often keeping but very little for herself. She is very fond of dress
and of all kinds of finery, and is very unhappy when she finds a hole in
anything she is wearing. She will insist on having her hair put in curl
papers when she is so sleepy she can scarcely stand. She discovered a
hole in her boot the other morning, and, after breakfast, she went to
her father and spelled, "Helen new boot Simpson (her brother) buggy
store man." One can easily see her meaning.
July 3, 1887.
There was a great rumpus downstairs this morning. I heard Helen
screaming, and ran down to see what was the matter. I found her in a
terrible passion. I had hoped this would never happen again. She has
been so gentle and obedient the past two months, I thought love had
subdued the lion; but it seems he was only sleeping. At all events,
there she was, tearing and scratching and biting Viney like some wild
thing. It seems Viney had attempted to take a glass, which Helen was
filling with stones, fearing that she would break it. Helen resisted,
and Viney tried to force it out of her hand, and I suspect that she
slapped the child, or did something which caused this unusual outburst
of temper. When I took her hand she was trembling violently, and began
to cry. I asked what was the matter, and she spelled: "Viney--bad,"
and began to slap and kick her with renewed violence. I held her hands
firmly until she became more calm.
Later Helen came to my room, looking very sad, and wanted to kiss me. I
said, "I cannot kiss naughty girl." She spelled, "Helen is good, Viney
is bad." I said: "You struck Viney and kicked her and hurt her. You were
very naughty, and I cannot kiss naughty girl." She stood very still
for a moment, and it was evident from her face, which was flushed and
troubled, that a struggle was going on in her mind. Then she said:
"Helen did (does) not love teacher. Helen do love mother. Mother will
whip Viney." I told her that she had better not talk about it any more,
but think. She knew that I was much troubled, and would have liked to
stay near me; but I thought it best for her to sit by herself. At
the dinner-table she was greatly disturbed because I didn't eat, and
suggested that "Cook make tea for teacher." But I told her that my heart
was sad, and I didn't feel like eating. She began to cry and sob and
clung to me.
She was very much excited when we went upstairs; so I tried to interest
her in a curious insect called a stick-bug. It's the queerest thing I
ever saw--a little bundle of fagots fastened together in the middle. I
wouldn't believe it was alive until I saw it move. Even then it looked
more like a mechanical toy than a living creature. But the poor little
girl couldn't fix her attention. Her heart was full of trouble, and she
wanted to talk about it. She said: "Can bug know about naughty girl? Is
bug very happy?" Then, putting her arms round my neck, she said: "I am
(will be) good to-morrow. Helen is (will be) good all days." I said,
"Will you tell Viney you are very sorry you scratched and kicked her?"
She smiled and answered, "Viney (can) not spell words." "I will tell
Viney you are very sorry," I said. "Will you go with me and find Viney?"
She was very willing to go, and let Viney kiss her, though she didn't
return the caress. She has been unusually affectionate since, and it
seems to me there is a sweetness-a soul-beauty in her face which I have
not seen before.
July 31, 1887.
Helen's pencil-writing is excellent, as you will see from the enclosed
letter, which she wrote for her own amusement. I am teaching her the
braille alphabet, and she is delighted to be able to make words herself
that she can feel.
She has now reached the question stage of her development. It is "what?"
"why?" "when?" especially "why?" all day long, and as her intelligence
grows her inquiries become more insistent. I remember how unbearable I
used to find the inquisitiveness of my friends' children; but I know now
that these questions indicate the child's growing interest in the cause
of things. The "why?" is the DOOR THROUGH WHICH HE ENTERS THE WORLD OF
REASON AND REFLECTION. "How does carpenter know to build house?" "Who
put chickens in eggs?" "Why is Viney black?" "Flies bite--why?" "Can
flies know not to bite?" "Why did father kill sheep?" Of course she asks
many questions that are not as intelligent as these. Her mind isn't more
logical than the minds of ordinary children. On the whole, her questions
are analogous to those that a bright three-year-old child asks; but her
desire for knowledge is so earnest, the questions are never tedious,
though they draw heavily upon my meager store of information, and tax my
ingenuity to the utmost.
I had a letter from Laura Bridgman last Sunday. Please give her my
love, and tell her Helen sends her a kiss. I read the letter at the
supper-table, and Mrs. Keller exclaimed: "My, Miss Annie, Helen writes
almost as well as that now!" It is true.
August 21, 1887.
We had a beautiful time in Huntsville. Everybody there was delighted
with Helen, and showered her with gifts and kisses. The first evening
she learned the names of all the people in the hotel, about twenty, I
think. The next morning we were astonished to find that she remembered
all of them, and recognized every one she had met the night before. She
taught the young people the alphabet, and several of them learned to
talk with her. One of the girls taught her to dance the polka, and a
little boy showed her his rabbits and spelled their names for her. She
was delighted, and showed her pleasure by hugging and kissing the little
fellow, which embarrassed him very much.
We had Helen's picture taken with a fuzzy, red-eyed little poodle, who
got himself into my lady's good graces by tricks and cunning devices
known only to dogs with an instinct for getting what they want.
She has talked incessantly since her return about what she did in
Huntsville, and we notice a very decided improvement in her ability
to use language. Curiously enough, a drive we took to the top of Monte
Sano, a beautiful mountain not far from Huntsville, seems to have
impressed her more than anything else, except the wonderful poodle.
She remembers all that I told her about it, and in telling her mother
REPEATED THE VERY WORDS AND PHRASES I HAD USED IN DESCRIBING IT TO HER.
In conclusion she asked her mother if she should like to see "very high
mountain and beautiful cloudcaps." I hadn't used this expression. I
said, "The clouds touch the mountain softly, like beautiful flowers."
You see, I had to use words and images with which she was familiar
through the sense of touch. But it hardly seems possible that any mere
words should convey to one who has never seen a mountain the faintest
idea of its grandeur; and I don't see how any one is ever to know what
impression she did receive, or the cause of her pleasure in what was
told her about it. All that we do know certainly is that she has a good
memory and imagination and the faculty of association.
August 28, 1887.
I do wish things would stop being born! "New puppies," "new calves" and
"new babies" keep Helen's interest in the why and wherefore of things at
white heat. The arrival of a new baby at Ivy Green the other day was the
occasion of a fresh outburst of questions about the origin of babies and
live things in general. "Where did Leila get new baby? How did doctor
know where to find baby? Did Leila tell doctor to get very small new
baby? Where did doctor find Guy and Prince?" (puppies) "Why is Elizabeth
Evelyn's sister?" etc., etc. These questions were sometimes asked under
circumstances which rendered them embarrassing, and I made up my mind
that something must be done. If it was natural for Helen to ask such
questions, it was my duty to answer them. It's a great mistake, I think,
to put children off with falsehoods and nonsense, when their growing
powers of observation and discrimination excite in them a desire to know
about things. From the beginning, I HAVE MADE IT A PRACTICE TO ANSWER
ALL HELEN'S QUESTIONS TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY IN A WAY INTELLIGIBLE
TO HER, and at the same time truthfully. "Why should I treat these
questions differently?" I asked myself. I decided that there was no
reason, except my deplorable ignorance of the great facts that underlie
our physical existence. It was no doubt because of this ignorance that
I rushed in where more experienced angels fear to tread. There isn't
a living soul in this part of the world to whom I can go for advice in
this, or indeed, in any other educational difficulty. The only thing for
me to do in a perplexity is to go ahead, and learn by making mistakes.
But in this case I don't think I made a mistake. I took Helen and my
Botany, "How Plants Grow," up in the tree, where we often go to read and
study, and I told her in simple words the story of plantlife. I reminded
her of the corn, beans and watermelon-seed she had planted in the
spring, and told her that the tall corn in the garden, and the beans and
watermelon vines had grown from those seeds. I explained how the earth
keeps the seeds warm and moist, until the little leaves are strong
enough to push themselves out into the light and air where they can
breathe and grow and bloom and make more seeds, from which other
baby-plants shall grow. I drew an analogy between plant and animal-life,
and told her that seeds are eggs as truly as hens' eggs and birds'
eggs--that the mother hen keeps her eggs warm and dry until the little
chicks come out. I made her understand that all life comes from an egg.
The mother bird lays her eggs in a nest and keeps them warm until the
birdlings are hatched. The mother fish lays her eggs where she knows
they will be moist and safe, until it is time for the little fish to
come out. I told her that she could call the egg the cradle of life.
Then I told her that other animals like the dog and cow, and human
beings, do not lay their eggs, but nourish their young in their own
bodies. I had no difficulty in making it clear to her that if plants and
animals didn't produce offspring after their kind, they would cease to
exist, and everything in the world would soon die. But the function of
sex I passed over as lightly as possible. I did, however, try to give
her the idea that love is the great continuer of life. The subject was
difficult, and my knowledge inadequate; but I am glad I didn't shirk
my responsibility; for, stumbling, hesitating, and incomplete as my
explanation was, it touched deep responsive chords in the soul of my
little pupil, and the readiness with which she comprehended the great
facts of physical life confirmed me in the opinion that the child has
dormant within him, when he comes into the world, all the experiences
of the race. These experiences are like photographic negatives, until
language develops them and brings out the memory-images.
September 4, 1887.
Helen had a letter this morning from her uncle, Doctor Keller. He
invited her to come to see him at Hot Springs. The name Hot Springs
interested her, and she asked many questions about it. She knows about
cold springs. There are several near Tuscumbia; one very large one
from which the town got its name. "Tuscumbia" is the Indian for "Great
Spring." But she was surprised that hot water should come out of the
ground. She wanted to know who made fire under the ground, and if it was
like the fire in stoves, and if it burned the roots of plants and trees.
She was much pleased with the letter, and after she had asked all the
questions she could think of, she took it to her mother, who was sewing
in the hall, and read it to her. It was amusing to see her hold it
before her eyes and spell the sentences out on her fingers, just as I
had done. Afterward she tried to read it to Belle (the dog) and Mildred.
Mrs. Keller and I watched the nursery comedy from the door. Belle was
sleepy, and Mildred inattentive. Helen looked very serious, and, once
or twice, when Mildred tried to take the letter, she put her hand away
impatiently. Finally Belle got up, shook herself, and was about to
walk away, when Helen caught her by the neck and forced her to lie down
again. In the meantime Mildred had got the letter and crept away with
it. Helen felt on the floor for it, but not finding it there, she
evidently suspected Mildred; for she made the little sound which is her
"baby call." Then she got up and stood very still, as if listening with
her feet for Mildred's "thump, thump." When she had located the sound,
she went quickly toward the little culprit and found her chewing the
precious letter! This was too much for Helen. She snatched the letter
and slapped the little hands soundly. Mrs. Keller took the baby in her
arms, and when we had succeeded in pacifying her, I asked Helen, "What
did you do to baby?" She looked troubled, and hesitated a moment before
answering. Then she said: "Wrong girl did eat letter. Helen did slap
very wrong girl." I told her that Mildred was very small, and didn't
know that it was wrong to put the letter in her mouth.
"I did tell baby, no, no, much (many) times," was Helen's reply.
I said, "Mildred doesn't understand your fingers, and we must be very
gentle with her."
She shook her head.
"Baby--not think. Helen will give baby pretty letter," and with that she
ran upstairs and brought down a neatly folded sheet of braille, on which
she had written some words, and gave it to Mildred, saying, "Baby can
eat all words."
September 18, 1887.
I do not wonder you were surprised to hear that I was going to write
something for the report. I do not know myself how it happened, except
that I got tired of saying "no," and Captain Keller urged me to do
it. He agreed with Mr. Anagnos that it was my duty to give others
the benefit of my experience. Besides, they said Helen's wonderful
deliverance might be a boon to other afflicted children.
When I sit down to write, my thoughts freeze, and when I get them on
paper they look like wooden soldiers all in a row, and if a live one
happens along, I put him in a strait-jacket. It's easy enough, however,
to say Helen is wonderful, because she really is. I kept a record of
everything she said last week, and I found that she knows six hundred
words. This does not mean, however, that she always uses them correctly.
Sometimes her sentences are like Chinese puzzles; but they are the kind
of puzzles children make when they try to express their half-formed
ideas by means of arbitrary language. She has the true language-impulse,
and shows great fertility of resource in making the words at her command
convey her meaning.
Lately she has been much interested in colour. She found the word
"brown" in her primer and wanted to know its meaning. I told her that
her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?" After we had
been all over the house, and I had told her the colour of everything
she touched, she suggested that we go to the hen-houses and barns; but
I told her she must wait until another day because I was very tired. We
sat in the hammock; but there was no rest for the weary there. Helen
was eager to know "more colour." I wonder if she has any vague idea of
colour--any reminiscent impression of light and sound. It seems as if a
child who could see and hear until her nineteenth month must retain some
of her first impressions, though ever so faintly. Helen talks a great
deal about things that she cannot know of through the sense of touch.
She asks many questions about the sky, day and night, the ocean and
mountains. She likes to have me tell her what I see in pictures.
But I seem to have lost the thread of my discourse. "What colour is
think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we swung to and
fro in the hammock. I told her that when we are happy our thoughts are
bright, and when we are naughty they are sad. Quick as a flash she said,
"My think is white, Viney's think is black." You see, she had an idea
that the colour of our thoughts matched that of our skin. I couldn't
help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of
her voice:
"I long to sit on dem jasper walls And see dem sinners stumble and
fall!"
October 3, 1887.
My account for the report is finished and sent off. I have two copies,
and will send you one; but you mustn't show it to anybody. It's Mr.
Anagnos's property until it is published.
I suppose the little girls enjoyed Helen's letter. She wrote it out of
her own head, as the children say.
She talks a great deal about what she will do when she goes to Boston.
She asked the other day, "Who made all things and Boston?" She says
Mildred will not go there because "Baby does cry all days."
October 25, 1887.
Helen wrote another letter to the little girls yesterday, and her father
sent it to Mr. Anagnos. Ask him to let you see it. She has begun to use
the pronouns of her own accord. This morning I happened to say, "Helen
will go upstairs." She laughed and said, "Teacher is wrong. You will
go upstairs." This is another great forward step. Thus it always is.
Yesterday's perplexities are strangely simple to-day, and to-day's
difficulties become to-morrow's pastime.
The rapid development of Helen's mind is beautiful to watch. I doubt if
any teacher ever had a work of such absorbing interest. There must have
been one lucky star in the heavens at my birth, and I am just beginning
to feel its beneficent influence.
I had two letters from Mr. Anagnos last week. He is more grateful for my
report than the English idiom will express. Now he wants a picture "of
darling Helen and her illustrious teacher, to grace the pages of the
forthcoming annual report."
October, 1887.
You have probably read, ere this, Helen's second letter to the little
girls. I am aware that the progress which she has made between the
writing of the two letters must seem incredible. Only those who are with
her daily can realize the rapid advancement which she is making in the
acquisition of language. You will see from her letter that she uses many
pronouns correctly. She rarely misuses or omits one in conversation. Her
passion for writing letters and putting her thoughts upon paper grows
more intense. She now tells stories in which the imagination plays an
important part. She is also beginning to realize that she is not like
other children. The other day she asked, "What do my eyes do?" I told
her that I could see things with my eyes, and that she could see them
with her fingers. After thinking a moment she said, "My eyes are bad!"
then she changed it into "My eyes are sick!"
Miss Sullivan's first report, which was published in the official report
of the Perkins Institution for the year 1887, is a short summary of what
is fully recorded in the letters. Here follows the last part, beginning
with the great day, April 5th, when Helen learned water.
In her reports Miss Sullivan speaks of "lessons" as if they came in
regular order. This is the effect of putting it all in a summary.
"Lesson" is too formal for the continuous daily work.
One day I took her to the cistern. As the water gushed from the pump I
spelled "w-a-t-e-r." Instantly she tapped my hand for a repetition, and
then made the word herself with a radiant face. Just then the nurse came
into the cistern-house bringing her little sister. I put Helen's hand
on the baby and formed the letters "b-a-b-y," which she repeated without
help and with the light of a new intelligence in her face.
On our way back to the house everything she touched had to be named for
her, and repetition was seldom necessary. Neither the length of the
word nor the combination of letters seems to make any difference to the
child. Indeed, she remembers HELIOTROPE and CHRYSANTHEMUM more readily
than she does shorter names. At the end of August she knew 625 words.
This lesson was followed by one on words indicative of place-relations.
Her dress was put IN a trunk, and then ON it, and these prepositions
were spelled for her. Very soon she learned the difference between ON
and IN, though it was some time before she could use these words in
sentences of her own. Whenever it was possible she was made the actor in
the lesson, and was delighted to stand ON the chair, and to be put INTO
the wardrobe. In connection with this lesson she learned the names
of the members of the family and the word IS. "Helen is in wardrobe,"
"Mildred is in crib," "Box is on table," "Papa is on bed," are specimens
of sentences constructed by her during the latter part of April.
Next came a lesson on words expressive of positive quality. For the
first lesson I had two balls, one made of worsted, large and soft, the
other a bullet. She perceived the difference in size at once. Taking
the bullet she made her habitual sign for SMALL--that is, by pinching
a little bit of the skin of one hand. Then she took the other ball and
made her sign for LARGE by spreading both hands over it. I substituted
the adjectives LARGE and SMALL for those signs. Then her attention was
called to the hardness of the one ball and the softness of the other,
and she learned SOFT and HARD. A few minutes afterward she felt of her
little sister's head and said to her mother, "Mildred's head is small
and hard." Next I tried to teach her the meaning of FAST and SLOW. She
helped me wind some worsted one day, first rapidly and afterward slowly.
I then said to her with the finger alphabet, "wind fast," or "wind
slow," holding her hands and showing her how to do as I wished. The next
day, while exercising, she spelled to me, "Helen wind fast," and began
to walk rapidly. Then she said, "Helen wind slow," again suiting the
action to the words.
I now thought it time to teach her to read printed words. A slip on
which was printed, in raised letters, the word BOX was placed on the
object, and the same experiment was tried with a great many articles,
but she did not immediately comprehend that the label-name represented
the thing. Then I took an alphabet sheet and put her finger on the
letter A, at the same time making A with my fingers. She moved her
finger from one printed character to another as I formed each letter on
my fingers. She learned all the letters, both capital and small, in one
day. Next I turned to the first page of the primer and made her touch
the word CAT, spelling it on my fingers at the same time. Instantly she
caught the idea, and asked me to find DOG and many other words. Indeed,
she was much displeased because I could not find her name in the
book. Just then I had no sentences in raised letters which she could
understand; but she would sit for hours feeling each word in her book.
When she touched one with which she was familiar, a peculiarly sweet
expression lighted her face, and we saw her countenance growing sweeter
and more earnest every day. About this time I sent a list of the words
she knew to Mr. Anagnos, and he very kindly had them printed for her.
Her mother and I cut up several sheets of printed words so that she
could arrange them into sentences. This delighted her more than anything
she had yet done; and the practice thus obtained prepared the way for
the writing lessons. There was no difficulty in making her understand
how to write the same sentences with pencil and paper which she made
every day with the slips, and she very soon perceived that she need not
confine herself to phrases already learned, but could communicate any
thought that was passing through her mind. I put one of the writing
boards used by the blind between the folds of the paper on the table,
and allowed her to examine an alphabet of the square letters, such as
she was to make. I then guided her hand to form the sentence, "Cat does
drink milk." When she finished it she was overjoyed. She carried it to
her mother, who spelled it to her.
Day after day she moved her pencil in the same tracks along the grooved
paper, never for a moment expressing the least impatience or sense of
fatigue.
As she had now learned to express her ideas on paper, I next taught her
the braille system. She learned it gladly when she discovered that she
could herself read what she had written; and this still affords her
constant pleasure. For a whole evening she will sit at the table writing
whatever comes into her busy brain; and I seldom find any difficulty in
reading what she has written.
Her progress in arithmetic has been equally remarkable. She can add and
subtract with great rapidity up to the sum of one hundred; and she knows
the multiplication tables as far as the FIVES. She was working recently
with the number forty, when I said to her, "Make twos." She replied
immediately, "Twenty twos make forty." Later I said, "Make fifteen
threes and count." I wished her to make the groups of threes and
supposed she would then have to count them in order to know what
number fifteen threes would make. But instantly she spelled the answer:
"Fifteen threes make forty-five."
On being told that she was white and that one of the servants was black,
she concluded that all who occupied a similar menial position were of
the same hue; and whenever I asked her the colour of a servant she would
say "black." When asked the colour of some one whose occupation she did
not know she seemed bewildered, and finally said "blue."
She has never been told anything about death or the burial of the body,
and yet on entering the cemetery for the first time in her life, with
her mother and me, to look at some flowers, she laid her hand on our
eyes and repeatedly spelled "cry--cry." Her eyes actually filled with
tears. The flowers did not seem to give her pleasure, and she was very
quiet while we stayed there.
On another occasion while walking with me she seemed conscious of the
presence of her brother, although we were distant from him. She spelled
his name repeatedly and started in the direction in which he was coming.
When walking or riding she often gives the names of the people we meet
almost as soon as we recognize them.
The letters take up the account again.
November 13, 1887.
We took Helen to the circus, and had "the time of our lives"! The circus
people were much interested in Helen, and did everything they could to
make her first circus a memorable event. They let her feel the animals
whenever it was safe. She fed the elephants, and was allowed to climb
up on the back of the largest, and sit in the lap of the "Oriental
Princess," while the elephant marched majestically around the ring. She
felt some young lions. They were as gentle as kittens; but I told her
they would get wild and fierce as they grew older. She said to the
keeper, "I will take the baby lions home and teach them to be mild." The
keeper of the bears made one big black fellow stand on his hind legs
and hold out his great paw to us, which Helen shook politely. She
was greatly delighted with the monkeys and kept her hand on the star
performer while he went through his tricks, and laughed heartily when
he took off his hat to the audience. One cute little fellow stole her
hair-ribbon, and another tried to snatch the flowers out of her hat. I
don't know who had the best time, the monkeys, Helen or the spectators.
One of the leopards licked her hands, and the man in charge of the
giraffes lifted her up in his arms so that she could feel their ears
and see how tall they were. She also felt a Greek chariot, and the
charioteer would have liked to take her round the ring; but she was
afraid of "many swift horses." The riders and clowns and rope-walkers
were all glad to let the little blind girl feel their costumes and
follow their motions whenever it was possible, and she kissed them all,
to show her gratitude. Some of them cried, and the wild man of Borneo
shrank from her sweet little face in terror. She has talked about
nothing but the circus ever since. In order to answer her questions, I
have been obliged to read a great deal about animals. At present I feel
like a jungle on wheels!
December 12, 1887.
I find it hard to realize that Christmas is almost here, in spite of the
fact that Helen talks about nothing else. Do you remember what a happy
time we had last Christmas?
Helen has learned to tell the time at last, and her father is going to
give her a watch for Christmas.
Helen is as eager to have stories told her as any hearing child I ever
knew. She has made me repeat the story of little Red Riding Hood so
often that I believe I could say it backward. She likes stories that
make her cry--I think we all do, it's so nice to feel sad when you've
nothing particular to be sad about. I am teaching her little rhymes and
verses, too. They fix beautiful thoughts in her memory. I think, too,
that they quicken all the child's faculties, because they stimulate
the imagination. Of course I don't try to explain everything. If I
did, there would be no opportunity for the play of fancy. TOO MUCH
EXPLANATION DIRECTS THE CHILD'S ATTENTION TO WORDS AND SENTENCES, SO
THAT HE FAILS TO GET THE THOUGHT AS A WHOLE. I do not think anyone can
read, or talk for that matter, until he forgets words and sentences in
the technical sense.
January 1, 1888.
It is a great thing to feel that you are of some use in the world,
that you are necessary to somebody. Helen's dependence on me for almost
everything makes me strong and glad.
Christmas week was a very busy one here, too. Helen is invited to all
the children's entertainments, and I take her to as many as I can.
I want her to know children and to be with them as much as possible.
Several little girls have learned to spell on their fingers and are very
proud of the accomplishment. One little chap, about seven, was persuaded
to learn the letters, and he spelled his name for Helen. She was
delighted, and showed her joy, by hugging and kissing him, much to his
embarrassment.
Saturday the school-children had their tree, and I took Helen. It was
the first Christmas tree she had ever seen, and she was puzzled, and
asked many questions. "Who made tree grow in house? Why? Who put many
things on tree?" She objected to its miscellaneous fruits and began to
remove them, evidently thinking they were all meant for her. It was not
difficult, however, to make her understand that there was a present for
each child, and to her great delight she was permitted to hand the gifts
to the children. There were several presents for herself. She placed
them in a chair, resisting all temptation to look at them until every
child had received his gifts. One little girl had fewer presents than
the rest, and Helen insisted on sharing her gifts with her. It was very
sweet to see the children's eager interest in Helen, and their readiness
to give her pleasure. The exercises began at nine, and it was one
o'clock before we could leave. My fingers and head ached; but Helen was
as fresh and full of spirit as when we left home.
After dinner it began to snow, and we had a good frolic and an
interesting lesson about the snow. Sunday morning the ground was
covered, and Helen and the cook's children and I played snowball. By
noon the snow was all gone. It was the first snow I had seen here, and
it made me a little homesick. The Christmas season has furnished many
lessons, and added scores of new words to Helen's vocabulary.
For weeks we did nothing but talk and read and tell each other stories
about Christmas. Of course I do not try to explain all the new words,
nor does Helen fully understand the little stories I tell her; but
constant repetition fixes the words and phrases in the mind, and little
by little the meaning will come to her. I SEE NO SENSE IN "FAKING"
CONVERSATION FOR THE SAKE OF TEACHING LANGUAGE. IT'S STUPID AND
DEADENING TO PUPIL AND TEACHER. TALK SHOULD BE NATURAL AND HAVE FOR ITS
OBJECT AN EXCHANGE OF IDEAS. If there is nothing in the child's mind to
communicate, it hardly seems worth while to require him to write on the
blackboard, or spell on his fingers, cut and dried sentences about
"the cat," "the bird," "a dog." I HAVE TRIED FROM THE BEGINNING TO TALK
NATURALLY TO HELEN AND TO TEACH HER TO TELL ME ONLY THINGS THAT INTEREST
HER AND ASK QUESTIONS ONLY FOR THE SAKE OF FINDING OUT WHAT SHE WANTS TO
KNOW. When I see that she is eager to tell me something, but is hampered
because she does not know the words, I supply them and the necessary
idioms, and we get along finely. The child's eagerness and interest
carry her over many obstacles that would be our undoing if we stopped to
define and explain everything. What would happen, do you think, if some
one should try to measure our intelligence by our ability to define
the commonest words we use? I fear me, if I were put to such a test,
I should be consigned to the primary class in a school for the
feeble-minded.
It was touching and beautiful to see Helen enjoy her first Christmas.
Of course, she hung her stocking--two of them lest Santa Claus should
forget one, and she lay awake for a long time and got up two or three
times to see if anything had happened. When I told her that Santa Claus
would not come until she was asleep, she shut her eyes and said,
"He will think girl is asleep." She was awake the first thing in the
morning, and ran to the fireplace for her stocking; and when she found
that Santa Claus had filled both stockings, she danced about for a
minute, then grew very quiet, and came to ask me if I thought Santa
Claus had made a mistake, and thought there were two little girls, and
would come back for the gifts when he discovered his mistake. The ring
you sent her was in the toe of the stocking, and when I told her you
gave it to Santa Claus for her, she said, "I do love Mrs. Hopkins." She
had a trunk and clothes for Nancy, and her comment was, "Now Nancy will
go to party." When she saw the braille slate and paper, she said, "I
will write many letters, and I will thank Santa Claus very much." It was
evident that every one, especially Captain and Mrs. Keller, was deeply
moved at the thought of the difference between this bright Christmas and
the last, when their little girl had no conscious part in the Christmas
festivities. As we came downstairs, Mrs. Keller said to me with tears in
her eyes, "Miss Annie, I thank God every day of my life for sending you
to us; but I never realized until this morning what a blessing you have
been to us." Captain Keller took my hand, but could not speak. But
his silence was more eloquent than words. My heart, too, was full of
gratitude and solemn joy.
The other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story
and asked her mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather.
Mrs. Keller replied, "He is dead." "Did father shoot him?" Helen
asked, and added, "I will eat grandfather for dinner." So far, her only
knowledge of death is in connection with things to eat. She knows that
her father shoots partridges and deer and other game.
This morning she asked me the meaning of "carpenter," and the question
furnished the text for the day's lesson. After talking about the various
things that carpenters make, she asked me, "Did carpenter make me?" and
before I could answer, she spelled quickly, "No, no, photographer made
me in Sheffield."
One of the greatest iron furnaces has been started in Sheffield, and
we went over the other evening to see them make a "run." Helen felt the
heat and asked, "Did the sun fall?"
January 9, 1888.
The report came last night. I appreciate the kind things Mr. Anagnos has
said about Helen and me; but his extravagant way of saying them rubs me
the wrong way. The simple facts would be so much more convincing! Why,
for instance, does he take the trouble to ascribe motives to me that I
never dreamed of? You know, and he knows, and I know, that my motive in
coming here was not in any sense philanthropic. How ridiculous it is to
say I had drunk so copiously of the noble spirit of Dr. Howe that I was
fired with the desire to rescue from darkness and obscurity the little
Alabamian! I came here simply because circumstances made it necessary
for me to earn my living, and I seized upon the first opportunity that
offered itself, although I did not suspect nor did he, that I had any
special fitness for the work.
January 26, 1888.
I suppose you got Helen's letter. The little rascal has taken it into
her head not to write with a pencil. I wanted her to write to her Uncle
Frank this morning, but she objected. She said: "Pencil is very tired in
head. I will write Uncle Frank braille letter." I said, "But Uncle Frank
cannot read braille." "I will teach him," she said. I explained that
Uncle Frank was old, and couldn't learn braille easily. In a flash she
answered, "I think Uncle Frank is much (too) old to read very small
letters." Finally I persuaded her to write a few lines; but she broke
her pencil six times before she finished it. I said to her, "You are
a naughty girl." "No," she replied, "pencil is very weak." I think her
objection to pencil-writing is readily accounted for by the fact that
she has been asked to write so many specimens for friends and strangers.
You know how the children at the Institution detest it. It is irksome
because the process is so slow, and they cannot read what they have
written or correct their mistakes.
Helen is more and more interested in colour. When I told her that
Mildred's eyes were blue, she asked, "Are they like wee skies?" A little
while after I had told her that a carnation that had been given her was
red, she puckered up her mouth and said, "Lips are like one pink."
I told her they were tulips; but of course she didn't understand the
word-play. I can't believe that the colour-impressions she received
during the year and a half she could see and hear are entirely lost.
Everything we have seen and heard is in the mind somewhere. It may be
too vague and confused to be recognizable, but it is there all the same,
like the landscape we lose in the deepening twilight.
February 10, 1888.
We got home last night. We had a splendid time in Memphis, but I didn't
rest much. It was nothing but excitement from first to last--drives,
luncheons, receptions, and all that they involve when you have an eager,
tireless child like Helen on your hands. She talked incessantly. I don't
know what I should have done, had some of the young people not learned
to talk with her. They relieved me as much as possible. But even then
I can never have a quiet half hour to myself. It is always: "Oh, Miss
Sullivan, please come and tell us what Helen means," or "Miss Sullivan,
won't you please explain this to Helen? We can't make her understand."
I believe half the white population of Memphis called on us. Helen was
petted and caressed enough to spoil an angel; but I do not think it
is possible to spoil her, she is too unconscious of herself, and too
loving.
The stores in Memphis are very good, and I managed to spend all the
money that I had with me. One day Helen said, "I must buy Nancy a very
pretty hat." I said, "Very well, we will go shopping this afternoon."
She had a silver dollar and a dime. When we reached the shop, I asked
her how much she would pay for Nancy's hat. She answered promptly, "I
will pay ten cents." "What will you do with the dollar?" I asked. "I
will buy some good candy to take to Tuscumbia," was her reply.
We visited the Stock Exchange and a steamboat. Helen was greatly
interested in the boat, and insisted on being shown every inch of it
from the engine to the flag on the flagstaff. I was gratified to read
what the Nation had to say about Helen last week.
Captain Keller has had two interesting letters since the publication of
the "Report," one from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, and the other from Dr.
Edward Everett Hale. Dr. Hale claims kinship with Helen, and seems very
proud of his little cousin. Dr. Bell writes that Helen's progress is
without a parallel in the education of the deaf, or something like that
and he says many nice things about her teacher.
March 5, 1888.
I did not have a chance to finish my letter yesterday. Miss Ev. came up
to help me make a list of words Helen has learned. We have got as far
as P, and there are 900 words to her credit. I had Helen begin a journal
March 1st.[Most of this journal was lost. Fortunately, however, Helen
Keller wrote so many letters and exercises that there is no lack of
records of that sort.] I don't know how long she will keep it up. It's
rather stupid business, I think. Just now she finds it great fun. She
seems to like to tell all she knows. This is what Helen wrote Sunday:
"I got up, washed my face and hands, combed my hair, picked three dew
violets for Teacher and ate my breakfast. After breakfast I played with
dolls short. Nancy was cross. Cross is cry and kick. I read in my book
about large, fierce animals. Fierce is much cross and strong and very
hungry. I do not love fierce animals. I wrote letter to Uncle James. He
lives in Hotsprings. He is doctor. Doctor makes sick girl well. I do not
like sick. Then I ate my dinner. I like much icecream very much. After
dinner father went to Birmingham on train far away. I had letter from
Robert. He loves me. He said Dear Helen, Robert was glad to get a letter
from dear, sweet little Helen. I will come to see you when the sun
shines. Mrs. Newsum is Robert's wife. Robert is her husband. Robert and
I will run and jump and hop and dance and swing and talk about birds and
flowers and trees and grass and Jumbo and Pearl will go with us. Teacher
will say, We are silly. She is funny. Funny makes us laugh. Natalie is a
good girl and does not cry. Mildred does cry. She will be a nice girl in
many days and run and play with me. Mrs. Graves is making short dresses
for Natalie. Mr. Mayo went to Duckhill and brought home many sweet
flowers. Mr. Mayo and Mr. Farris and Mr. Graves love me and Teacher.
I am going to Memphis to see them soon, and they will hug and kiss
me. Thornton goes to school and gets his face dirty. Boy must be very
careful. After supper I played romp with Teacher in bed. She buried me
under the pillows and then I grew very slow like tree out of ground.
Now, I will go to bed. HELEN KELLER."
April 16, 1888.
We are just back from church. Captain Keller said at breakfast this
morning that he wished I would take Helen to church. The Presbytery
would be there in a body, and he wanted the ministers to see Helen. The
Sunday-school was in session when we arrived, and I wish you could have
seen the sensation Helen's entrance caused. The children were so pleased
to see her at Sunday-school, they paid no attention to their teachers,
but rushed out of their seats and surrounded us. She kissed them all,
boys and girls, willing or unwilling. She seemed to think at first
that the children all belonged to the visiting ministers; but soon she
recognized some little friends among them, and I told her the ministers
didn't bring their children with them. She looked disappointed and said,
"I'll send them many kisses." One of the ministers wished me to ask
Helen, "What do ministers do?" She said, "They read and talk loud to
people to be good." He put her answer down in his note book. When it
was time for the church service to begin, she was in such a state of
excitement that I thought it best to take her away; but Captain Keller
said, "No, she will be all right." So there was nothing to do but stay.
It was impossible to keep Helen quiet. She hugged and kissed me, and the
quiet-looking divine who sat on the other side of her. He gave her his
watch to play with; but that didn't keep her still. She wanted to show
it to the little boy in the seat behind us. When the communion service
began, she smelt the wine, and sniffed so loud that every one in the
church could hear. When the wine was passed to our neighbour, he was
obliged to stand up to prevent her taking it away from him. I never was
so glad to get out of a place as I was to leave that church! I tried
to hurry Helen out-of-doors, but she kept her arm extended, and every
coat-tail she touched must needs turn round and give an account of the
children he left at home, and receive kisses according to their number.
Everybody laughed at her antics, and you would have thought they were
leaving a place of amusement rather than a church. Captain Keller
invited some of the ministers to dinner. Helen was irrepressible. She
described in the most animated pantomime, supplemented by spelling, what
she was going to do in Brewster. Finally she got up from the table and
went through the motion of picking seaweed and shells, and splashing
in the water, holding up her skirts higher than was proper under the
circumstances. Then she threw herself on the floor and began to swim
so energetically that some of us thought we should be kicked out of our
chairs! Her motions are often more expressive than any words, and she is
as graceful as a nymph.
I wonder if the days seem as interminable to you as they do to me. We
talk and plan and dream about nothing but Boston, Boston, Boston. I
think Mrs. Keller has definitely decided to go with us, but she will not
stay all summer.
May 15, 1888.
Do you realize that this is the last letter I shall write to you for
a long, long time? The next word that you receive from me will be in a
yellow envelope, and it will tell you when we shall reach Boston. I
am too happy to write letters; but I must tell you about our visit to
Cincinnati.
We spent a delightful week with the "doctors." Dr. Keller met us in
Memphis. Almost every one on the train was a physician, and Dr. Keller
seemed to know them all. When we reached Cincinnati, we found the place
full of doctors. There were several prominent Boston physicians among
them. We stayed at the Burnet House. Everybody was delighted with Helen.
All the learned men marveled at her intelligence and gaiety. There
is something about her that attracts people. I think it is her joyous
interest in everything and everybody.
Wherever she went she was the centre of interest. She was delighted
with the orchestra at the hotel, and whenever the music began she danced
round the room, hugging and kissing every one she happened to touch. Her
happiness impressed all; nobody seemed to pity her. One gentleman said
to Dr. Keller, "I have lived long and seen many happy faces; but I have
never seen such a radiant face as this child's before to-night." Another
said, "Damn me! but I'd give everything I own in the world to have
that little girl always near me." But I haven't time to write all the
pleasant things people said--they would make a very large book, and
the kind things they did for us would fill another volume. Dr. Keller
distributed the extracts from the report that Mr. Anagnos sent me, and
he could have disposed of a thousand if he had had them. Do you remember
Dr. Garcelon, who was Governor of Maine several years ago? He took us to
drive one afternoon, and wanted to give Helen a doll; but she said: "I
do not like too many children. Nancy is sick, and Adeline is cross, and
Ida is very bad." We laughed until we cried, she was so serious about
it. "What would you like, then?" asked the Doctor. "Some beautiful
gloves to talk with," she answered. The Doctor was puzzled. He had never
heard of "talking-gloves"; but I explained that she had seen a glove
on which the alphabet was printed, and evidently thought they could be
bought. I told him he could buy some gloves if he wished, and that I
would have the alphabet stamped on them.
We lunched with Mr. Thayer (your former pastor) and his wife. He asked
me how I had taught Helen adjectives and the names of abstract ideas
like goodness and happiness. These same questions had been asked me
a hundred times by the learned doctors. It seems strange that people
should marvel at what is really so simple. Why, it is as easy to teach
the name of an idea, if it is clearly formulated in the child's mind, as
to teach the name of an object. It would indeed be a herculean task to
teach the words if the ideas did not already exist in the child's mind.
If his experiences and observations hadn't led him to the concepts,
SMALL, LARGE, GOOD, BAD, SWEET, SOUR, he would have nothing to attach
the word-tags to.
I, little ignorant I, found myself explaining to the wise men of the
East and the West such simple things as these: If you give a child
something sweet, and he wags his tongue and smacks his lips and looks
pleased, he has a very definite sensation; and if, every time he has
this experience, he hears the word SWEET, or has it spelled into his
hand, he will quickly adopt this arbitrary sign for his sensation.
Likewise, if you put a bit of lemon on his tongue, he puckers up his
lips and tries to spit it out; and after he has had this experience a
few times, if you offer him a lemon, he shuts his mouth and makes faces,
clearly indicating that he remembers the unpleasant sensation. You label
it SOUR, and he adopts your symbol. If you had called these sensations
respectively BLACK and WHITE, he would have adopted them as readily; but
he would mean by BLACK and WHITE the same things that he means by SWEET
and SOUR. In the same way the child learns from many experiences to
differentiate his feelings, and we name them for him--GOOD, BAD, GENTLE,
ROUGH, HAPPY, SAD. It is not the word, but the capacity to experience
the sensation that counts in his education.
This extract from one of Miss Sullivan's letters is added because it
contains interesting casual opinions stimulated by observing the methods
of others.
We visited a little school for the deaf. We were very kindly received,
and Helen enjoyed meeting the children. Two of the teachers knew the
manual alphabet, and talked to her without an interpreter. They were
astonished at her command of language. Not a child in the school, they
said, had anything like Helen's facility of expression, and some of them
had been under instruction for two or three years. I was incredulous
at first; but after I had watched the children at work for a couple
of hours, I knew that what I had been told was true, and I wasn't
surprised. In one room some little tots were standing before the
blackboard, painfully constructing "simple sentences." A little girl
had written: "I have a new dress. It is a pretty dress. My mamma made my
pretty new dress. I love mamma." A curly-headed little boy was writing:
"I have a large ball. I like to kick my large ball." When we entered the
room, the children's attention was riveted on Helen. One of them pulled
me by the sleeve and said, "Girl is blind." The teacher was writing on
the blackboard: "The girl's name is Helen. She is deaf. She cannot see.
We are very sorry." I said: "Why do you write those sentences on the
board? Wouldn't the children understand if you talked to them
about Helen?" The teacher said something about getting the correct
construction, and continued to construct an exercise out of Helen. I
asked her if the little girl who had written about the new dress was
particularly pleased with her dress. "No," she replied, "I think not;
but children learn better if they write about things that concern them
personally." It seemed all so mechanical and difficult, my heart ached
for the poor little children. Nobody thinks of making a hearing child
say, "I have a pretty new dress," at the beginning. These children
were older in years, it is true, than the baby who lisps, "Papa kiss
baby--pretty," and fills out her meaning by pointing to her new dress;
but their ability to understand and use language was no greater.
There was the same difficulty throughout the school. In every classroom
I saw sentences on the blackboard, which evidently had been written to
illustrate some grammatical rule, or for the purpose of using words that
had previously been taught in the same, or in some other connection.
This sort of thing may be necessary in some stages of education; but it
isn't the way to acquire language. NOTHING, I THINK, CRUSHES THE
CHILD'S IMPULSE TO TALK NATURALLY MORE EFFECTUALLY THAN THESE BLACKBOARD
EXERCISES. The schoolroom is not the place to teach any young child
language, least of all the deaf child. He must be kept as unconscious as
the hearing child of the fact that he is learning words,AND HE SHOULD BE
ALLOWED TO PRATTLE ON HIS FINGERS, OR WITH HIS PENCIL, IN MONOSYLLABLES
IF HE CHOOSES, UNTIL SUCH TIME AS HIS GROWING INTELLIGENCE DEMANDS THE
SENTENCE. Language should not be associated in his mind with endless
hours in school, with puzzling questions in grammar, or with anything
that is an enemy to joy. But I must not get into the habit of
criticizing other people's methods too severely. I may be as far from
the straight road as they.
Miss Sullivan's second report brings the account down to October 1st,
1888.
During the past year Helen has enjoyed excellent health. Her eyes and
ears have been examined by specialists, and it is their opinion that she
cannot have the slightest perception of either light or sound.
It is impossible to tell exactly to what extent the senses of smell and
taste aid her in gaining information respecting physical qualities; but,
according to eminent authority, these senses do exert a great influence
on the mental and moral development. Dugald Stewart says, "Some of the
most significant words relating to the human mind are borrowed from the
sense of smell; and the conspicuous place which its sensations occupy in
the poetical language of all nations shows how easily and naturally they
ally themselves with the refined operations of the fancy and the moral
emotions of the heart." Helen certainly derives great pleasure from
the exercise of these senses. On entering a greenhouse her countenance
becomes radiant, and she will tell the names of the flowers with which
she is familiar, by the sense of smell alone. Her recollections of the
sensations of smell are very vivid. She enjoys in anticipation the
scent of a rose or a violet; and if she is promised a bouquet of these
flowers, a peculiarly happy expression lights her face, indicating that
in imagination she perceives their fragrance, and that it is pleasant to
her. It frequently happens that the perfume of a flower or the flavour
of a fruit recalls to her mind some happy event in home life, or a
delightful birthday party.
Her sense of touch has sensibly increased during the year, and has
gained in acuteness and delicacy. Indeed, her whole body is so finely
organized that she seems to use it as a medium for bringing herself
into closer relations with her fellow creatures. She is able not only to
distinguish with great accuracy the different undulations of the air and
the vibrations of the floor made by various sounds and motions, and to
recognize her friends and acquaintances the instant she touches their
hands or clothing, but she also perceives the state of mind of those
around her. It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing
to be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact
from her.
She observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation,
and she discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied
play of the muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle
pressure of affection, the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the
firm motion of command, and to the many other variations of the almost
infinite language of the feelings; and she has become so expert in
interpreting this unconscious language of the emotions that she is often
able to divine our very thoughts.
In my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances where
she seemed to have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but
it now seems to me, after carefully considering the matter, that this
power may be explained by her perfect familiarity with the muscular
variations of those with whom she comes into contact, caused by their
emotions. She has been forced to depend largely upon this muscular sense
as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of those about her. She
has learned to connect certain movements of the body with anger, others
with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was out
walking with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which
startled Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements
instantly, and asked, "What are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while
walking on the Common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man
to the station-house. The agitation which I felt evidently produced a
perceptible physical change; for Helen asked, excitedly, "What do you
see?"
A striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while
her ears were being examined by the aurists in Cincinnati. Several
experiments were tried, to determine positively whether or not she had
any perception of sound. All present were astonished when she appeared
not only to hear a whistle, but also an ordinary tone of voice. She
would turn her head, smile, and act as though she had heard what was
said. I was then standing beside her, holding her hand. Thinking that
she was receiving impressions from me, I put her hands upon the table,
and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then
tried their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained
motionless through them all, not once showing the least sign that she
realized what was going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took
her hand, and the tests were repeated. This time her countenance changed
whenever she was spoken to, but there was not such a decided lighting up
of the features as when I had held her hand.
In the account of Helen last year it was stated that she knew nothing
about death, or the burial of the body; yet on entering a cemetery
for the first time in her life, she showed signs of emotion--her eyes
actually filling with tears.
A circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before
relating it, I will mention what she now knows with regard to death.
Even before I knew her, she had handled a dead chicken, or bird, or some
other small animal. Some time after the visit to the cemetery before
referred to, Helen became interested in a horse that had met with an
accident by which one of his legs had been badly injured, and she went
daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so much worse
that the horse was suspended from a beam. The animal groaned with pain,
and Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it
became necessary to kill him, and, when Helen next asked to go and see
him, I told her that he was DEAD. This was the first time that she had
heard the word. I then explained that he had been shot to relieve him
from suffering, and that he was now BURIED--put into the ground. I am
inclined to believe that the idea of his having been intentionally shot
did not make much impression upon her; but I think she did realize the
fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds she had
touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this
occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but
with no further explanation of its meaning.
While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied
my friend and me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after
another, and seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of
the flowers, but showed no desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered
a few for her, she refused to have them pinned on her dress. When her
attention was drawn to a marble slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE
in relief, she dropped upon the ground as though looking for something,
then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and asked, "Were is poor
little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she persisted. Turning to
my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor little Florence?" Then
she added: "I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?" As she
continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery.
Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time
of her death; but Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she
even know that my friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed
and carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any
other gift. On her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery,
she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and carried them to
my friend, saying, "They are poor little Florence's." This was true,
although we were at a loss to understand how she guessed it. A letter
written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an
account of her impression in her own words:
"I put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I take
them to ride in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead. She was very
sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got
in the ground, and she is very dirty, and she is cold. Florence was very
lovely like Sadie, and Mrs. H. kissed her and hugged her much. Florence
is very sad in big hole. Doctor gave her medicine to make her well, but
poor Florence did not get well. When she was very sick she tossed and
moaned in bed. Mrs. H. will go to see her soon."
Notwithstanding the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural
child. She is fond of fun and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other
children. She is never fretful or irritable, and I have never seen her
impatient with her playmates because they failed to understand her.
She will play for hours together with children who cannot understand a
single word she spells, and it is pathetic to watch the eager gestures
and excited pantomime through which her ideas and emotions find
expression. Occasionally some little boy or girl will try to learn the
manual alphabet. Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience,
sweetness, and perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers
of her little friend into proper position.
One day, while Helen was wearing a little jacket of which she was very
proud, her mother said: "There is a poor little girl who has no cloak
to keep her warm. Will you give her yours?" Helen began to pull off the
jacket, saying, "I must give it to a poor little strange girl."
She is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably
calls forth all the motherly instincts of her nature. She will handle
the baby as tenderly as the most careful nurse could desire. It is
pleasant, too, to note her thoughtfulness for little children, and her
readiness to yield to their whims.
She has a very sociable disposition, and delights in the companionship
of those who can follow the rapid motions of her fingers; but if left
alone she will amuse herself for hours at a time with her knitting or
sewing.
She reads a great deal. She bends over her book with a look of intense
interest, and as the forefinger of her left hand runs along the line,
she spells out the words with the other hand; but often her motions are
so rapid as to be unintelligible even to those accustomed to reading the
swift and varied movements of her fingers.
Every shade of feeling finds expression through her mobile features.
Her behaviour is easy and natural, and it is charming because of its
frankness and evident sincerity. Her heart is too full of unselfishness
and affection to allow a dream of fear or unkindness. She does not
realize that one can be anything but kind-hearted and tender. She is
not conscious of any reason why she should be awkward; consequently, her
movements are free and graceful.
She is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have
them unkindly treated. When she is riding in the carriage she will not
allow the driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will
cry." One morning she was greatly distressed by finding that one of the
dogs had a block fastened to her collar. We explained that it was
done to keep Pearl from running away. Helen expressed a great deal of
sympathy, and at every opportunity during the day she would find Pearl
and carry the burden from place to place.
Her father wrote to her last summer that the birds and bees were eating
all his grapes. At first she was very indignant, and said the little
creatures were "very wrong"; but she seemed pleased when I explained to
her that the birds and bees were hungry, and did not know that it was
selfish to eat all the fruit. In a letter written soon afterward she
says:
"I am very sorry that bumblebees and hornets and birds and large flies
and worms are eating all of my father's delicious grapes. They like
juicy fruit to eat as well as people, and they are hungry. They are not
very wrong to eat too many grapes because they do not know much."
She continues to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language
as her experiences increase. While these were few and elementary, her
vocabulary was necessarily limited; but, as she learns more of the world
about her, her judgment grows more accurate, her reasoning powers
grow stronger, more active and subtle, and the language by which she
expresses this intellectual activity gains in fluency and logic.
When traveling she drinks in thought and language. Sitting beside her
in the car, I describe what I see from the window--hills and valleys and
the rivers; cotton-fields and gardens in which strawberries, peaches,
pears, melons, and vegetables are growing; herds of cows and horses
feeding in broad meadows, and flocks of sheep on the hillside; the
cities with their churches and schools, hotels and warehouses, and the
occupations of the busy people. While I am communicating these things,
Helen manifests intense interest; and, in default of words, she
indicates by gestures and pantomime her desire to learn more of her
surroundings and of the great forces which are operating everywhere.
In this way, she learns countless new expressions without any apparent
effort.
From the day when Helen first grasped the idea that all objects have
names, and that these can be communicated by certain movements of the
fingers, I have talked to her exactly as I should have done had she been
able to hear, with only this exception, that I have addressed the words
to her fingers instead of to her ears. Naturally, there was at first
a strong tendency on her part to use only the important words in a
sentence. She would say: "Helen milk." I got the milk to show her that
she had used the correct word; but I did not let her drink it until she
had, with my assistance, made a complete sentence, as "Give Helen some
milk to drink." In these early lessons I encouraged her in the use of
different forms of expression for conveying the same idea. If she was
eating some candy, I said: "Will Helen please give teacher some candy?"
or, "Teacher would like to eat some of Helen's candy," emphasizing the
's. She very soon perceived that the same idea could be expressed in a
great many ways. In two or three months after I began to teach her she
would say: "Helen wants to go to bed," or, "Helen is sleepy, and Helen
will go to bed."
I am constantly asked the question, "How did you teach her the meaning
of words expressive of intellectual and moral qualities?" I believe it
was more through association and repetition than through any explanation
of mine. This is especially true of her earlier lessons, when her
knowledge of language was so slight as to make explanation impossible.
I always made it a practice to use the words descriptive of emotions,
of intellectual or moral qualities and actions, in connection with the
circumstance which required these words. Soon after I became her teacher
Helen broke her new doll, of which she was very fond. She began to cry.
I said to her, "Teacher is SORRY." After a few repetitions she came to
associate the word with the feeling.
The word HAPPY she learned in the same way; ALSO, RIGHT, WRONG, GOOD,
BAD, and other adjectives. The word LOVE she learned as other children
do--by its association with caresses.
One day I asked her a simple question in a combination of numbers, which
I was sure she knew. She answered at random. I checked her, and she
stood still, the expression of her face plainly showing that she was
trying to think. I touched her forehead, and spelled "t-h-i-n-k." The
word, thus connected with the act, seemed to impress itself on her mind
much as if I had placed her hand upon an object and then spelled its
name. Since that time she has always used the word THINK.
At a later period I began to use such words as PERHAPS, SUPPOSE, EXPECT,
FORGET, REMEMBER. If Helen asked, "Where is mother now?" I replied: "I
do not know. PERHAPS she is with Leila."
She is always anxious to learn the names of people we meet in the
horse-cars or elsewhere, and to know where they are going, and what they
will do. Conversations of this kind are frequent:
HELEN. What is little boy's name?
TEACHER. I do not know, for he is a little stranger; but PERHAPS his
name is Jack.
HELEN. Where is he going?
TEACHER. He MAY BE going to the Common to have fun with other boys.
HELEN. What will he play?
TEACHER. I SUPPOSE he will play ball.
HELEN. What are boys doing now?
TEACHER. PERHAPS they are expecting Jack, and are waiting for him.
After the words have become familiar to her, she uses them in
composition.
September 26, [1888].
"This morning teacher and I sat by the window and we saw a little boy
walking on the sidewalk. It was raining very hard and he had a very
large umbrella to keep off the rain-drops.
"I do not know how old he was but THINK he MAY HAVE BEEN six years old.
PERHAPS his name was Joe. I do not know where he was going because he
was a little strange boy. But PERHAPS his mother sent him to a store
to buy something for dinner. He had a bag in one hand. I SUPPOSE he was
going to take it to his mother."
In teaching her the use of language, I have not confined myself to any
particular theory or system. I have observed the spontaneous movements
of my pupil's mind, and have tried to follow the suggestions thus given
to me.
Owing to the nervousness of Helen's temperament, every precaution has
been taken to avoid unduly exciting her already very active brain.
The greater part of the year has been spent in travel and in visits
to different places, and her lessons have been those suggested by
the various scenes and experiences through which she has passed. She
continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at first. It is
never necessary to urge her to study. Indeed, I am often obliged to coax
her to leave an example or a composition.
While not confining myself to any special system of instruction, I have
tried to add to her general information and intelligence, to enlarge
her acquaintance with things around her, and to bring her into easy and
natural relations with people. I have encouraged her to keep a diary,
from which the following selection has been made:
"March 22nd, 1888.
"Mr. Anagnos came to see me Thursday. I was glad to hug and kiss him. He
takes care of sixty little blind girls and seventy little blind boys. I
do love them. Little blind girls sent me a pretty work-basket. I found
scissors and thread, and needle-book with many needles in it, and
crochet hook and emery, and thimble, and box, and yard measure and
buttons, and pin-cushion. I will write little blind girls a letter to
thank them. I will make pretty clothes for Nancy and Adeline and Allie.
I will go to Cincinnati in May and buy another child. Then I will have
four children. New baby's name is Harry. Mr. Wilson and Mr. Mitchell
came to see us Sunday. Mr. Anagnos went to Louisville Monday to see
little blind children. Mother went to Huntsville. I slept with father,
and Mildred slept with teacher. I did learn about calm. It does mean
quiet and happy. Uncle Morrie sent me pretty stories. I read about
birds. The quail lays fifteen or twenty eggs and they are white. She
makes her nest on the ground. The blue-bird makes her nest in a hollow
tree and her eggs are blue. The robin's eggs are green. I learned a song
about spring. March, April, May are spring.
Now melts the snow. The warm winds blow The waters flow And robin dear,
Is come to show That Spring is here.
"James killed snipes for breakfast. Little chickens did get very cold
and die. I am sorry. Teacher and I went to ride on Tennessee River, in
a boat. I saw Mr. Wilson and James row with oars. Boat did glide swiftly
and I put hand in water and felt it flowing.
"I caught fish with hook and line and pole. We climbed high hill and
teacher fell and hurt her head. I ate very small fish for supper. I did
read about cow and calf. The cow loves to eat grass as well as girl does
bread and butter and milk. Little calf does run and leap in field. She
likes to skip and play, for she is happy when the sun is bright and
warm. Little boy did love his calf. And he did say, I will kiss you,
little calf, and he put his arms around calf's neck and kissed her. The
calf licked good boy's face with long rough tongue. Calf must not open
mouth much to kiss. I am tired, and teacher does not want me to write
more."
In the autumn she went to a circus. While we were standing before
his cage the lion roared, and Helen felt the vibration of the air so
distinctly that she was able to reproduce the noise quite accurately.
I tried to describe to her the appearance of a camel; but, as we were
not allowed to touch the animal, I feared that she did not get a correct
idea of its shape. A few days afterward, however, hearing a commotion in
the schoolroom, I went in and found Helen on all fours with a pillow so
strapped upon her back as to leave a hollow in the middle, thus making a
hump on either side. Between these humps she had placed her doll, which
she was giving a ride around the room. I watched her for some time as
she moved about, trying to take long strides in order to carry out the
idea I had given her of a camel's gait. When I asked her what she was
doing, she replied, "I am a very funny camel."
During the next two years neither Mr. Anagnos, who was in Europe for
a year, nor Miss Sullivan wrote anything about Helen Keller for
publication. In 1892 appeared the Perkins Institution report for
1891, containing a full account of Helen Keller, including many of her
letters, exercises, and compositions. As some of the letters and the
story of the "Frost King" are published here, there is no need of
printing any more samples of Helen Keller's writing during the third,
fourth and fifth years of her education. It was the first two years
that counted. From Miss Sullivan's part of this report I give her most
important comments and such biographical matter as does not appear
elsewhere in the present volume.
These extracts Mr. Anagnos took from Miss Sullivan's notes and
memoranda.
One day, while her pony and her donkey were standing side by side, Helen
went from one to the other, examining them closely. At last she paused
with her hand upon Neddy's head, and addressed him thus: "Yes, dear
Neddy, it is true that you are not as beautiful as Black Beauty. Your
body is not so handsomely formed, and there is no proud look in your
face, and your neck does not arch, Besides, your long ears make you look
a little funny. Of course, you cannot help it, and I love you just as
well as if you were the most beautiful creature in the world."
Helen has been greatly interested in the story of "Black Beauty." To
show how quickly she perceives and associates ideas, I will give an
instance which all who have read the book will be able to appreciate. I
was reading the following paragraph to her:
"The horse was an old, worn-out chestnut, with an ill-kept coat, and
bones that showed plainly through it; the knees knuckled over, and the
forelegs were very unsteady. I had been eating some hay, and the wind
rolled a little lock of it that way, and the poor creature put out her
long, thin neck and picked it up, and then turned round and looked about
for more. There was a hopeless look in the dull eye that I could not
help noticing, and then, as I was thinking where I had seen that horse
before, she looked full at me and said, 'Black Beauty, is that you?'"
At this point Helen pressed my hand to stop me. She was sobbing
convulsively. "It was poor Ginger," was all she could say at first.
Later, when she was able to talk about it, she said: "Poor Ginger! The
words made a distinct picture in my mind. I could see the way Ginger
looked; all her beauty gone, her beautiful arched neck drooping, all the
spirit gone out of her flashing eyes, all the playfulness gone out of
her manner. Oh, how terrible it was! I never knew before that there
could be such a change in anything. There were very few spots of
sunshine in poor Ginger's life, and the sadnesses were so many!" After a
moment she added, mournfully, "I fear some people's lives are just like
Ginger's."
This morning Helen was reading for the first time Bryant's poem, "Oh,
mother of a mighty race!" I said to her, "Tell me, when you have read
the poem through, who you think the mother is." When she came to the
line, "There's freedom at thy gates, and rest," she exclaimed: "It means
America! The gate, I suppose, is New York City, and Freedom is the great
statue of Liberty." After she had read "The Battlefield," by the same
author, I asked her which verse she thought was the most beautiful. She
replied, "I like this verse best:
'Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; The eternal years of God
are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his
worshipers.'"
She is at once transported into the midst of the events of a story. She
rejoices when justice wins, she is sad when virtue lies low, and
her face glows with admiration and reverence when heroic deeds are
described. She even enters into the spirit of battle; she says, "I think
it is right for men to fight against wrongs and tyrants."
Here begins Miss Sullivan's connected account in the report of 1891:
During the past three years Helen has continued to make rapid progress
in the acquisition of language. She has one advantage over ordinary
children, that nothing from without distracts her attention from her
studies.
But this advantage involves a corresponding disadvantage, the danger of
unduly severe mental application. Her mind is so constituted that she
is in a state of feverish unrest while conscious that there is something
that she does not comprehend. I have never known her to be willing to
leave a lesson when she felt that there was anything in it which she did
not understand. If I suggest her leaving a problem in arithmetic until
the next day, she answers, "I think it will make my mind stronger to do
it now."
A few evenings ago we were discussing the tariff. Helen wanted me to
tell her about it. I said: "No. You cannot understand it yet." She was
quiet for a moment, and then asked, with spirit: "How do you know that I
cannot understand? I have a good mind! You must remember, dear teacher,
that Greek parents were very particular with their children, and they
used to let them listen to wise words, and I think they understood
some of them." I have found it best not to tell her that she cannot
understand, because she is almost certain to become excited.
Not long ago I tried to show her how to build a tower with her blocks.
As the design was somewhat complicated, the slightest jar made the
structure fall. After a time I became discouraged, and told her I was
afraid she could not make it stand, but that I would build it for her;
but she did not approve of this plan. She was determined to build the
tower herself; and for nearly three hours she worked away, patiently
gathering up the blocks whenever they fell, and beginning over again,
until at last her perseverance was crowned with success. The tower stood
complete in every part.
Until October, 1889, I had not deemed it best to confine Helen to any
regular and systematic course of study. For the first two years of
her intellectual life she was like a child in a strange country, where
everything was new and perplexing; and, until she gained a knowledge
of language, it was not possible to give her a definite course of
instruction.
Moreover, Helen's inquisitiveness was so great during these years
that it would have interfered with her progress in the acquisition of
language, if a consideration of the questions which were constantly
occurring to her had been deferred until the completion of a lesson.
In all probability she would have forgotten the question, and a good
opportunity to explain something of real interest to her would have
been lost. Therefore it has always seemed best to me to teach anything
whenever my pupil needed to know it, whether it had any bearing on the
projected lesson or not, her inquiries have often led us far away from
the subject under immediate consideration.
Since October, 1889, her work has been more regular and has included
arithmetic, geography, zoology, botany and reading.
She has made considerable progress in the study of arithmetic. She
readily explains the processes of multiplication, addition, subtraction,
and division, and seems to understand the operations. She has nearly
finished Colburn's mental arithmetic, her last work being in improper
fractions. She has also done some good work in written arithmetic. Her
mind works so rapidly, that it often happens, that when I give her an
example she will give me the correct answer before I have time to write
out the question. She pays little attention to the language used in
stating a problem, and seldom stops to ask the meaning of unknown words
or phrases until she is ready to explain her work. Once, when a question
puzzled her very much, I suggested that we take a walk and then perhaps
she would understand it. She shook her head decidedly, and said: "My
enemies would think I was running away. I must stay and conquer them
now," and she did.
The intellectual improvement which Helen has made in the past two years
is shown more clearly in her greater command of language and in her
ability to recognize nicer shades of meaning in the use of words, than
in any other branch of her education.
Not a day passes that she does not learn many new words, nor are these
merely the names of tangible and sensible objects. For instance, she
one day wished to know the meaning of the following words: PHENOMENON,
COMPRISE, ENERGY, REPRODUCTION, EXTRAORDINARY, PERPETUAL and MYSTERY.
Some of these words have successive steps of meaning, beginning with
what is simple and leading on to what is abstract. It would have been a
hopeless task to make Helen comprehend the more abstruse meanings of
the word MYSTERY, but she understood readily that it signified something
hidden or concealed, and when she makes greater progress she will
grasp its more abstruse meaning as easily as she now does the simpler
signification. In investigating any subject there must occur at the
beginning words and phrases which cannot be adequately understood until
the pupil has made considerable advancement; yet I have thought it best
to go on giving my pupil simple definitions, thinking that, although
these may be somewhat vague and provisional, they will come to one
another's assistance, and that what is obscure to-day will be plain
to-morrow.
I regard my pupil as a free and active being, whose own spontaneous
impulses must be my surest guide. I have always talked to Helen exactly
as I would talk to a seeing and hearing child, and I have insisted that
other people should do the same. Whenever any one asks me if she will
understand this or that word I always reply: "Never mind whether she
understands each separate word of a sentence or not. She will guess the
meanings of the new words from their connection with others which are
already intelligible to her."
In selecting books for Helen to read, I have never chosen them with
reference to her deafness and blindness. She always reads such books as
seeing and hearing children of her age read and enjoy. Of course, in the
beginning it was necessary that the things described should be familiar
and interesting, and the English pure and simple. I remember distinctly
when she first attempted to read a little story. She had learned the
printed letters, and for some time had amused herself by making simple
sentences, using slips on which the words were printed in raised
letters; but these sentences had no special relation to one another. One
morning we caught a mouse, and it occurred to me, with a live mouse
and a live cat to stimulate her interest, that I might arrange some
sentences in such a way as to form a little story, and thus give her a
new conception of the use of language. So I put the following sentences
in the frame, and gave it to Helen: "The cat is on the box. A mouse is
in the box. The cat can see the mouse. The cat would like to eat the
mouse. Do not let the cat get the mouse. The cat can have some milk,
and the mouse can have some cake." The word THE she did not know, and
of course she wished it explained. At that stage of her advancement it
would have been impossible to explain its use, and so I did not try, but
moved her finger on to the next word, which she recognized with a bright
smile. Then, as I put her hand upon puss sitting on the box, she made
a little exclamation of surprise, and the rest of the sentence became
perfectly clear to her. When she had read the words of the second
sentence, I showed her that there really was a mouse in the box. She
then moved her finger to the next line with an expression of eager
interest. "The cat can see the mouse." Here I made the cat look at the
mouse, and let Helen feel the cat. The expression of the little girl's
countenance showed that she was perplexed. I called her attention to the
following line, and, although she knew only the three words, CAT, EAT
and MOUSE, she caught the idea. She pulled the cat away and put her on
the floor, at the same time covering the box with the frame. When she
read, "Do not let the cat get the mouse!" she recognized the negation
in the sentence, and seemed to know that the cat must not get the mouse.
GET and LET were new words. She was familiar with the words of the last
sentence, and was delighted when allowed to act them out. By signs she
made me understand that she wished another story, and I gave her a book
containing very short stories, written in the most elementary style. She
ran her fingers along the lines, finding the words she knew and
guessing at the meaning of others, in a way that would convince the
most conservative of educators that a little deaf child, if given the
opportunity, will learn to read as easily and naturally as ordinary
children.
I am convinced that Helen's use of English is due largely to her
familiarity with books. She often reads for two or three hours in
succession, and then lays aside her book reluctantly. One day as we left
the library I noticed that she appeared more serious than usual, and
I asked the cause. "I am thinking how much wiser we always are when we
leave here than we are when we come," was her reply.
When asked why she loved books so much, she once replied: "Because they
tell me so much that is interesting about things I cannot see, and they
are never tired or troubled like people. They tell me over and over what
I want to know."
While reading from Dickens's "Child's History of England," we came to
the sentence, "Still the spirit of the Britons was not broken." I asked
what she thought that meant. She replied, "I think it means that the
brave Britons were not discouraged because the Romans had won so many
battles, and they wished all the more to drive them away." It would not
have been possible for her to define the words in this sentence; and yet
she had caught the author's meaning, and was able to give it in her own
words. The next lines are still more idiomatic, "When Suetonius left the
country, they fell upon his troops and retook the island of Anglesea."
Here is her interpretation of the sentence: "It means that when the
Roman general had gone away, the Britons began to fight again; and
because the Roman soldiers had no general to tell them what to do, they
were overcome by the Britons and lost the island they had captured."
She prefers intellectual to manual occupations, and is not so fond of
fancy work as many of the blind children are; yet she is eager to join
them in whatever they are doing. She has learned to use the Caligraph
typewriter, and writes very correctly, but not rapidly as yet, having
had less than a month's practice.
More than two years ago a cousin taught her the telegraph alphabet by
making the dots and dashes on the back of her hand with his finger.
Whenever she meets any one who is familiar with this system, she is
delighted to use it in conversation. I have found it a convenient medium
of communicating with Helen when she is at some distance from me, for it
enables me to talk with her by tapping upon the floor with my foot. She
feels the vibrations and understands what is said to her.
It was hoped that one so peculiarly endowed by nature as Helen, would,
if left entirely to her own resources, throw some light upon such
psychological questions as were not exhaustively investigated by Dr.
Howe; but their hopes were not to be realized. In the case of Helen,
as in that of Laura Bridgman, disappointment was inevitable. It is
impossible to isolate a child in the midst of society, so that he shall
not be influenced by the beliefs of those with whom he associates. In
Helen's case such an end could not have been attained without depriving
her of that intercourse with others, which is essential to her nature.
It must have been evident to those who watched the rapid unfolding of
Helen's faculties that it would not be possible to keep her inquisitive
spirit for any length of time from reaching out toward the unfathomable
mysteries of life. But great care has been taken not to lead her
thoughts prematurely to the consideration of subjects which perplex
and confuse all minds. Children ask profound questions, but they often
receive shallow answers, or, to speak more correctly, they are quieted
by such answers.
"Where did I come from?" and "Where shall I go when I die?" were
questions Helen asked when she was eight years old. But the explanations
which she was able to understand at that time did not satisfy, although
they forced her to remain silent, until her mind should begin to put
forth its higher powers, and generalize from innumerable impressions
and ideas which streamed in upon it from books and from her daily
experiences. Her mind sought for the cause of things.
As her observation of phenomena became more extensive and her vocabulary
richer and more subtle, enabling her to express her own conceptions and
ideas clearly, and also to comprehend the thoughts and experiences of
others, she became acquainted with the limit of human creative power,
and perceived that some power, not human, must have created the earth,
the sun, and the thousand natural objects with which she was perfectly
familiar.
Finally she one day demanded a name for the power, the existence of
which she had already conceived in her own mind.
Through Charles Kingsley's "Greek Heroes" she had become familiar with
the beautiful stories of the Greek gods and goddesses, and she must
have met with the words GOD, HEAVEN, SOUL, and a great many similar
expressions in books.
She never asked the meaning of such words, nor made any comment when
they occurred; and until February, 1889, no one had ever spoken to her
of God. At that time, a dear relative who was also an earnest Christian,
tried to tell her about God but, as this lady did not use words suited
to the comprehension of the child, they made little impression upon
Helen's mind. When I subsequently talked with her she said: "I have
something very funny to tell you. A. says God made me and every one out
of sand; but it must be a joke. I am made of flesh and blood and bone,
am I not?" Here she examined her arm with evident satisfaction, laughing
heartily to herself. After a moment she went on: "A. says God is
everywhere, and that He is all love; but I do not think a person can
be made out of love. Love is only something in our hearts. Then A. said
another very comical thing. She says He (meaning God) is my dear father.
It made me laugh quite hard, for I know my father is Arthur Keller."
I explained to her that she was not yet able to understand what had been
told her, and so easily led her to see that it would be better not to
talk about such things until she was wiser.
She had met with the expression Mother Nature in the course of her
reading, and for a long time she was in the habit of ascribing to Mother
Nature whatever she felt to be beyond the power of man to accomplish.
She would say, when speaking of the growth of a plant, "Mother Nature
sends the sunshine and the rain to make the trees and the grass and the
flowers grow." The following extract from my notes will show what were
her ideas at this time:
Helen seemed a little serious after supper, and Mrs. H. asked her of
what she was thinking. "I am thinking how very busy dear Mother Nature
is in the springtime," she replied. When asked why, she answered:
"Because she has so many children to take care of. She is the mother of
everything; the flowers and trees and winds."
"How does Mother Nature take care of the flowers?" I asked.
"She sends the sunshine and rain to make them grow," Helen replied; and
after a moment she added, "I think the sunshine is Nature's warm smile,
and the raindrops are her tears."
Later she said: "I do not know if Mother Nature made me. I think my
mother got me from heaven, but I do not know where that place is. I
know that daisies and pansies come from seeds which have been put in the
ground; but children do not grow out of the ground, I am sure. I have
never seen a plant-child! But I cannot imagine who made Mother Nature,
can you? I love the beautiful spring, because the budding trees and the
blossoming flowers and the tender green leaves fill my heart with joy.
I must go now to see my garden. The daisies and the pansies will think I
have forgotten them."
After May, 1890, it was evident to me that she had reached a point where
it was impossible to keep from her the religious beliefs held by those
with whom she was in daily contact. She almost overwhelmed me
with inquiries which were the natural outgrowth of her quickened
intelligence.
Early in May she wrote on her tablet the following list of questions:
"I wish to write about things I do not understand. Who made the earth
and the seas, and everything? What makes the sun hot? Where was I before
I came to mother? I know that plants grow from seeds which are in
the ground, but I am sure people do not grow that way. I never saw a
child-plant. Little birds and chickens come out of eggs. I have seen
them. What was the egg before it was an egg? Why does not the earth
fall, it is so very large and heavy? Tell me something that Father
Nature does. May I read the book called the Bible? Please tell your
little pupil many things when you have much time."
Can any one doubt after reading these questions that the child who was
capable of asking them was also capable of understanding at least
their elementary answers? She could not, of course, have grasped such
abstractions as a complete answer to her questions would involve;
but one's whole life is nothing more than a continual advance in the
comprehension of the meaning and scope of such ideas.
Throughout Helen's education I have invariably assumed that she can
understand whatever it is desirable for her to know. Unless there had
been in Helen's mind some such intellectual process as the questions
indicate, any explanation of them would have been unintelligible to her.
Without that degree of mental development and activity which perceives
the necessity of superhuman creative power, no explanation of natural
phenomena is possible.
After she had succeeded in formulating the ideas which had been slowly
growing in her mind, they seemed suddenly to absorb all her thoughts,
and she became impatient to have everything explained. As we were
passing a large globe a short time after she had written the questions,
she stopped before it and asked, "Who made the REAL world?" I replied,
"No one knows how the earth, the sun, and all the worlds which we call
stars came to be; but I will tell you how wise men have tried to account
for their origin, and to interpret the great and mysterious forces of
nature."
She knew that the Greeks had many gods to whom they ascribed various
powers, because they believed that the sun, the lightning, and a hundred
other natural forces, were independent and superhuman powers. But after
a great deal of thought and study, I told her, men came to believe that
all forces were manifestations of one power, and to that power they gave
the name GOD.
She was very still for a few minutes, evidently thinking earnestly. She
then asked, "Who made God?" I was compelled to evade her question, for
I could not explain to her the mystery of a self-existent being. Indeed,
many of her eager questions would have puzzled a far wiser person than
I am. Here are some of them: "What did God make the new worlds out of?"
"Where did He get the soil, and the water, and the seeds, and the first
animals?" "Where is God?" "Did you ever see God?" I told her that God
was everywhere, and that she must not think of Him as a person, but
as the life, the mind, the soul of everything. She interrupted me:
"Everything does not have life. The rocks have not life, and they cannot
think." It is often necessary to remind her that there are infinitely
many things that the wisest people in the world cannot explain.
No creed or dogma has been taught to Helen, nor has any effort been made
to force religious beliefs upon her attention. Being fully aware of my
own incompetence to give her any adequate explanations of the mysteries
which underlie the names of God, soul, and immortality, I have always
felt obliged, by a sense of duty to my pupil, to say as little as
possible about spiritual matters. The Rt. Rev. Phillips Brooks has
explained to her in a beautiful way the fatherhood of God.
She has not as yet been allowed to read the Bible, because I do not see
how she can do so at present without getting a very erroneous conception
of the attributes of God. I have already told her in simple language
of the beautiful and helpful life of Jesus, and of His cruel death. The
narrative affected her greatly when first she listened to it.
When she referred to our conversation again, it was to ask, "Why did not
Jesus go away, so that His enemies could not find Him?" She thought the
miracles of Jesus very strange. When told that Jesus walked on the sea
to meet His disciples, she said, decidedly, "It does not mean WALKED, it
means SWAM." When told of the instance in which Jesus raised the dead,
she was much perplexed, saying, "I did not know life could come back
into the dead body!"
One day she said, sadly: "I am blind and deaf. That is why I cannot see
God." I taught her the word INVISIBLE, and told her we could not see God
with our eyes, because He was a spirit; but that when our hearts were
full of goodness and gentleness, then we saw Him because then we were
more like Him.
At another time she asked, "What is a soul?" "No one knows what the soul
is like," I replied; "but we know that it is not the body, and it is
that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes, and which Christian
people believe will live on after the body is dead." I then asked her,
"Can you think of your soul as separate from your body?" "Oh, yes!" she
replied; "because last hour I was thinking very hard of Mr. Anagnos, and
then my mind,"--then changing the word--"my soul was in Athens, but my
body was here in the study." At this moment another thought seemed to
flash through her mind, and she added, "But Mr. Anagnos did not speak
to my soul." I explained to her that the soul, too, is invisible, or in
other words, that it is without apparent form. "But if I write what my
soul thinks," she said, "then it will be visible, and the words will be
its body."
A long time ago Helen said to me, "I would like to live sixteen hundred
years." When asked if she would not like to live ALWAYS in a beautiful
country called heaven, her first question was, "Where is heaven?" I was
obliged to confess that I did not know, but suggested that it might be
on one of the stars. A moment after she said, "Will you please go first
and tell me all about it?" and then she added, "Tuscumbia is a very
beautiful little town." It was more than a year before she alluded to
the subject again, and when she did return to it, her questions were
numerous and persistent. She asked: "Where is heaven, and what is it
like? Why cannot we know as much about heaven as we do about foreign
countries?" I told her in very simple language that there may be many
places called heaven, but that essentially it was a condition--the
fulfilment of the heart's desire, the satisfaction of its wants; and
that heaven existed wherever RIGHT was acknowledged, believed in, and
loved.
She shrinks from the thought of death with evident dismay. Recently, on
being shown a deer which had been killed by her brother, she was greatly
distressed, and asked sorrowfully, "Why must everything die, even the
fleet-footed deer?" At another time she asked, "Do you not think we
would be very much happier always, if we did not have to die?" I said,
"No; because, if there were no death, our world would soon be so crowded
with living creatures that it would be impossible for any of them to
live comfortably." "But," said Helen, quickly, "I think God could make
some more worlds as well as He made this one."
When friends have told her of the great happiness which awaits her in
another life, she instantly asked: "How do you know, if you have not
been dead?"
The literal sense in which she sometimes takes common words and idioms
shows how necessary it is that we should make sure that she receives
their correct meaning. When told recently that Hungarians were born
musicians, she asked in surprise, "Do they sing when they are born?"
When her friend added that some of the pupils he had seen in Budapest
had more than one hundred tunes in their heads, she said, laughing, "I
think their heads must be very noisy." She sees the ridiculous quickly,
and, instead of being seriously troubled by metaphorical language, she
is often amused at her own too literal conception of its meaning.
Having been told that the soul was without form, she was much perplexed
at David's words, "He leadeth my soul." "Has it feet? Can it walk? Is it
blind?" she asked; for in her mind the idea of being led was associated
with blindness.
Of all the subjects which perplex and trouble Helen, none distresses her
so much as the knowledge of the existence of evil, and of the suffering
which results from it. For a long time it was possible to keep this
knowledge from her; and it will always be comparatively easy to prevent
her from coming in personal contact with vice and wickedness. The fact
that sin exists, and that great misery results from it, dawned gradually
upon her mind as she understood more and more clearly the lives and
experiences of those around her. The necessity of laws and penalties had
to be explained to her. She found it very hard to reconcile the presence
of evil in the world with the idea of God which had been presented to
her mind.
One day she asked, "Does God take care of us all the time?" She was
answered in the affirmative. "Then why did He let little sister fall
this morning, and hurt her head so badly?" Another time she was asking
about the power and goodness of God. She had been told of a terrible
storm at sea, in which several lives were lost, and she asked, "Why did
not God save the people if He can do all things?"
Surrounded by loving friends and the gentlest influences, as Helen
had always been, she has, from the earliest stage of her intellectual
enlightenment, willingly done right. She knows with unerring instinct
what is right, and does it joyously. She does not think of one wrong
act as harmless, of another as of no consequence, and of another as not
intended. To her pure soul all evil is equally unlovely.
These passages from the paper Miss Sullivan prepared for the meeting at
Chautauqua, in July, 1894, of the American Association to Promote the
Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, contain her latest written account of
her methods.
You must not imagine that as soon as Helen grasped the idea that
everything had a name she at once became mistress of the treasury of
the English language, or that "her mental faculties emerged, full armed,
from their then living tomb, as Pallas Athene from the head of Zeus,"
as one of her enthusiastic admirers would have us believe. At first, the
words, phrases and sentences which she used in expressing her thoughts
were all reproductions of what we had used in conversation with her, and
which her memory had unconsciously retained. And indeed, this is true
of the language of all children. Their language is the memory of the
language they hear spoken in their homes. Countless repetition of the
conversation of daily life has impressed certain words and phrases upon
their memories, and when they come to talk themselves, memory supplies
the words they lisp. Likewise, the language of educated people is the
memory of the language of books.
Language grows out of life, out of its needs and experiences. At first
my little pupil's mind was all but vacant. She had been living in a
world she could not realize. LANGUAGE and KNOWLEDGE are indissolubly
connected; they are interdependent. Good work in language presupposes
and depends on a real knowledge of things. As soon as Helen grasped
the idea that everything had a name, and that by means of the manual
alphabet these names could be transmitted from one to another, I
proceeded to awaken her further interest in the OBJECTS whose names she
learned to spell with such evident joy. I NEVER TAUGHT LANGUAGE FOR THE
PURPOSE OF TEACHING IT; but invariably used language as a medium for the
communication of THOUGHT; thus the learning of language was
COINCIDENT with the acquisition of knowledge. In order to use language
intelligently, one must have something to talk ABOUT, and having
something to talk about is the result of having had experiences; no
amount of language training will enable our little children to use
language with ease and fluency unless they have something clearly in
their minds which they wish to communicate, or unless we succeed in
awakening in them a desire to know what is in the minds of others.
At first I did not attempt to confine my pupil to any system. I
always tried to find out what interested her most, and made that the
starting-point for the new lesson, whether it had any bearing on the
lesson I had planned to teach or not. During the first two years of her
intellectual life, I required Helen to write very little. In order to
write one must have something to write about, and having something to
write about requires some mental preparation. The memory must be stored
with ideas and the mind must be enriched with knowledge before writing
becomes a natural and pleasurable effort. Too often, I think, children
are required to write before they have anything to say. Teach them to
think and read and talk without self-repression, and they will write
because they cannot help it.
Helen acquired language by practice and habit rather than by study
of rules and definitions. Grammar with its puzzling array of
classifications, nomenclatures, and paradigms, was wholly discarded in
her education. She learned language by being brought in contact with
the LIVING language itself; she was made to deal with it in everyday
conversation, and in her books, and to turn it over in a variety of ways
until she was able to use it correctly. No doubt I talked much more with
my fingers, and more constantly than I should have done with my mouth;
for had she possessed the use of sight and hearing, she would have been
less dependent on me for entertainment and instruction.
I believe every child has hidden away somewhere in his being noble
capacities which may be quickened and developed if we go about it in the
right way; but we shall never properly develop the higher natures of
our little ones while we continue to fill their minds with the so-called
rudiments. Mathematics will never make them loving, nor will the
accurate knowledge of the size and shape of the world help them to
appreciate its beauties. Let us lead them during the first years to find
their greatest pleasure in Nature. Let them run in the fields, learn
about animals, and observe real things. Children will educate themselves
under right conditions. They require guidance and sympathy far more than
instruction.
I think much of the fluency with which Helen uses language is due to the
fact that nearly every impression which she receives comes through the
medium of language. But after due allowance has been made for Helen's
natural aptitude for acquiring language, and for the advantage resulting
from her peculiar environment, I think that we shall still find that the
constant companionship of good books has been of supreme importance in
her education. It may be true, as some maintain, that language cannot
express to us much beyond what we have lived and experienced; but I
have always observed that children manifest the greatest delight in
the lofty, poetic language which we are too ready to think beyond their
comprehension. "This is all you will understand," said a teacher to a
class of little children, closing the book which she had been reading
to them. "Oh, please read us the rest, even if we won't understand it,"
they pleaded, delighted with the rhythm, and the beauty which they felt,
even though they could not have explained it. It is not necessary that
a child should understand every word in a book before he can read with
pleasure and profit. Indeed, only such explanations should be given as
are really essential. Helen drank in language which she at first could
not understand, and it remained in her mind until needed, when it fitted
itself naturally and easily into her conversation and compositions.
Indeed, it is maintained by some that she reads too much, that a great
deal of originative force is dissipated in the enjoyment of books;
that when she might see and say things for herself, she sees them only
through the eyes of others, and says them in their language, but I am
convinced that original composition without the preparation of much
reading is an impossibility. Helen has had the best and purest models
in language constantly presented to her, and her conversation and her
writing are unconscious reproductions of what she has read. Reading,
I think, should be kept independent of the regular school exercises.
Children should be encouraged to read for the pure delight of it. The
attitude of the child toward his books should be that of unconscious
receptivity. The great works of the imagination ought to become a part
of his life, as they were once of the very substance of the men who
wrote them. It is true, the more sensitive and imaginative the mind is
that receives the thought-pictures and images of literature, the more
nicely the finest lines are reproduced. Helen has the vitality of
feeling, the freshness and eagerness of interest, and the spiritual
insight of the artistic temperament, and naturally she has a more active
and intense joy in life, simply as life, and in nature, books, and
people than less gifted mortals. Her mind is so filled with the
beautiful thoughts and ideals of the great poets that nothing seems
commonplace to her; for her imagination colours all life with its own
rich hues.
There has been much discussion of such of Miss Sullivan's statements and
explanations as have been published before. Too much has been written by
people who do not know the problems of the deaf at first hand, and I
do not care to add much to it. Miss Keller's education, however, is so
fundamentally a question of language teaching that it rather includes
the problems of the deaf than limits itself to the deaf alone. Teachers
can draw their own conclusions. For the majority of readers, who will
not approach Miss Keller's life from the educator's point of view, I
will summarize a few principal things in Miss Sullivan's methods.
Miss Sullivan has begun where Dr. Howe left off. He invented the
instrument, the physical means of working, but the teaching of language
is quite another thing from the mechanical means by which language may
be taught. By experiment, by studying other children, Miss Sullivan came
upon the practical way of teaching language by the natural method. It
was for this "natural method" that Dr. Howe was groping, but he never
got to this idea, that a deaf child should not be taught each word
separately by definition, but should be given language by endless
repetition of language which it does not understand. And this is
Miss Sullivan's great discovery. All day long in their play-time and
work-time Miss Sullivan kept spelling into her pupil's hand, and by that
Helen Keller absorbed words, just as the child in the cradle absorbs
words by hearing thousands of them before he uses one and by associating
the words with the occasion of their utterance. Thus he learns that
words name things and actions and feelings. Now, that is the first
principle in Miss Sullivan's method, one that had practical results, and
one which, so far as I can discover, had never been put in practice in
the education of a deaf child, not to say a deaf-blind child, until Miss
Sullivan tried it with Helen Keller. And the principle had never been
formulated clearly until Miss Sullivan wrote her letters.
The second principle in her method (the numerical order is, of course,
arbitrary) is never to talk to the child about things distasteful or
wearisome to him. In the first deaf school Miss Sullivan ever visited,
the teacher was busy at the blackboard telling the children by written
words something they did not want to know, while they were crowding
round their visitor with wide-awake curiosity, showing there were a
thousand things they did want to know. Why not, says Miss Sullivan, make
a language lesson out of what they were interested in?