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Title: The Story of My Life

Author: Helen Keller

Contributor: John Albert Macy
Annie Sullivan

Release date: November 1, 2000 [eBook #2397]
Most recently updated: March 29, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2397

Credits: Diane Bean and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF
MY LIFE ***

T H E S T O RY O F M Y L I F E

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.

CONTENTS

Editor's Preface

I. THE STORY OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII

II. LETTERS(1887-1901)
INTRODUCTION

III: A SUPPLEMENTARY ACCOUNT OF HELEN
KELLER'S LIFE AND EDUCATION
CHAPTER I. The Writing of the Book
CHAPTER II. PERSONALITY
CHAPTER III. EDUCATION
CHAPTER IV. SPEECH
CHAPTER V. LITERARY STYLE

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.

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
waking 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 coloured 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 negroes 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 negroes, 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
slopes 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
Gröte, 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 world 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 Mérimée 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 sprang 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 wingéd things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I

have 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 wingéd 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, 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 G. 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)

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 negro 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 colored 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 coloured 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