a short letter
in French. It makes me very happy to please you and my dear teacher. I
wish I could see your little niece Amelia. I am sure we should love each
other. I hope you will bring some of Virginia Evanghelides' poems home
with you, and translate them for me. Teacher and I have just returned
from our walk. It is a beautiful day. We met a sweet little child. She
was playing on the pier with a wee brother. She gave me a kiss and then
ran away, because she was a shy little girl. I wonder if you would like
to have me tell you a pretty dream which I had a long time ago when I
was a very little child? Teacher says it was a day-dream, and she thinks
you would be delighted to hear it. One pleasant morning in the beautiful
springtime, I thought I was sitting on the soft grass under my dear
mother's window, looking very earnestly at the rose-bushes which were
growing all around me. It was quite early, the sun had not been up very
long; the birds were just beginning to sing joyously. The flowers were
still asleep. They would not awake until the sun had smiled lovingly
upon them. I was a very happy little child with rosy cheeks, and large
blue eyes, and the most beautiful golden ringlets you can imagine. The
fresh morning air blew gently in my face, as if to welcome me, and be my
merry playmate, and the sun looked at me with a warm and tender smile.
I clapped my chubby hands for joy when I saw that the rose-bushes were
covered with lovely buds. Some were red, some white, and others were
delicate pink, and they were peeping out from between the green leaves
like beautiful little fairies. I had never seen anything so lovely
before, for I was very young and I could not remember how pretty the
roses had been the summer before. My little heart was filled with a
sweet joy, and I danced around the rosebushes to show my delight.
After a while I went very near to a beautiful white rose-bush which was
completely covered with buds and sparkling with dewdrops; I bent down
one of the branches with a lovely pure white bud upon it, and kissed it
softly many times; just then I felt two loving arms steal gently around
me, and loving lips kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, and my mouth, until
I began to think it was raining kisses; and at last I opened my eyes
to see what it all meant, and found it was my precious mother, who was
bending over me, trying to kiss me awake. Do you like my day-dream? If
you do, perhaps I will dream again for you some time.

Teacher and all of your friends send you their love. I shall be so glad
when you come home, for I greatly miss you. Please give my love to your
good Greek friends, and tell them that I shall come to Athens some day.

Lovingly your little friend and playmate, HELEN A. KELLER.


"The Frost Fairies" and "The Frost Kings" are given in full, as the
differences are as important as the resemblances:

The Frost Fairies [From "Birdie and his Fairy Friends"] by Margaret T.
Canby

King Frost, or Jack Frost as he is sometimes called, lives in a cold
country far to the North; but every year he takes a journey over the
world in a car of golden clouds drawn by a strong and rapid steed called
"North Wind." Wherever he goes he does many wonderful things; he builds
bridges over every stream, clear as glass in appearance but often strong
as iron; he puts the flowers and plants to sleep by one touch of his
hand, and they all bow down and sink into the warm earth, until spring
returns; then, lest we should grieve for the flowers, he places at our
windows lovely wreaths and sprays of his white northern flowers,
or delicate little forests of fairy pine-trees, pure white and very
beautiful. But his most wonderful work is the painting of the trees,
which look, after his task is done, as if they were covered with the
brightest layers of gold and rubies; and are beautiful enough to comfort
us for the flight of summer.

I will tell you how King Frost first thought of this kind work, for it
is a strange story. You must know that this King, like all other kings,
has great treasures of gold and precious stones in his palace; but,
being a good-hearted old fellow, he does not keep his riches locked up
all the time, but tries to do good and make others happy with them. He
has two neighbours, who live still farther north; one is King Winter, a
cross and churlish old monarch, who is hard and cruel, and delights in
making the poor suffer and weep; but the other neighbour is Santa Claus,
a fine, good-natured, jolly old soul, who loves to do good, and who
brings presents to the poor, and to nice little children at Christmas.

Well, one day King Frost was trying to think of some good that he could
do with his treasure; and suddenly he concluded to send some of it to
his kind neighbour, Santa Claus, to buy presents of food and clothing
for the poor, that they might not suffer so much when King Winter went
near their homes. So he called together his merry little fairies, and
showing them a number of jars and vases filled with gold and precious
stones, told them to carry those carefully to the palace of Santa Claus,
and give them to him with the compliments of King Frost. "He will know
how to make good use of the treasure," added Jack Frost; then he told
the fairies not to loiter by the way, but to do his bidding quickly.

The fairies promised obedience and soon started on their journey,
dragging the great glass jars and vases along, as well as they could,
and now and then grumbling a little at having such hard work to do, for
they were idle fairies, and liked play better than work. At last they
reached a great forest, and, being quite tired, they decided to rest
awhile and look for nuts before going any further. But lest the treasure
should be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the thick leaves
of the forest trees, placing some high up near the top, and others in
different parts of the various trees, until they thought no one could
find them.

Then they began to wander about and hunt for nuts, and climb the trees
to shake them down, and worked much harder for their own pleasure than
they had done for their master's bidding, for it is a strange truth that
fairies and children never complain of the toil and trouble they take in
search of amusement, although they often grumble when asked to work for
the good of others.

The frost fairies were so busy and so merry over their nutting frolic
that they soon forgot their errand and their king's command to go
quickly; but, as they played and loitered in the forest until noon, they
found the reason why they were told to hasten; for although they had, as
they thought, hidden the treasure so carefully, they had not secured it
from the power of Mr. Sun, who was an enemy of Jack Frost, and delighted
to undo his work and weaken him whenever he could.

His bright eyes found out the jars of treasure among the trees, and as
the idle fairies left them there until noon, at which time Mr. Sun is
the strongest, the delicate glass began to melt and break, and before
long every jar and vase was cracked or broken, and the precious
treasures they contained were melting, too, and dripping slowly in
streams of gold and crimson over the trees and bushes of the forest.

Still, for awhile, the frost fairies did not notice this strange
occurrence, for they were down on the grass, so far below the tree-tops
that the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time in reaching
them; but at last one of them said, "Hark! I believe it is raining; I
certainly hear the falling drops." The others laughed, and told him that
it seldom rained when the sun was shining; but as they listened they
plainly heard the tinkling of many drops falling through the forest, and
sliding from leaf to leaf until they reached the bramble-bushes beside
them, when, to their great dismay, they found that the RAIN-DROPS were
MELTED RUBIES, which hardened on the leaves and turned them to bright
crimson in a moment. Then looking more closely at the trees around,
they saw that the treasure was all melting away, and that much of it was
already spread over the leaves of the oak trees and maples, which
were shining with their gorgeous dress of gold and bronze, crimson
and emerald. It was very beautiful; but the idle fairies were too much
frightened at the mischief their disobedience had caused, to admire the
beauty of the forest, and at once tried to hide themselves among the
bushes, lest King Frost should come and punish them.

Their fears were well founded, for their long absence had alarmed the
king, and he had started out to look for his tardy servants, and just as
they were all hidden, he came along slowly, looking on all sides for the
fairies. Of course, he soon noticed the brightness of the leaves, and
discovered the cause, too, when he caught sight of the broken jars and
vases from which the melted treasure was still dropping. And when he
came to the nut trees, and saw the shells left by the idle fairies and
all the traces of their frolic, he knew exactly how they had acted,
and that they had disobeyed him by playing and loitering on their way
through the woods.

King Frost frowned and looked very angry at first, and his fairies
trembled for fear and cowered still lower in their hiding-places; but
just then two little children came dancing through the wood, and though
they did not see King Frost or the fairies, they saw the beautiful
colour of the leaves, and laughed with delight, and began picking great
bunches to take to their mother. "The leaves are as pretty as flowers,"
said they; and they called the golden leaves "buttercups," and the red
ones "roses," and were very happy as they went singing through the wood.

Their pleasure charmed away King Frost's anger, and he, too, began to
admire the painted trees, and at last he said to himself, "My treasures
are not wasted if they make little children happy. I will not be
offended at my idle, thoughtless fairies, for they have taught me a new
way of doing good." When the frost fairies heard these words they crept,
one by one, from their corners, and, kneeling down before their master,
confessed their fault, and asked his pardon. He frowned upon them for
awhile, and scolded them, too, but he soon relented, and said he would
forgive them this time, and would only punish them by making them carry
more treasure to the forest, and hide it in the trees, until all the
leaves, with Mr. Sun's help, were covered with gold and ruby coats.

Then the fairies thanked him for his forgiveness, and promised to work
very hard to please him; and the good-natured king took them all up in
his arms, and carried them safely home to his palace. From that time, I
suppose, it has been part of Jack Frost's work to paint the trees with
the glowing colours we see in the autumn; and if they are NOT covered
with gold and precious stones, I do not know how he makes them so
bright; DO YOU?


The Frost King by Helen A. Keller

King Frost lives in a beautiful palace far to the North, in the land of
perpetual snow. The palace, which is magnificent beyond description, was
built centuries ago, in the reign of King Glacier. At a little distance
from the palace we might easily mistake it for a mountain whose peaks
were mounting heavenward to receive the last kiss of the departing
day. But on nearer approach we should discover our error. What we had
supposed to be peaks were in reality a thousand glittering spires.
Nothing could be more beautiful than the architecture of this
ice-palace. The walls are curiously constructed of massive blocks of ice
which terminate in cliff-like towers. The entrance to the palace is at
the end of an arched recess, and it is guarded night and day by twelve
soldierly-looking white Bears.

But, children, you must make King Frost a visit the very first
opportunity you have, and see for yourselves this wonderful palace. The
old King will welcome you kindly, for he loves children, and it is his
chief delight to give them pleasure.

You must know that King Frost, like all other kings, has great treasures
of gold and precious stones; but as he is a generous old monarch, he
endeavours to make a right use of his riches. So wherever he goes he
does many wonderful works; he builds bridges over every stream, as
transparent as glass, but often as strong as iron; he shakes the forest
trees until the ripe nuts fall into the laps of laughing children; he
puts the flowers to sleep with one touch of his hand; then, lest we
should mourn for the bright faces of the flowers, he paints the leaves
with gold and crimson and emerald, and when his task is done the trees
are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer. I will tell
you how King Frost happened to think of painting the leaves, for it is a
strange story.

One day while King Frost was surveying his vast wealth and thinking what
good he could do with it, he suddenly bethought him of his jolly old
neighbour, Santa Claus. "I will send my treasures to Santa Claus,"
said the King to himself. "He is the very man to dispose of them
satisfactorily, for he knows where the poor and the unhappy live, and
his kind old heart is always full of benevolent plans for their relief."
So he called together the merry little fairies of his household and,
showing them the jars and vases containing his treasures, he bade them
carry them to the palace of Santa Claus as quickly as they could. The
fairies promised obedience, and were off in a twinkling, dragging the
heavy jars and vases along after them as well as they could, now and
then grumbling a little at having such a hard task, for they were idle
fairies and loved to play better than to work. After awhile they came to
a great forest and, being tired and hungry, they thought they would rest
a little and look for nuts before continuing their journey. But thinking
their treasure might be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the
thick green leaves of the various trees until they were sure that no one
could find them. Then they began to wander merrily about searching for
nuts, climbing trees, peeping curiously into the empty birds' nests, and
playing hide and seek from behind the trees. Now, these naughty fairies
were so busy and so merry over their frolic that they forgot all about
their errand and their master's command to go quickly, but soon they
found to their dismay why they had been bidden to hasten, for although
they had, as they supposed, hidden the treasure carefully, yet the
bright eyes of King Sun had spied out the jars among the leaves, and
as he and King Frost could never agree as to what was the best way of
benefiting the world, he was very glad of a good opportunity of playing
a joke upon his rather sharp rival. King Sun laughed softly to himself
when the delicate jars began to melt and break. At length every jar and
vase was cracked or broken, and the precious stones they contained were
melting, too, and running in little streams over the trees and bushes of
the forest.

Still the idle fairies did not notice what was happening, for they were
down on the grass, and the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time
in reaching them; but at last they plainly heard the tinkling of many
drops falling like rain through the forest, and sliding from leaf to
leaf until they reached the little bushes by their side, when to their
astonishment they discovered that the rain-drops were melted rubies
which hardened on the leaves, and turned them to crimson and gold in
a moment. Then looking around more closely, they saw that much of the
treasure was already melted, for the oaks and maples were arrayed in
gorgeous dresses of gold and crimson and emerald. It was very beautiful,
but the disobedient fairies were too frightened to notice the beauty of
the trees. They were afraid that King Frost would come and punish
them. So they hid themselves among the bushes and waited silently for
something to happen. Their fears were well founded, for their long
absence had alarmed the King, and he mounted North Wind and went out
in search of his tardy couriers. Of course, he had not gone far when he
noticed the brightness of the leaves, and he quickly guessed the cause
when he saw the broken jars from which the treasure was still dropping.
At first King Frost was very angry, and the fairies trembled and
crouched lower in their hiding-places, and I do not know what might have
happened to them if just then a party of boys and girls had not entered
the wood. When the children saw the trees all aglow with brilliant
colors they clapped their hands and shouted for joy, and immediately
began to pick great bunches to take home. "The leaves are as lovely as
the flowers!" cried they, in their delight. Their pleasure banished the
anger from King Frost's heart and the frown from his brow, and he, too,
began to admire the painted trees. He said to himself, "My treasures are
not wasted if they make little children happy. My idle fairies and my
fiery enemy have taught me a new way of doing good."

When the fairies heard this, they were greatly relieved and came
forth from their hiding-places, confessed their fault, and asked their
master's forgiveness.

Ever since that time it has been King Frost's great delight to paint the
leaves with the glowing colors we see in the autumn, and if they are not
covered with gold and precious stones I cannot imagine what makes them
so bright, can you?



If the story of "The Frost Fairies" was read to Helen in the summer of
1888, she could not have understood very much of it at that time, for
she had only been under instruction since March, 1887.

Can it be that the language of the story had remained dormant in her
mind until my description of the beauty of the autumn scenery in 1891
brought it vividly before her mental vision?

I have made careful investigation among Helen's friends in Alabama and
in Boston and its vicinity, but thus far have been unable to ascertain
any later date when it could have been read to her.

Another fact is of great significance in this connection. "The Rose
Fairies" was published in the same volume with "The Frost Fairies," and,
therefore, was probably read to Helen at or about the same time.

Now Helen, in her letter of February, 1890 (quoted above), alludes to
this story of Miss Canby's as a dream "WHICH I HAD A LONG TIME AGO WHEN
I WAS A VERY LITTLE CHILD." Surely, a year and a half would appear "a
long time ago" to a little girl like Helen; we therefore have reason to
believe that the stories must have been read to her at least as early as
the summer of 1888.



HELEN KELLER'S OWN STATEMENT

(The following entry made by Helen in her diary speaks for itself.)

'1892. January 30. This morning I took a bath, and when teacher came
upstairs to comb my hair she told me some very sad news which made me
unhappy all day. Some one wrote to Mr. Anagnos that the story which I
sent him as a birthday gift, and which I wrote myself, was not my story
at all, but that a lady had written it a long time ago. The person said
her story was called "Frost Fairies." I am sure I never heard it. It
made us feel so bad to think that people thought we had been untrue and
wicked. My heart was full of tears, for I love the beautiful truth with
my whole heart and mind.

'It troubles me greatly now. I do not know what I shall do. I never
thought that people could make such mistakes. I am perfectly sure I
wrote the story myself. Mr. Anagnos is much troubled. It grieves me to
think that I have been the cause of his unhappiness, but of course I did
not mean to do it.

'I thought about my story in the autumn, because teacher told me about
the autumn leaves while we walked in the woods at Fern Quarry. I thought
fairies must have painted them because they are so wonderful, and
I thought, too, that King Frost must have jars and vases containing
precious treasures, because I knew that other kings long ago had, and
because teacher told me that the leaves were painted ruby, emerald,
gold, crimson, and brown; so that I thought the paint must be melted
stones. I knew that they must make children happy because they are
so lovely, and it made me very happy to think that the leaves were so
beautiful and that the trees glowed so, although I could not see them.

'I thought everybody had the same thought about the leaves, but I do not
know now. I thought very much about the sad news when teacher went to
the doctor's; she was not here at dinner and I missed her.'


I do not feel that I can add anything more that will be of interest.
My own heart is too "full of tears" when I remember how my dear little
pupil suffered when she knew "that people thought we had been untrue and
wicked," for I know that she does indeed "love the beautiful truth with
her whole heart and mind."

Yours truly, ANNIE M. SULLIVAN.


So much appears in the Volta Bureau Souvenir. The following letter from
Mr. Anagnos is reprinted from the American Annals of the Deaf, April,
1892:

PERKINS INSTITUTION AND MASSACHUSETTS SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND SO. BOSTON,
March 11, 1892. TO THE EDITOR OF THE ANNALS.

Sir: In compliance with your wishes I make the following statement
concerning Helen Keller's story of "King Frost." It was sent to me as a
birthday gift on November 7th, from Tuscumbia, Alabama. Knowing as well
as I do Helen's extraordinary abilities I did not hesitate to accept
it as her own work; nor do I doubt to-day that she is fully capable of
writing such a composition. Soon after its appearance in print I was
pained to learn, through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the
story (eight or nine passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation
of Miss Margaret Canby's "Frost Fairies." I immediately instituted an
inquiry to ascertain the facts in the case. None of our teachers or
officers who are accustomed to converse with Helen ever knew or heard
about Miss Canby's book, nor did the child's parents and relatives at
home have any knowledge of it. Her father, Captain Keller, wrote to me
as follows on the subject:

"I hasten to assure you that Helen could not have received any idea of
the story from any of her relations or friends here, none of whom can
communicate with her readily enough to impress her with the details of a
story of that character."

At my request, one of the teachers in the girls' department examined
Helen in regard to the construction of the story. Her testimony is as
follows:

"I first tried to ascertain what had suggested to Helen's mind the
particular fancies which made her story seem like a reproduction of one
written by Miss Margaret Canby. Helen told me that for a long time she
had thought of Jack Frost as a king, because of the many treasures which
he possessed. Such rich treasures must be kept in a safe place, and so
she had imagined them stored in jars and vases in one part of the royal
palace. She said that one autumn day her teacher told her as they were
walking together in the woods, about the many beautiful colours of
the leaves, and she had thought that such beauty must make people very
happy, and very grateful to King Frost. I asked Helen what stories she
had read about Jack Frost. In answer to my question she recited a part
of the poem called 'Freaks of the Frost,' and she referred to a little
piece about winter, in one of the school readers. She could not remember
that any one had ever read to her any stories about King Frost, but
said she had talked with her teacher about Jack Frost and the wonderful
things he did."

The only person that we supposed might possibly have read the story to
Helen was her friend, Mrs. Hopkins, whom she was visiting at the time
in Brewster. I asked Miss Sullivan to go at once to see Mrs. Hopkins and
ascertain the facts in the matter. The result of her investigation
is embodied in the printed note herewith enclosed. [This note is a
statement of the bare facts and an apology, which Mr. Anagnos inserted
in his report of the Perkins Institute.]

I have scarcely any doubt that Miss Canby's little book was read to
Helen, by Mrs. Hopkins, in the summer of 1888. But the child has
no recollection whatever of this fact. On Miss Sullivan's return to
Brewster, she read to Helen the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy,"
which she had purchased in Boston for the purpose. The child was at once
fascinated and absorbed with the charming story, which evidently made a
deeper impression upon her mind than any previously read to her, as
was shown in the frequent reference to it, both in her conversation and
letters, for many months afterward. Her intense interest in Fauntleroy
must have buried all remembrance of "Frost Fairies," and when, more
than three years later, she had acquired a fuller knowledge and use
of language, and was told of Jack Frost and his work, the seed so long
buried sprang up into new thoughts and fancies. This may explain the
reason why Helen claims persistently that "The Frost King" is her own
story. She seems to have some idea of the difference between original
composition and reproduction. She did not know the meaning of the word
"plagiarism" until quite recently, when it was explained to her. She is
absolutely truthful. Veracity is the strongest element of her character.
She was very much surprised and grieved when she was told that her
composition was an adaptation of Miss Canby's story of "Frost Fairies."
She could not keep back her tears, and the chief cause of her pain
seemed to be the fear lest people should doubt her truthfulness. She
said, with great intensity of feeling, "I love the beautiful truth."
A most rigid examination of the child of about two hours' duration, at
which eight persons were present and asked all sorts of questions with
perfect freedom, failed to elicit in the least any testimony convicting
either her teacher or any one else of the intention or attempt to
practice deception.

In view of these facts I cannot but think that Helen, while writing "The
Frost King," was entirely unconscious of ever having had the story of
"Frost Fairies" read to her, and that her memory has been accompanied
by such a loss of associations that she herself honestly believed her
composition to be original. This theory is shared by many persons who
are perfectly well acquainted with the child and who are able to rise
above the clouds of a narrow prejudice.

Very sincerely yours, M. ANAGNOS. Director of the Perkins Institution
and Massachusetts School for the Blind.


The episode had a deadening effect on Helen Keller and on Miss Sullivan,
who feared that she had allowed the habit of imitation, which has in
truth made Miss Keller a writer, to go too far. Even to-day, when
Miss Keller strikes off a fine phrase, Miss Sullivan says in humorous
despair, "I wonder where she got that?" But she knows now, since she has
studied with her pupil in college the problems of composition, under the
wise advice of Mr. Charles T. Copeland, that the style of every writer
and indeed, of every human being, illiterate or cultivated, is a
composite reminiscence of all that he has read and heard. Of the sources
of his vocabulary he is, for the most part, as unaware as he is of the
moment when he ate the food which makes a bit of his thumbnail. With
most of us the contributions from different sources are blended, crossed
and confused. A child with but few sources may keep distinct what he
draws from each. In this case Helen Keller held almost intact in her
mind, unmixed with other ideas, the words of a story which at the time
it was read to her she did not fully understand. The importance of this
cannot be overestimated. It shows how the child-mind gathers into itself
words it has heard, and how they lurk there ready to come out when
the key that releases the spring is touched. The reason that we do not
observe this process in ordinary children is, because we seldom observe
them at all, and because they are fed from so many sources that the
memories are confused and mutually destructive. The story of "The Frost
King" did not, however, come from Helen Keller's mind intact, but had
taken to itself the mould of the child's temperament and had drawn on
a vocabulary that to some extent had been supplied in other ways. The
style of her version is in some respects even better than the style
of Miss Canby's story. It has the imaginative credulity of a primitive
folktale; whereas Miss Canby's story is evidently told for children
by an older person, who adopts the manner of a fairy tale and cannot
conceal the mature mood which allows such didactic phrases as "Jack
Frost as he is sometimes called," "Noon, at which time Mr. Sun is
strongest." Most people will feel the superior imaginative quality of
Helen Keller's opening paragraph. Surely the writer must become as a
little child to see things like that. "Twelve soldierly-looking white
bears" is a stroke of genius, and there is beauty of rhythm throughout
the child's narrative. It is original in the same way that a poet's
version of an old story is original.

This little story calls into life all the questions of language and the
philosophy of style. Some conclusions may be briefly suggested.

All use of language is imitative, and one's style is made up of all
other styles that one has met.

The way to write good English is to read it and hear it. Thus it is that
any child may be taught to use correct English by not being allowed to
read or hear any other kind. In a child, the selection of the better
from the worse is not conscious; he is the servant of his word
experience.

The ordinary man will never be rid of the fallacy that words obey
thought, that one thinks first and phrases afterward. There must first,
it is true, be the intention, the desire to utter something, but the
idea does not often become specific, does not take shape until it is
phrased; certainly an idea is a different thing by virtue of being
phrased. Words often make the thought, and the master of words will say
things greater than are in him. A remarkable example is a paragraph from
Miss Keller's sketch in the Youth's Companion. Writing of the moment
when she learned that everything has a name, she says: "We met the nurse
carrying my little cousin; and teacher spelled 'baby.' AND FOR THE FIRST
TIME I was impressed with the smallness and helplessness of a little
baby, and mingled with the thought there was another one of myself, and
I was glad I was myself, and not a baby." It was a word that created
these thoughts in her mind. So the master of words is master of thoughts
which the words create, and says things greater than he could otherwise
know. Helen Keller writing "The Frost King" was building better than she
knew and saying more than she meant.

Whoever makes a sentence of words utters not his wisdom, but the wisdom
of the race whose life is in the words, though they have never been
so grouped before. The man who can write stories thinks of stories to
write. The medium calls forth the thing it conveys, and the greater the
medium the deeper the thoughts.

The educated man is the man whose expression is educated. The substance
of thought is language, and language is the one thing to teach the deaf
child and every other child. Let him get language and he gets the very
stuff that language is made of, the thought and the experience of his
race. The language must be one used by a nation, not an artificial
thing. Volapuk is a paradox, unless one has French or English or German
or some other language that has grown up in a nation. The deaf child who
has only the sign language of De l'Epee is an intellectual Philip Nolan,
an alien from all races, and his thoughts are not the thoughts of an
Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. The Lord's prayer in signs is
not the Lord's prayer in English.

In his essay on style De Quincey says that the best English is to be
found in the letters of the cultivated gentlewoman, because she has
read only a few good books and has not been corrupted by the style of
newspapers and the jargon of street, market-place, and assembly hall.

Precisely these outward circumstances account for Helen Keller's use of
English. In the early years of her education she had only good things to
read; some were, indeed, trivial and not excellent in style, but not
one was positively bad in manner or substance. This happy condition
has obtained throughout her life. She has been nurtured on imaginative
literature, and she has gathered from it into her vigorous and tenacious
memory the style of great writers. "A new word opens its heart to me,"
she writes in a letter; and when she uses the word its heart is still
open. When she was twelve years old, she was asked what book she would
take on a long railroad journey. "Paradise Lost," she answered, and she
read it on the train.

Until the last year or two she has not been master of her style,
rather has her style been master of her. It is only since she has made
composition a more conscious study that she has ceased to be the victim
of the phrase; the lucky victim, fortunately, of the good phrase.

When in 1892, she was encouraged to write a sketch of her life for the
Youth's Companion, in the hope that it would reassure her and help her
to recover from the effect of "The Frost King," she produced a piece
of composition which is much more remarkable and in itself more
entertaining at some points than the corresponding part of her story in
this book. When she came to retell the story in a fuller form, the echo
was still in her mind of the phrases she had written nine years before.
Yet she had not seen her sketch in the Youth's Companion since she wrote
it, except two passages which Miss Sullivan read to her to remind her of
things she should say in this autobiography, and to show her, when her
phrasing troubled her, how much better she did as a little girl.

From the early sketch I take a few passages which seem to me, without
making very much allowance for difference in time, almost as good as
anything she has written since:

I discovered the true way to walk when I was a year old, and during the
radiant summer days that followed I was never still a minute....

Then when my father came in the evening, I would run to the gate to meet
him, and he would take me up in his strong arms and put back the tangled
curls from my face and kiss me many times, saying, "What has my Little
Woman been doing to-day?"

But the brightest summer has winter behind it. In the cold, dreary month
of February, when I was nineteen months old, I had a serious illness.
I still have confused memories of that illness. My mother sat beside my
little bed and tried to soothe my feverish moans while in her troubled
heart she prayed, "Father in Heaven, spare my baby's life!" But the
fever grew and flamed in my eyes, and for several days my kind physician
thought I would die.

But early one morning the fever left me as mysteriously and unexpectedly
as it had come, and I fell into a quiet sleep. Then my parents knew I
would live, and they were very happy. They did not know for some time
after my recovery that the cruel fever had taken my sight and hearing;
taken all the light and music and gladness out of my little life.

But I was too young to realize what had happened. When I awoke and found
that all was dark and still, I suppose I thought it was night, and I
must have wondered why day was so long coming. Gradually, however, I got
used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me, and forgot that it
had ever been day.

I forgot everything that had been except my mother's tender love. Soon
even my childish voice was stilled, because I had ceased to hear any
sound.

But all was not lost! After all, sight and hearing are but two of the
beautiful blessings which God had given me. The most precious, the
most wonderful of His gifts was still mine. My mind remained clear and
active, "though fled fore'er the light."

As soon as my strength returned, I began to take an interest in what the
people around me were doing. I would cling to my mother's dress as she
went about her household duties, and my little hands felt every object
and observed every motion, and in this way I learned a great many
things.

When I was a little older I felt the need of some means of communication
with those around me, and I began to make simple signs which my parents
and friends readily understood; but it often happened that I was unable
to express my thoughts intelligibly, and at such times I would give way
to my angry feelings utterly....

Teacher had been with me nearly two weeks, and I had learned eighteen
or twenty words, before that thought flashed into my mind, as the sun
breaks upon the sleeping world; and in that moment of illumination the
secret of language was revealed to me, and I caught a glimpse of the
beautiful country I was about to explore.

Teacher had been trying all the morning to make me understand that the
mug and the milk in the mug had different names; but I was very dull,
and kept spelling MILK for mug, and mug for milk until teacher must have
lost all hope of making me see my mistake. At last she got up, gave
me the mug, and led me out of the door to the pump-house. Some one was
pumping water, and as the cool fresh stream burst forth, teacher made me
put my mug under the spout and spelled "w-a-t-e-r," Water!

That word startled my soul, and it awoke, full of the spirit of the
morning, full of joyous, exultant song. Until that day my mind had been
like a darkened chamber, waiting for words to enter and light the lamp,
which is thought....

I learned a great many words that day. I do not remember what they all
were; but I do know that MOTHER, FATHER, SISTER and TEACHER were among
them. It would have been difficult to find a happier little child than I
was that night as I lay in my crib and thought over the joy the day had
brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

The next morning I awoke with joy in my heart. Everything I touched
seemed to quiver with life. It was because I saw everything with the
new, strange, beautiful sight which had been given me. I was never angry
after that because I understood what my friends said to me, and I was
very busy learning many wonderful things. I was never still during the
first glad days of my freedom. I was continually spelling and acting
out the words as I spelled them. I would run, skip, jump and swing, no
matter where I happened to be. Everything was budding and blossoming.
The honeysuckle hung in long garlands, deliciously fragrant, and
the roses had never been so beautiful before. Teacher and I lived
out-of-doors from morning until night, and I rejoiced greatly in the
forgotten light and sunshine found again....

The morning after our arrival I awoke bright and early. A beautiful
summer day had dawned, the day on which I was to make the acquaintance
of a somber and mysterious friend. I got up, and dressed quickly and ran
downstairs. I met Teacher in the hall, and begged to be taken to the
sea at once. "Not yet," she responded, laughing. "We must have breakfast
first." As soon as breakfast was over we hurried off to the shore. Our
pathway led through low, sandy hills, and as we hastened on, I often
caught my feet in the long, coarse grass, and tumbled, laughing, in the
warm, shining sand. The beautiful, warm air was peculiarly fragrant, and
I noticed it got cooler and fresher as we went on.

Suddenly we stopped, and I knew, without being told, the Sea was at my
feet. I knew, too, it was immense! awful! and for a moment some of the
sunshine seemed to have gone out of the day. But I do not think I was
afraid; for later, when I had put on my bathing-suit, and the little
waves ran up on the beach and kissed my feet, I shouted for joy, and
plunged fearlessly into the surf. But, unfortunately, I struck my foot
on a rock and fell forward into the cold water.

Then a strange, fearful sense of danger terrified me. The salt water
filled my eyes, and took away my breath, and a great wave threw me up on
the beach as easily as if I had been a little pebble. For several days
after that I was very timid, and could hardly be persuaded to go in the
water at all; but by degrees my courage returned, and almost before the
summer was over, I thought it the greatest fun to be tossed about by the
sea-waves....


I do not know whether the difference or the similarity in phrasing
between the child's version and the woman's is the more remarkable. The
early story is simpler and shows less deliberate artifice, though even
then Miss Keller was prematurely conscious of style, but the art of the
later narrative, as in the passage about the sea, or the passage on the
medallion of Homer, is surely a fulfilment of the promise of the early
story. It was in these early days that Dr. Holmes wrote to her: "I am
delighted with the style of your letters. There is no affectation about
them, and as they come straight from your heart, so they go straight to
mine."

In the years when she was growing out of childhood, her style lost its
early simplicity and became stiff and, as she says, "periwigged." In
these years the fear came many times to Miss Sullivan lest the success
of the child was to cease with childhood. At times Miss Keller seemed
to lack flexibility, her thoughts ran in set phrases which she seemed to
have no power to revise or turn over in new ways.

Then came the work in college--original theme writing with new ideals
of composition or at least new methods of suggesting those ideals.
Miss Keller began to get the better of her old friendly taskmaster, the
phrase. This book, her first mature experiment in writing, settles the
question of her ability to write.

The style of the Bible is everywhere in Miss Keller's work, just as
it is in the style of most great English writers. Stevenson, whom
Miss Sullivan likes and used to read to her pupil, is another marked
influence. In her autobiography are many quotations, chiefly from the
Bible and Stevenson, distinct from the context or interwoven with it,
the whole a fabric quite of her own design. Her vocabulary has all
the phrases that other people use, and the explanation of it, and the
reasonableness of it ought to be evident by this time. There is no
reason why she should strike from her vocabulary all words of sound and
vision. Writing for other people, she should in many cases be true to
outer fact rather than to her own experience. So long as she uses words
correctly, she should be granted the privilege of using them freely, and
not be expected to confine herself to a vocabulary true to her lack of
sight and hearing. In her style, as in what she writes about, we must
concede to the artist what we deny to the autobiographer. It should be
explained, too, that LOOK and SEE are used by the blind, and HEAR by the
deaf, for PERCEIVE; they are simple and more convenient words. Only
a literal person could think of holding the blind to PERCEPTION or
APPERCEPTION, when SEEING and LOOKING are so much easier, and have,
moreover, in the speech of all men the meaning of intellectual
recognition as well as recognition through the sense of sight. When Miss
Keller examines a statue, she says in her natural idiom, as her fingers
run over the marble, "It looks like a head of Flora."

It is true, on the other hand, that in her descriptions, she is
best from the point of view of art when she is faithful to her own
sensations; and this is precisely true of all artists.

Her recent training has taught her to drop a good deal of her
conventionality and to write about experiences in her life which are
peculiar to her and which, like the storm in the wild cherry tree, mean
most and call for the truest phrasing. She has learned more and more to
give up the style she borrowed from books and tried to use, because she
wanted to write like other people; she has learned that she is at her
best when she "feels" the lilies sway; lets the roses press into her
hands and speaks of the heat which to her means light.

Miss Keller's autobiography contains almost everything that she ever
intended to publish. It seems worth while, however, to quote from some
of her chance bits of writing, which are neither so informal as her
letters nor so carefully composed as her story of her life. These
extracts are from her exercises in her course in composition, where she
showed herself at the beginning of her college life quite without rival
among her classmates. Mr. Charles T. Copeland, who has been for many
years instructor in English and Lecturer on English Literature at
Harvard and Radcliffe, said to me: "In some of her work she has shown
that she can write better than any pupil I ever had, man or woman. She
has an excellent 'ear' for the flow of sentences." The extracts follow:

A few verses of Omar Khayyam's poetry have just been read to me, and I
feel as if I had spent the last half-hour in a magnificent sepulcher.
Yes, it is a tomb in which hope, joy and the power of acting nobly
lie buried. Every beautiful description, every deep thought glides
insensibly into the same mournful chant of the brevity of life, of the
slow decay and dissolution of all earthly things. The poet's bright,
fond memories of love, youth and beauty are but the funeral torches
shedding their light on this tomb, or to modify the image a little,
they are the flowers that bloom on it, watered with tears and fed by a
bleeding heart. Beside the tomb sits a weary soul, rejoicing neither in
the joys of the past nor in the possibilities of the future, but seeking
consolation in forgetfulness. In vain the inspiring sea shouts to this
languid soul, in vain the heavens strive with its weakness; it still
persists in regretting and seeks a refuge in oblivion from the pangs
of present woe. At times it catches some faint echo from the living,
joyous, real world, a gleam of the perfection that is to be; and,
thrilled out of its despondency, feels capable of working out a grand
ideal even "in the poor, miserable, hampered actual," wherein it is
placed; but in a moment the inspiration, the vision is gone, and
this great, much-suffering soul is again enveloped in the darkness of
uncertainty and despair.


It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If
they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow
men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.


I often think that beautiful ideas embarrass most people as much as
the company of great men. They are regarded generally as far more
appropriate in books and in public discourses than in the parlor or at
the table. Of course I do not refer to beautiful sentiments, but to the
higher truths relating to everyday life. Few people that I know seem
ever to pause in their daily intercourse to wonder at the beautiful bits
of truth they have gathered during their years of study. Often when I
speak enthusiastically of something in history or in poetry, I receive
no response, and I feel that I must change the subject and return to the
commonest topics, such as the weather, dressmaking, sports, sickness,
"blues" and "worries." To be sure, I take the keenest interest in
everything that concerns those who surround me; it is this very interest
which makes it so difficult for me to carry on a conversation with some
people who will not talk or say what they think, but I should not be
sorry to find more friends ready to talk with me now and then about the
wonderful things I read. We need not be like "Les Femmes Savantes" but
we ought to have something to say about what we learn as well as about
what we MUST do, and what our professors say or how they mark our
themes.


To-day I took luncheon with the Freshman Class of Radcliffe. This was
my first real experience in college life, and a delightful experience
it was! For the first time since my entrance into Radcliffe I had the
opportunity to make friends with all my classmates, and the pleasure of
knowing that they regarded me as one of themselves, instead of thinking
of me as living apart and taking no interest in the everyday nothings
of their life, as I had sometimes feared they did. I have often been
surprised to hear this opinion expressed or rather implied by girls of
my own age and even by people advanced in years. Once some one wrote to
me that in his mind I was always "sweet and earnest," thinking only of
what is wise, good and interesting--as if he thought I was one of those
wearisome saints of whom there are only too many in the world! I always
laugh at these foolish notions, and assure my friends that it is much
better to have a few faults and be cheerful and responsive in spite of
all deprivations than to retire into one's shell, pet one's affliction,
clothe it with sanctity, and then set one's self up as a monument of
patience, virtue, goodness and all in all; but even while I laugh I feel
a twinge of pain in my heart, because it seems rather hard to me that
any one should imagine that I do not feel the tender bonds which draw
me to my young sisters--the sympathies springing from what we have in
common--youth, hope, a half-eager, half-timid attitude towards the life
before us and above all the royalty of maidenhood.


Sainte-Beuve says, "Il vient un age peut-etre quand on n'ecrit plus."
This is the only allusion I have read to the possibility that the
sources of literature, varied and infinite as they seem now, may
sometime be exhausted. It surprises me to find that such an idea has
crossed the mind of any one, especially of a highly gifted critic. The
very fact that the nineteenth century has not produced many authors
whom the world may count among the greatest of all time does not in my
opinion justify the remark, "There may come a time when people cease to
write."

In the first place, the fountains of literature are fed by two vast
worlds, one of action, one of thought, by a succession of creations in
the one and of changes in the other. New experiences and events call
forth new ideas and stir men to ask questions unthought of before, and
seek a definite answer in the depths of human knowledge.

In the second place, if it is true that as many centuries must pass
before the world becomes perfect as passed before it became what it
is to-day, literature will surely be enriched incalculably by the
tremendous changes, acquisitions and improvements that cannot fail
to take place in the distant future. If genius has been silent for a
century it has not been idle. On the contrary, it has been collecting
fresh materials not only from the remote past, but also from the age of
progress and development, and perhaps in the new century there will
be outbursts of splendor in all the various branches of literature. At
present the world is undergoing a complete revolution, and in the
midst of falling systems and empires, conflicting theories and creeds,
discoveries and inventions, it is a marvel how one can produce any great
literary works at all. This is an age of workers, not of thinkers. The
song to-day is:

Let the dead past bury its dead, Act, act in the living present, Heart
within and God overhead.

A little later, when the rush and heat of achievement relax, we can
begin to expect the appearance of grand men to celebrate in glorious
poetry and prose the deeds and triumphs of the last few centuries.


It is very interesting to watch a plant grow, it is like taking part in
creation. When all outside is cold and white, when the little children
of the woodland are gone to their nurseries in the warm earth, and the
empty nests on the bare trees fill with snow, my window-garden glows and
smiles, making summer within while it is winter without. It is wonderful
to see flowers bloom in the midst of a snow-storm! I have felt a bud
"shyly doff her green hood and blossom with a silken burst of sound,"
while the icy fingers of the snow beat against the window-panes. What
secret power, I wonder, caused this blossoming miracle? What mysterious
force guided the seedling from the dark earth up to the light, through
leaf and stem and bud, to glorious fulfilment in the perfect flower? Who
could have dreamed that such beauty lurked in the dark earth, was latent
in the tiny seed we planted? Beautiful flower, you have taught me to see
a little way into the hidden heart of things. Now I understand that the
darkness everywhere may hold possibilities better even than my hopes.


A FREE TRANSLATION FROM HORACE BOOK II-18.

I am not one of those on whom fortune deigns to smile. My house is not
resplendent with ivory and gold; nor is it adorned with marble arches,
resting on graceful columns brought from the quarries of distant
Africa. For me no thrifty spinners weave purple garments. I have not
unexpectedly fallen heir to princely estates, titles or power; but I
have something more to be desired than all the world's treasures--the
love of my friends, and honorable fame, won by my own industry and
talents. Despite my poverty, it is my privilege to be the companion of
the rich and mighty. I am too grateful for all these blessings to wish
for more from princes, or from the gods. My little Sabine farm is dear
to me; for here I spend my happiest days, far from the noise and strife
of the world.

O, ye who live in the midst of luxury, who seek beautiful marbles for
new villas, that shall surpass the old in splendor, you never dream that
the shadow of death is hanging over your halls. Forgetful of the tomb,
you lay the foundation of your palaces. In your mad pursuit of pleasure
you rob the sea of its beach and desecrate hallowed ground. More even
than this, in your wickedness you destroy the peaceful homes of your
clients! Without a touch of remorse you drive the father from his land,
clasping to his bosom his household gods and his half-naked children.

You forget that death comes to the rich and the poor alike, and comes
once for all; but remember, Acheron could not be bribed by gold to ferry
the crafty Prometheus back to the sunlit world. Tantalus, too, great as
he was above all mortals, went down to the kingdom of the dead, never
to return. Remember, too, that, although death is inexorable, yet he is
just; for he brings retribution to the rich for their wickedness, and
gives the poor eternal rest from their toil and sorrow.


Ah, the pranks that the nixies of Dreamland play on us while we sleep!
Methinks "they are jesters at the Court of Heaven." They frequently take
the shape of daily themes to mock me; they strut about on the stage of
Sleep like foolish virgins, only they carry well-trimmed note-books
in their hands instead of empty lamps. At other times they examine and
cross-examine me in all the studies I have ever had, and invariably ask
me questions as easy to answer as this: "What was the name of the first
mouse that worried Hippopotamus, satrap of Cambridge under Astyagas,
grandfather of Cyrus the Great?" I wake terror-stricken with the words
ringing in my ears, "An answer or your life!"

Such are the distorted fancies that flit through the mind of one who is
at college and lives as I do in an atmosphere of ideas, conceptions and
half-thoughts, half-feelings which tumble and jostle each other until
one is almost crazy. I rarely have dreams that are not in keeping with
what I really think and feel, but one night my very nature seemed to
change, and I stood in the eye of the world a mighty man and a terrible.
Naturally I love peace and hate war and all that pertains to war; I see
nothing admirable in the ruthless career of Napoleon, save its finish.
Nevertheless, in that dream the spirit of that pitiless slayer of men
entered me! I shall never forget how the fury of battle throbbed in my
veins--it seemed as if the tumultuous beating of my heart would stop my
breath. I rode a fiery hunter--I can feel the impatient toss of his head
now and the quiver that ran through him at the first roar of the cannon.

From the top of the hill where I stood I saw my army surging over a
sunlit plain like angry breakers, and as they moved, I saw the green of
fields, like the cool hollows between billows. Trumpet answered trumpet
above the steady beat of drums and the rhythm of marching feet. I
spurred my panting steed and waving my sword on high and shouting, "I
come! Behold me, warriors--Europe!" I plunged into the oncoming billows,
as a strong swimmer dives into breakers, and struck, alas, 'tis true,
the bedpost!

Now I rarely sleep without dreaming; but before Miss Sullivan came to
me, my dreams were few and far between, devoid of thought or coherency,
except those of a purely physical nature. In my dreams something was
always falling suddenly and heavily, and at times my nurse seemed to
punish me for my unkind treatment of her in the daytime and return at an
usurer's rate of interest my kickings and pinchings. I would wake with
a start or struggle frantically to escape from my tormentor. I was very
fond of bananas, and one night I dreamed that I found a long string of
them in the dining-room, near the cupboard, all peeled and deliciously
ripe, and all I had to do was to stand under the string and eat as long
as I could eat.

After Miss Sullivan came to me, the more I learned, the oftener I
dreamed; but with the waking of my mind there came many dreary fancies
and vague terrors which troubled my sleep for a long time. I dreaded the
darkness and loved the woodfire. Its warm touch seemed so like a human
caress, I really thought it was a sentient being, capable of loving
and protecting me. One cold winter night I was alone in my room. Miss
Sullivan had put out the light and gone away, thinking I was sound
asleep. Suddenly I felt my bed shake, and a wolf seemed to spring on me
and snarl in my face. It was only a dream, but I thought it real, and my
heart sank within me. I dared not scream, and I dared not stay in bed.
Perhaps this was a confused recollection of the story I had heard not
long before about Red Riding Hood. At all events, I slipped down from
the bed and nestled close to the fire which had not flickered out.
The instant I felt its warmth I was reassured, and I sat a long time
watching it climb higher and higher in shining waves. At last sleep
surprised me, and when Miss Sullivan returned she found me wrapped in a
blanket by the hearth.

Often when I dream, thoughts pass through my mind like cowled shadows,
silent and remote, and disappear. Perhaps they are the ghosts of
thoughts that once inhabited the mind of an ancestor. At other times the
things I have learned and the things I have been taught, drop away, as
the lizard sheds its skin, and I see my soul as God sees it. There are
also rare and beautiful moments when I see and hear in Dreamland. What
if in my waking hours a sound should ring through the silent halls
of hearing? What if a ray of light should flash through the darkened
chambers of my soul? What would happen, I ask many and many a time.
Would the bow-and-string tension of life snap? Would the heart,
overweighted with sudden joy, stop beating for very excess of happiness?

THE END







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Story of My Life, by Helen Keller

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