Akin to this idea of talking to the chil_The Story of My Life With her letters (1887-1901) and a supplementary account of her education, including passages from the reports and letters of her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, by John Albert Macy

the principle never to silence a child who asks questions, but to

answer the questions as truly as possible; for, says Miss Sullivan, the

question is the door to the child's mind. Miss Sullivan never needlessly

belittled her ideas or expressions to suit the supposed state of the

child's intelligence. She urged every one to speak to Helen naturally,

to give her full sentences and intelligent ideas, never minding whether

Helen understood or not. Thus Miss Sullivan knew what so many people

do not understand, that after the first rudimentary definitions of

HAT, CUP, GO, SIT, the unit of language, as the child learns it, is the

sentence, which is also the unit of language in our adult experience.

We do not take in a sentence word by word, but as a whole. It is the

proposition, something predicated about something, that conveys an

idea. True, single words do suggest and express ideas; the child may

say simply "mamma" when he means "Where is mamma?" but he learns the

expression of the ideas that relate to mamma--he learns language--by

hearing complete sentences. And though Miss Sullivan did not force

grammatical completeness upon the first finger-lispings of her pupil,

yet when she herself repeated Helen's sentence, "mamma milk," she filled

out the construction, completed the child's ellipsis and said, "Mamma

will bring Helen some milk."

Thus Miss Sullivan was working out a natural method, which is so simple,

so lacking in artificial system, that her method seems rather to be a

destruction of method. It is doubtful if we should have heard of Helen

Keller if Miss Sullivan had not been where there were other children. By

watching them, she learned to treat her pupil as nearly as possible like

an ordinary child.

The manual alphabet was not the only means of presenting words to Helen

Keller's fingers. Books supplemented, perhaps equaled in importance the

manual alphabet, as a means of teaching language. Helen sat poring over

them before she could read, not at first for the story, but to find

words she knew; and the definition of new words which is implied in

their context, in their position with reference to words known, added to

Helen's vocabulary. Books are the storehouse of language, and any child,

whether deaf or not, if he has his attention attracted in any way to

printed pages, must learn. He learns not by reading what he understands,

but by reading and remembering words he does not understand. And though

perhaps few children will have as much precocious interest in books as

did Helen Keller, yet the natural curiosity of every healthy child may

be turned to printed pages, especially if the teacher is clever and

plays a word game as Miss Sullivan did. Helen Keller is supposed to

have a special aptitude for languages. It is true rather that she has a

special aptitude for thinking, and her leaning toward language is due to

the fact that language to her meant life. It was not a special subject,

like geography or arithmetic, but her way to outward things.

When at the age of fourteen she had had but a few lessons in German, she

read over the words of "Wilhelm Tell" and managed to get the story.

Of grammar she knew nothing and she cared nothing for it. She got the

language from the language itself, and this is, next to hearing the

language spoken, the way for any one to get a foreign tongue, more vital

and, in the end, easier than our schoolroom method of beginning with the

grammar. In the same way she played with Latin, learning not only from

the lessons her first Latin teacher gave her, but from going over and

over the words of a text, a game she played by herself.

Mr. John D. Wright, one of her teachers at the Wright-Humason School,

says in a letter to me:

"Often I found her, when she had a little leisure, sitting in her

favourite corner, in a chair whose arms supported the big volume

prepared for the blind, and passing her finger slowly over the lines of

Moliere's 'Le Medecin Malgre Lui,' chuckling to herself at the

comical situations and humorous lines. At that time her actual working

vocabulary in French was very small, but by using her judgment, as we

laughingly called the mental process, she could guess at the meanings

of the words and put the sense together much as a child puzzles out a

sliced object. The result was that in a few weeks she and I spent a most

hilarious hour one evening while she poured out to me the whole story,

dwelling with great gusto on its humour and sparkling wit. It was not a

lesson, but only one of her recreations."

So Helen Keller's aptitude for language is her whole mental aptitude,

turned to language because of its extraordinary value to her.

There have been many discussions of the question whether Helen Keller's

achievements are due to her natural ability or to the method by which

she was taught.

It is true that a teacher with ten times Miss Sullivan's genius could

not have made a pupil so remarkable as Helen Keller out of a child born

dull and mentally deficient. But it is also true that, with ten times

her native genius, Helen Keller could not have grown to what she is, if

she had not been excellently taught from the very start, and especially

at the start. And the fact remains that she was taught by a method of

teaching language to the deaf the essential principles of which are

clearly expressed in Miss Sullivan's letters, written while she was

discovering the method and putting it successfully into practice. And

it can be applied by any teacher to any healthy deaf child, and in

the broadest interpretation of the principles, can be applied to the

teaching of language of all kinds to all children.

In the many discussions of this question writers seem to throw us from

one horn to another of a dilemma--either a born genius in Helen Keller,

or a perfect method in the teacher. Both things may be true at once, and

there is another truth which makes the dilemma imperfect. Miss Sullivan

is a person of extraordinary power. Her method might not succeed so

completely in the hands of any one else. Miss Sullivan's vigorous,

original mind has lent much of its vitality to her pupil. If Miss Keller

is fond of language and not interested especially in mathematics, it is

not surprising to find Miss Sullivan's interests very similar. And this

does not mean that Miss Keller is unduly dependent on her teacher. It is

told of her that, as a child of eight, when some one tried to interfere

with her, she sat sober a few moments, and, when asked what was the

trouble, answered, "I am preparing to assert my independence." Such an

aggressive personality cannot grow up in mere dependence even under

the guidance of a will like Miss Sullivan's. But Miss Sullivan by her

"natural aptitude" has done for her pupil much that is not capable of

analysis and reduction to principle; she has given the inspiration which

is in all close friendship, and which rather develops than limits

the powers of either person. Moreover, if Miss Keller is a "marvel

of sweetness and goodness," if she has a love "of all things good and

beautiful," this implies something about the teacher who has lived with

her for sixteen years.

There is, then, a good deal that Miss Sullivan has done for Miss Keller

which no other teacher can do in just the same way for any one else. To

have another Helen Keller there must be another Miss Sullivan. To have

another, well-educated deaf and blind child, there need only be another

teacher, living under favourable conditions, among plenty of external

interests, unseparated from her pupil allowed to have a free hand, and

using as many as she needs of the principles which Miss Sullivan has

saved her the trouble of finding out for herself, modifying and adding

as she finds it necessary; and there must be a pupil in good health, of

good native powers, young enough not to have grown beyond recovery in

ignorance. Any deaf child or deaf and blind child in good health can be

taught. And the one to do it is the parent or the special teacher, not

the school. I know that this idea will be vigorously combated by those

who conduct schools for the deaf. To be sure, the deaf school is the

only thing possible for children educated by the State. But it is

evident that precisely what the deaf child needs to be taught is what

other children learn before they go to school at all. When Miss Sullivan

went out in the barnyard and picked up a little chicken and talked to

Helen about it, she was giving a kind of instruction impossible inside

four walls, and impossible with more than one pupil at a time.

Surely Dr. Howe is wrong when he says, "A teacher cannot be a child."

That is just what the teacher of the deaf child must be, a child ready

to play and romp, and interested in all childish things.

The temptation to discuss, solely in the light of Helen Keller, the

whole matter of educating the deaf is a dangerous one, and one which I

have not taken particular care to avoid, because my opinions are of no

authority and I have merely tried to suggest problems and reinforce some

of the main ideas expressed by Miss Sullivan, who is an authority. It is

a question whether Helen Keller's success has not led teachers to expect

too much of other children, and I know of deaf-blind children who are

dragged along by their teachers and friends, and become the subjects of

glowing reports, which are pathetically untrue, because one sees behind

the reports how the children are tugged at to bring them somewhere near

the exaggerated things that are said about them.

Let me sum up a few of the elements that made Helen Keller what she

is. In the first place she had nineteen months' experience of sight and

sound. This meant some mental development. She had inherited vigour of

body and mind. She expressed ideas in signs before she learned language.

Mrs. Keller writes me that before her illness Helen made signs for

everything, and her mother thought this habit the cause of her slowness

in learning to speak. After the illness, when they were dependent on

signs, Helen's tendency to gesture developed. How far she could receive

communications is hard to determine, but she knew much that was going

on around her. She recognized that others used their lips; she "saw" her

father reading a paper and when he laid it down she sat in his chair

and held the paper before her face. Her early rages were an unhappy

expression of the natural force of character which instruction was to

turn into trained and organized power.

It was, then, to a good subject that Miss Sullivan brought her

devotion and intelligence, and fearless willingness to experiment. Miss

Sullivan's methods were so good that even without the practical result,

any one would recognize the truth of the teacher's ideas. Miss Sullivan

has in addition a vigorous personality. And finally all the conditions

were good for that first nature school, in which the teacher and pupil

played together, exploring together and educating themselves, pupil and

teacher inseparable.

Miss Keller's later education is easy to understand and needs no further

explanation than she has given. Those interested may get on application

to the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C., the reports of the teachers who

prepared her for college, Mr. Arthur Gilman of the Cambridge School for

Young Ladies, and Mr. Merton S. Keith.

CHAPTER IV. SPEECH

The two persons who have written authoritatively about Miss Keller's

speech and the way she learned it are Miss Sarah Fuller, of the Horace

Mann School for the Deaf in Boston, Massachusetts, who gave her the

first lessons, and Miss Sullivan, who, by her unremitting discipline,

carried on the success of these first lessons.

Before I quote from Miss Sullivan's account, let me try to give some

impression of what Miss Keller's speech and voice qualities are at

present.

Her voice is low and pleasant to listen to. Her speech lacks variety and

modulation; it runs in a sing-song when she is reading aloud; and when

she speaks with fair degree of loudness, it hovers about two or three

middle tones. Her voice has an aspirate quality; there seems always to

be too much breath for the amount of tone. Some of her notes are musical

and charming. When she is telling a child's story, or one with pathos in

it, her voice runs into pretty slurs from one tone to another. This

is like the effect of the slow dwelling on long words, not quite well

managed, that one notices in a child who is telling a solemn story.

The principal thing that is lacking is sentence accent and variety

in the inflection of phrases. Miss Keller pronounces each word as

a foreigner does when he is still labouring with the elements of a

sentence, or as children sometimes read in school when they have to pick

out each word.

She speaks French and German. Her friend, Mr. John Hitz, whose native

tongue is German, says that her pronunciation is excellent. Another

friend, who is as familiar with French as with English, finds her French

much more intelligible than her English. When she speaks English she

distributes her emphasis as in French and so does not put sufficient

stress on accented syllables. She says for example, "pro-vo-ca-tion,"

"in-di-vi-du-al," with ever so little difference between the value of

syllables, and a good deal of inconsistency in the pronunciation of the

same word one day and the next. It would, I think, be hard to make her

feel just how to pronounce DICTIONARY without her erring either toward

DICTIONAYRY or DICTION'RY, and, of course the word is neither one nor

the other. For no system of marks in a lexicon can tell one how to

pronounce a word. The only way is to hear it, especially in a language

like English which is so full of unspellable, suppressed vowels and

quasi-vowels.

Miss Keller's vowels are not firm. Her AWFUL is nearly AWFIL. The

wavering is caused by the absence of accent on FUL, for she pronounces

FULL correctly.

She sometimes mispronounces as she reads aloud and comes on a word which

she happens never to have uttered, though she may have written it many

times. This difficulty and some others may be corrected when she and

Miss Sullivan have more time. Since 1894, they have been so much in

their books that they have neglected everything that was not necessary

to the immediate task of passing the school years successfully. Miss

Keller will never be able, I believe, to speak loud without destroying

the pleasant quality and the distinctness of her words, but she can do

much to make her speech clearer.

When she was at the Wright-Humason School in New York, Dr. Humason tried

to improve her voice, not only her word pronunciation, but the voice

itself, and gave her lessons in tone and vocal exercises.

It is hard to say whether or not Miss Keller's speech is easy to

understand. Some understand her readily; others do not. Her friends grow

accustomed to her speech and forget that it is different from that of

any one else. Children seldom have any difficulty in understanding

her; which suggests that her deliberate measured speech is like theirs,

before they come to the adult trick of running all the words of a phrase

into one movement of the breath. I am told that Miss Keller speaks

better than most other deaf people.

Miss Keller has told how she learned to speak. Miss Sullivan's account

in her address at Chautauqua, in July, 1894, at the meeting of The

American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, is

substantially like Miss Keller's in points of fact.

MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF MISS KELLER'S SPEECH

It was three years from the time when Helen began to communicate by

means of the manual alphabet that she received her first lesson in the

more natural and universal medium of human intercourse--oral language.

She had become very proficient in the use of the manual alphabet, which

was her only means of communication with the outside world; through it

she had acquired a vocabulary which enabled her to converse freely,

read intelligently, and write with comparative ease and correctness.

Nevertheless, the impulse to utter audible sounds was strong within

her, and the constant efforts which I made to repress this instinctive

tendency, which I feared in time would become unpleasant, were of no

avail. I made no effort to teach her to speak, because I regarded her

inability to watch the lips of others as an insurmountable obstacle.

But she gradually became conscious that her way of communicating was

different from that used by those around her, and one day her thoughts

found expression. "How do the blind girls know what to say with their

mouths? Why do you not teach me to talk like them? Do deaf children ever

learn to speak?" I explained to her that some deaf children were taught

to speak, but that they could see their teachers' mouths, and that that

was a very great assistance to them. But she interrupted me to say

she was very sure she could feel my mouth very well. Soon after this

conversation, a lady came to see her and told her about the deaf and

blind Norwegian child, Ragnhild Kaata, who had been taught to speak and

understand what her teacher said to her by touching his lips with her

fingers. She at once resolved to learn to speak, and from that day to

this she has never wavered in that resolution. She began immediately

to make sounds which she called speaking, and I saw the necessity of

correct instruction, since her heart was set upon learning to talk; and,

feeling my own incompetence to teach her, never having given the subject

of articulation serious study, I went with my pupil for advice and

assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller. Miss Fuller was delighted with Helen's

earnestness and enthusiasm, and at once began to teach her. In a few

lessons she learned nearly all of the English sounds, and in less than a

month she was able to articulate a great many words distinctly. From

the first she was not content to be drilled in single sounds, but was

impatient to pronounce words and sentences. The length of the word

or the difficulty of the arrangement of the elements never seemed to

discourage her. But, with all her eagerness and intelligence, learning

to speak taxed her powers to the utmost. But there was satisfaction

in seeing from day to day the evidence of growing mastery and the

possibility of final success. And Helen's success has been more complete

and inspiring than any of her friends expected, and the child's delight

in being able to utter her thoughts in living and distinct speech is

shared by all who witness her pleasure when strangers tell her that they

understand her.

I have been asked a great many times whether I think Helen will ever

speak naturally; that is, as other people speak. I am hardly prepared

to decide that question, or even give an opinion regarding it. I believe

that I have hardly begun yet to know what is possible. Teachers of the

deaf often express surprise that Helen's speech is so good when she

has not received any regular instruction in speech since the first few

lessons given her by Miss Fuller. I can only say in reply, "This is

due to habitual imitation and practice! practice! practice!" Nature has

determined how the child shall learn to speak, and all we can do is to

aid him in the simplest, easiest way possible, by encouraging him to

observe and imitate the vibrations in the voice.

Some further details appear in an earlier, more detailed account, which

Miss Sullivan wrote for the Perkins Institution Report of 1891.

I knew that Laura Bridgman had shown the same intuitive desire to

produce sounds, and had even learned to pronounce a few simple words,

which she took great delight in using, and I did not doubt that Helen

could accomplish as much as this. I thought, however, that the advantage

she would derive would not repay her for the time and labour that such

an experiment would cost.

Moreover, the absence of hearing renders the voice monotonous and often

very disagreeable; and such speech is generally unintelligible except to

those familiar with the speaker.

The acquiring of speech by untaught deaf children is always slow and

often painful. Too much stress, it seems to me, is often laid upon the

importance of teaching a deaf child to articulate--a process which may

be detrimental to the pupil's intellectual development. In the very

nature of things, articulation is an unsatisfactory means of education;

while the use of the manual alphabet quickens and invigorates mental

activity, since through it the deaf child is brought into close contact

with the English language, and the highest and most abstract ideas may

be conveyed to the mind readily and accurately. Helen's case proved it

to be also an invaluable aid in acquiring articulation. She was already

perfectly familiar with words and the construction of sentences, and

had only mechanical difficulties to overcome. Moreover, she knew what a

pleasure speech would be to her, and this definite knowledge of what

she was striving for gave her the delight of anticipation which made

drudgery easy. The untaught deaf child who is made to articulate does

not know what the goal is, and his lessons in speech are for a long time

tedious and meaningless.

Before describing the process of teaching Helen to speak, it may be well

to state briefly to what extent she had used the vocal organs before

she began to receive regular instruction in articulation. When she was

stricken down with the illness which resulted in her loss of sight and

hearing, at the age of nineteen months, she was learning to talk. The

unmeaning babblings of the infant were becoming day by day conscious and

voluntary signs of what she felt and thought. But the disease checked

her progress in the acquisition of oral language, and, when her

physical strength returned, it was found that she had ceased to speak

intelligibly because she could no longer hear a sound. She continued

to exercise her vocal organs mechanically, as ordinary children do. Her

cries and laughter and the tones of her voice as she pronounced many

word elements were perfectly natural, but the child evidently attached

no significance to them, and with one exception they were produced not

with any intention of communicating with those around her, but from

the sheer necessity of exercising her innate, organic, and hereditary

faculty of expression. She always attached a meaning to the word water,

which was one of the first sounds her baby lips learned to form, and it

was the only word which she continued to articulate after she lost her

hearing. Her pronunciation of this gradually became indistinct, and

when I first knew her it was nothing more than a peculiar noise.

Nevertheless, it was the only sign she ever made for water, and not

until she had learned to spell the word with her fingers did she forget

the spoken symbol. The word water, and the gesture which corresponds to

the word good-by, seem to have been all that the child remembered of the

natural and acquired signs with which she had been familiar before her

illness.

As she became acquainted with her surroundings through the sense of

feeling (I use the word in the broadest sense, as including all

tactile impressions), she felt more and more the pressing necessity of

communicating with those around her. Her little hands felt every object

and observed every movement of the persons about her, and she was

quick to imitate these movements. She was thus able to express her more

imperative needs and many of her thoughts.

At the time when I became her teacher, she had made for herself upward

of sixty signs, all of which were imitative and were readily understood

by those who knew her. The only signs which I think she may have

invented were her signs for SMALL and LARGE. Whenever she wished for

anything very much she would gesticulate in a very expressive manner.

Failing to make herself understood, she would become violent. In the

years of her mental imprisonment she depended entirely upon signs, and

she did not work out for herself any sort of articulate language capable

of expressing ideas. It seems, however, that, while she was still

suffering from severe pain, she noticed the movements of her mother's

lips.

When she was not occupied, she wandered restlessly about the house,

making strange though rarely unpleasant sounds. I have seen her rock

her doll, making a continuous, monotonous sound, keeping one hand on her

throat, while the fingers of the other hand noted the movements of

her lips. This was in imitation of her mother's crooning to the baby.

Occasionally she broke out into a merry laugh, and then she would reach

out and touch the mouth of any one who happened to be near her, to see

if he were laughing also. If she detected no smile, she gesticulated

excitedly, trying to convey her thought; but if she failed to make her

companion laugh, she sat still for a few moments, with a troubled and

disappointed expression. She was pleased with anything which made a

noise. She liked to feel the cat purr; and if by chance she felt a dog

in the act of barking, she showed great pleasure. She always liked to

stand by the piano when some one was playing and singing. She kept one

hand on the singer's mouth, while the other rested on the piano, and

she stood in this position as long as any one would sing to her, and

afterward she would make a continuous sound which she called singing.

The only words she had learned to pronounce with any degree of

distinctness previous to March, 1890, were PAPA, MAMMA, BABY, SISTER.

These words she had caught without instruction from the lips of

friends. It will be seen that they contain three vowel and six consonant

elements, and these formed the foundation for her first real lesson in

speaking.

At the end of the first lesson she was able to pronounce distinctly the

following sounds: a, a", a^, e, i, o, c soft like s and hard like k,

g hard, b, l, n, m, t, p, s, u, k, f and d. Hard consonants were, and

indeed still are, very difficult for her to pronounce in connection with

one another in the same word; she often suppresses the one and changes

the other, and sometimes she replaces both by an analogous sound with

soft aspiration. The confusion between l and r was very noticeable in

her speech at first. She would repeatedly use one for the other. The

great difficulty in the pronunciation of the r made it one of the last

elements which she mastered. The ch, sh and soft g also gave her much

trouble, and she does not yet enunciate them clearly. [The difficulties

which Miss Sullivan found in 1891 are, in a measure, the difficulties

which show in Miss Keller's speech today.]

When she had been talking for less than a week, she met her friend, Mr.

Rodocanachi, and immediately began to struggle with the pronunciation of

his name; nor would she give it up until she was able to articulate the

word distinctly. Her interest never diminished for a moment; and, in her

eagerness to overcome the difficulties which beset her on all sides, she

taxed her powers to the utmost, and learned in eleven lessons all of the

separate elements of speech.

Enough appears in the accounts by Miss Keller's teacher to show the

process by which she reads the lips with her fingers, the process by

which she was taught to speak, and by which, of course, she can listen

to conversation now. In reading the lips she is not so quick or so

accurate as some reports declare. It is a clumsy and unsatisfactory way

of receiving communication, useless when Miss Sullivan or some one else

who knows the manual alphabet is present to give Miss Keller the spoken

words of others. Indeed, when some friend is trying to speak to Miss

Keller, and the attempt is not proving successful, Miss Sullivan usually

helps by spelling the lost words into Miss Keller's hand.

President Roosevelt had little difficulty last spring in making Miss

Keller understand him, and especially requested Miss Sullivan not to

spell into her hand. She got every word, for the President's speech is

notably distinct. Other people say they have no success in making Miss

Keller "hear" them.

A few friends to whom she is accustomed, like Mrs. A. C. Pratt, and Mr.

J. E. Chamberlin, can pass a whole day with her and tell her everything

without the manual alphabet. The ability to read the lips helps Miss

Keller in getting corrections of her pronunciation from Miss Sullivan

and others, just as it was the means of her learning to speak at all,

but it is rather an accomplishment than a necessity.

It must be remembered that speech contributed in no way to her

fundamental education, though without the ability to speak she could

hardly have gone to higher schools and to college. But she knows better

than any one else what value speech has had for her. The following is

her address at the fifth meeting of the American Association to

Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, at Mt. Airy, Philadelphia,

Pennsylvania, July 8, 1896:

ADDRESS OF HELEN KELLER AT MT. AIRY

If you knew all the joy I feel in being able to speak to you to-day, I

think you would have some idea of the value of speech to the deaf, and

you would understand why I want every little deaf child in all this

great world to have an opportunity to learn to speak. I know that much

has been said and written on this subject, and that there is a wide

difference of opinion among teachers of the deaf in regard to oral

instruction. It seems very strange to me that there should be this

difference of opinion; I cannot understand how any one interested in our

education can fail to appreciate the satisfaction we feel in being able

to express our thoughts in living words. Why, I use speech constantly,

and I cannot begin to tell you how much pleasure it gives me to do so.

Of course I know that it is not always easy for strangers to understand

me, but it will be by and by; and in the meantime I have the unspeakable

happiness of knowing that my family and friends rejoice in my ability

to speak. My little sister and baby brother love to have me tell them

stories in the long summer evenings when I am at home; and my mother

and teacher often ask me to read to them from my favourite books. I also

discuss the political situation with my dear father, and we decide the

most perplexing questions quite as satisfactorily to ourselves as if

I could see and hear. So you see what a blessing speech is to me. It

brings me into closer and tenderer relationship with those I love, and

makes it possible for me to enjoy the sweet companionship of a great

many persons from whom I should be entirely cut off if I could not talk.

I can remember the time before I learned to speak, and how I used to

struggle to express my thoughts by means of the manual alphabet--how my

thoughts used to beat against my finger tips like little birds striving

to gain their freedom, until one day Miss Fuller opened wide the

prison-door and let them escape. I wonder if she remembers how eagerly

and gladly they spread their wings and flew away. Of course, it was not

easy at first to fly. The speech-wings were weak and broken, and had

lost all the grace and beauty that had once been theirs; indeed, nothing

was left save the impulse to fly, but that was something. One can never

consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar. But, nevertheless,

it seemed to me sometimes that I could never use my speech-wings as God

intended I should use them; there were so many difficulties in the way,

so many discouragements; but I kept on trying, knowing that patience and

perseverance would win in the end. And while I worked, I built the most

beautiful air-castles, and dreamed dreams, the pleasantest of which was

of the time when I should talk like other people, and the thought of the

pleasure it would give my mother to hear my voice once more, sweetened

every effort and made every failure an incentive to try harder next

time. So I want to say to those who are trying to learn to speak and

those who are teaching them: Be of good cheer. Do not think of to-days

failures, but of the success that may come to-morrow. You have set

yourselves a difficult task, but you will succeed if you persevere,

and you will find a joy in overcoming obstacles--a delight in climbing

rugged paths, which you would perhaps never know if you did not sometime

slip backward--if the road was always smooth and pleasant. Remember,

no effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.

Sometime, somewhere, somehow we shall find that which we seek. We shall

speak, yes, and sing, too, as God intended we should speak and sing.

CHAPTER V. LITERARY STYLE

No one can have read Miss Keller's autobiography without feeling that

she writes unusually fine English. Any teacher of composition knows that

he can bring his pupils to the point of writing without errors in syntax

or in the choice of words. It is just this accuracy which Miss Keller's

early education fixes as the point to which any healthy child can be

brought, and which the analysis of that education accounts for. Those

who try to make her an exception not to be explained by any such

analysis of her early education, fortify their position by an appeal

to the remarkable excellence of her use of language even when she was a

child.

This appeal is to a certain degree valid; for, indeed, those additional

harmonies of language and beauties of thought which make style are the

gifts of the gods. No teacher could have made Helen Keller sensitive

to the beauties of language and to the finer interplay of thought which

demands expression in melodious word groupings.

At the same time the inborn gift of style can be starved or stimulated.

No innate genius can invent fine language. The stuff of which good style

is made must be given to the mind from without and given skilfully. A

child of the muses cannot write fine English unless fine English has

been its nourishment. In this, as in all other things, Miss Sullivan has

been the wise teacher. If she had not had taste and an enthusiasm for

good English, Helen Keller might have been brought up on the "Juvenile

Literature," which belittles the language under pretense of being simply

phrased for children; as if a child's book could not, like "Treasure

Island" or "Robinson Crusoe" or the "Jungle Book," be in good style.

If Miss Sullivan wrote fine English, the beauty of Helen Keller's

style would, in part, be explicable at once. But the extracts from Miss

Sullivan's letters and from her reports, although they are clear and

accurate, have not the beauty which distinguishes Miss Keller's English.

Her service as a teacher of English is not to be measured by her own

skill in composition. The reason why she read to her pupil so many good

books is due, in some measure, to the fact that she had so recently

recovered her eyesight. When she became Helen Keller's teacher she was

just awakening to the good things that are in books, from which she had

been shut out during her years of blindness.

In Captain Keller's library she found excellent books, Lamb's "Tales

from Shakespeare," and better still Montaigne. After the first year or

so of elementary work she met her pupil on equal terms, and they read

and enjoyed good books together.

Besides the selection of good books, there is one other cause for

Miss Keller's excellence in writing, for which Miss Sullivan deserves

unlimited credit. That is her tireless and unrelenting discipline, which

is evident in all her work. She never allowed her pupil to send off

letters which contained offenses against taste, but made her write them

over until they were not only correct, but charming and well phrased.

Any one who has tried to write knows what Miss Keller owes to the

endless practice which Miss Sullivan demanded of her. Let a teacher with

a liking for good style insist on a child's writing a paragraph over and

over again until it is more than correct, and he will be training,

even beyond his own power of expression, the power of expression in the

child.

How far Miss Sullivan carried this process of refinement and selection

is evident from the humorous comment of Dr. Bell, that she made her

pupil a little old woman, too widely different from ordinary children in

her maturity of thought. When Dr. Bell said this he was arguing his own

case. For it was Dr. Bell who first saw the principles that underlie

Miss Sullivan's method, and explained the process by which Helen Keller

absorbed language from books.

There is, moreover, a reason why Helen Keller writes good English, which

lies in the very absence of sight and hearing. The disadvantages of

being deaf and blind were overcome and the advantages remained. She

excels other deaf people because she was taught as if she were normal.

On the other hand, the peculiar value to her of language, which ordinary

people take for granted as a necessary part of them like their right

hand, made her think about language and love it. Language was her

liberator, and from the first she cherished it.

The proof of Miss Keller's early skill in the use of English, and the

final comment on the excellence of this whole method of teaching,

is contained in an incident, which, although at the time it seemed

unfortunate, can no longer be regretted. I refer to the "Frost King"

episode, which I shall explain in detail. Miss Keller has given her

account of it, and the whole matter was discussed in the first Volta

Bureau Souvenir from which I quote at length:

MISS SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF THE "FROST KING"

HON. JOHN HITZ, Superintendent of the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C.

Dear Sir: Since my paper was prepared for the second edition of the

Souvenir "Helen Keller," some facts have been brought to my notice which

are of interest in connection with the subject of the acquisition of

language by my pupil, and if it is not already too late for publication

in this issue of the Souvenir, I shall be glad if I may have opportunity

to explain them in detail.

Perhaps it will be remembered that in my paper*, where allusion is made

to Helen's remarkable memory, it is noted that she appears to retain in

her mind many forms of expression which, at the time they are received,

she probably does not understand; but when further information is

acquired, the language retained in her memory finds full or partial

expression in her conversation or writing, according as it proves of

greater or less value to her in the fitness of its application to the

new experience. Doubtless this is true in the case of every intelligent

child, and should not, perhaps, be considered worthy of especial mention

in Helen's case, but for the fact that a child who is deprived of

the senses of sight and hearing might not be expected to be as gifted

mentally as this little girl proves to be; hence it is quite possible

we may be inclined to class as marvelous many things we discover in the

development of her mind which do not merit such an explanation.

* In this paper Miss Sullivan says: "During this winter (1891-92) I went

with her into the yard while a light snow was falling, and let her feel

the falling flakes. She appeared to enjoy it very much indeed. As

we went in she repeated these words, 'Out of the cloud-folds of his

garments Winter shakes the snow.' I inquired of her where she had read

this; she did not remember having read it, did not seem to know that

she had learned it. As I had never heard it, I inquired of several of

my friends if they recalled the words; no one seemed to remember it. The

teachers at the Institution expressed the opinion that the description

did not appear in any book in raised print in that library; but one

lady, Miss Marrett, took upon herself the task of examining books of

poems in ordinary type, and was rewarded by finding the following lines

in one of Longfellow's minor poems, entitled 'Snowflakes':

'Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.'

"It would seem that Helen had learned and treasured the memory of this

expression of the poet, and this morning in the snow-storm had found its

application."

In the hope that I may be pardoned if I appear to overestimate the

remarkable mental capacity and power of comprehension and discrimination

which my pupil possesses, I wish to add that, while I have always known

that Helen made great use of such descriptions and comparisons as appeal

to her imagination and fine poetic nature, yet recent developments in

her writings convince me of the fact that I have not in the past been

fully aware to what extent she absorbs the language of her favourite

authors. In the early part of her education I had full knowledge of all

the books she read and of nearly all the stories which were read to her,

and could without difficulty trace the source of any adaptations noted

in her writing or conversation; and I have always been much pleased to

observe how appropriately she applies the expressions of a favourite

author in her own compositions.

The following extracts from a few of her published letters give evidence

of how valuable this power of retaining the memory of beautiful language

has been to her. One warm, sunny day in early spring, when we were at

the North, the balmy atmosphere appears to have brought to her mind the

sentiment expressed by Longfellow in "Hiawatha," and she almost sings

with the poet: "The ground was all aquiver with the stir of new life. My

heart sang for very joy. I thought of my own dear home. I knew that in

that sunny land spring had come in all its splendour. 'All its birds and

all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses.'"

About the same time, in a letter to a friend, in which she makes mention

of her Southern home, she gives so close a reproduction from a poem

by one of her favourite authors that I will give extracts from Helen's

letter and from the poem itself:

EXTRACTS FROM HELEN'S LETTER

[The entire letter is published on pp. 245 and 246 of the Report of the

Perkins Institution for 1891]

The blue-bird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the

robin jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of

fire, the jolly bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating

the notes of all, the red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy

little wren, are all making the trees in our front yard ring with their

glad song.

FROM THE POEM ENTITLED "SPRING" BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed

from the myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down,

Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake

of fire Rent by a whirlwind from a blazing spire; The robin, jerking

his spasmodic throat, Repeats imperious, his staccato note; The

crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bullrush tipsy

with his weight: Nay, in his cage the lone canary sings, Feels the soft

air, and spreads his idle wings.

On the last day of April she uses another expression from the same poem,

which is more an adaptation than a reproduction: "To-morrow April will

hide her tears and blushes beneath the flowers of lovely May."

In a letter to a friend at the Perkins Institution, dated May 17, 1889,

she gives a reproduction from one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories,

which I had read to her not long before. This letter is published in the

Perkins Institution Report (1891), p. 204. The original story was read

to her from a copy of "Andersen's Stories," published by Leavitt & Allen

Bros., and may be found on p. 97 of Part I. in that volume.

Her admiration for the impressive explanations which Bishop Brooks has

given her of the Fatherhood of God is well known. In one of his letters,

speaking of how God in every way tells us of His love, he says, "I think

he writes it even upon the walls of the great house of nature which we

live in, that he is our Father." The next year at Andover she said: "It

seems to me the world is full of goodness, beauty, and love; and how

grateful we must be to our heavenly Father, who has given us so much to

enjoy! His love and care are written all over the walls of nature."

In these later years, since Helen has come in contact with so many

persons who are able to converse freely with her, she has made the

acquaintance of some literature with which I am not familiar; she has

also found in books printed in raised letters, in the reading of which I

have been unable to follow her, much material for the cultivation of

the taste she possesses for poetical imagery. The pages of the book she

reads become to her like paintings, to which her imaginative powers give

life and colour. She is at once transported into the midst of the events

portrayed in the story she reads or is told, and the characters and

descriptions become real to her; she rejoices when justice wins, and is

sad when virtue goes unrewarded. The pictures the language paints on her

memory appear to make an indelible impression; and many times, when an

experience comes to her similar in character, the language starts forth

with wonderful accuracy, like the reflection from a mirror.

Helen's mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand

with only the faintest touch of explanation every possible variety

of external relations. One day in Alabama, as we were gathering wild

flowers near the springs on the hillsides, she seemed to understand for

the first time that the springs were surrounded by mountains, and she

exclaimed: "The mountains are crowding around the springs to look at

their own beautiful reflections!" I do not know where she obtained this

language, yet it is evident that it must have come to her from without,

as it would hardly be possible for a person deprived of the visual sense

to originate such an idea. In mentioning a visit to Lexington, Mass.,

she writes: "As we rode along we could see the forest monarchs bend

their proud forms to listen to the little children of the woodlands

whispering their secrets. The anemone, the wild violet, the hepatica,

and the funny little curled-up ferns all peeped out at us from beneath

the brown leaves." She closes this letter with, "I must go to bed, for

Morpheus has touched my eyelids with his golden wand." Here again, I am

unable to state where she acquired these expressions.

She has always seemed to prefer stories which exercise the imagination,

and catches and retains the poetic spirit in all such literature; but

not until this winter have I been conscious that her memory absorbed the

exact language to such an extent that she is herself unable to trace the

source.

This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of

her parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves." She was

at work upon it about two weeks, writing a little each day, at her

own pleasure. When it was finished, and we read it in the family, it

occasioned much comment on account of the beautiful imagery, and we

could not understand how Helen could describe such pictures without the

aid of sight. As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this

before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, "I did

not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday." While I was

surprised that she could write like this, I was not more astonished than

I had been many times before at the unexpected achievements of my little

pupil, especially as we had exchanged many beautiful thoughts on the

subject of the glory of the ripening foliage during the autumn of this

year.

Before Helen made her final copy of the story, it was suggested to her

to change its title to "The Frost King," as more appropriate to the

subject of which the story treated; to this she willingly assented. The

story was written by Helen in braille, as usual and copied by her in

the same manner, I then interlined the manuscript for the greater

convenience of those who desired to read it. Helen wrote a little

letter, and, enclosing the manuscript, forwarded both by mail to Mr.

Anagnos for his birthday.

The story was printed in the January number of the Mentor and, from a

review of it in the Goodson Gazette, I was startled to find that a very

similar story had been published in 1873, seven years before Helen was

born. This story, "Frost Fairies," appeared in a book written by Miss

Margaret T. Canby, entitled "Birdie and his Fairy Friends." The passages

quoted from the two stories were so much alike in thought and expression

as to convince me that Miss Canby's story must at some time have been

read to Helen.

As I had never read this story, or even heard of the book, I inquired of

Helen if she knew anything about the matter, and found she did not. She

was utterly unable to recall either the name of the story or the book.

Careful examination was made of the books in raised print in the library

of the Perkins Institution to learn if any extracts from this volume

could be found there; but nothing was discovered. I then concluded that

the story must have been read to her a long time ago, as her memory

usually retains with great distinctness facts and impressions which have

been committed to its keeping.

After making careful inquiry, I succeeded in obtaining the information

that our friend, Mrs. S. C. Hopkins, had a copy of this book in 1888

which was presented to her little daughter in 1873 or 1874. Helen and

I spent the summer of 1888 with Mrs. Hopkins at her home in Brewster,

Mass., where she kindly relieved me a part of the time, of the care

of Helen. She amused and entertained Helen by reading to her from a

collection of juvenile publications, among which was the copy of "Birdie

and his Fairy Friends"; and, while Mrs. Hopkins does not remember

this story of "Frost Fairies," she is confident that she read to Helen

extracts, if not entire stories, from this volume. But as she was not

able to find her copy, and applications for the volume at bookstores in

Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Albany, and other places resulted only

in failure, search was instituted for the author herself. This became

a difficult task, as her publishers in Philadelphia had retired from

business many years ago; however, it was eventually discovered that her

residence is at Wilmington, Delaware, and copies of the second edition

of the book, 1889, were obtained from her. She has since secured and

forwarded to me a copy of the first edition.

The most generous and gratifying letters have been received from Miss

Canby by Helen's friends, a few extracts from which are given:

Under date of February 24, 1892, after mentioning the order of the

publication of the stories in the magazine, she writes:

"All the stories were revised before publishing them in book form;

additions were made to the number as first published, I think, and some

of the titles may have been changed."

In the same letter she writes:

"I hope that you will be able to make her understand that I am glad she

enjoyed my story, and that I hope the new book will give her pleasure

by renewing her friendship with the Fairies. I shall write to her in a

short time. I am so much impressed with what I have learned of her that

I have written a little poem entitled A Silent Singer, which I may send

to her mother after a while. Can you tell me in what paper the article

appeared accusing Helen of plagiarism, and giving passages from both

stories? I should like much to see it, and to obtain a few copies if

possible."

Under date of March 9, 1892, Miss Canby writes:

"I find traces, in the Report which you so kindly sent me, of little

Helen having heard other stories than that of 'Frost Fairies.' On page

132, in a letter, there is a passage which must have been suggested by

my story called 'The Rose Fairies' (see pp. 13-16 of 'Birdie') and on

pages 93 and 94 of the Report the description of a thunderstorm is very

much like Birdie's idea of the same in the 'Dew Fairies' on page 59 and

60 of my book. What a wonderfully active and retentive mind that gifted

child must have! If she had remembered and written down accurately,

a short story, and that soon after hearing it, it would have been a

marvel; but to have heard the story once, three years ago, and in such

a way that neither her parents nor teacher could ever allude to it or

refresh her memory about it, and then to have been able to reproduce it

so vividly, even adding some touches of her own in perfect keeping with

the rest, which really improve the original, is something that very few

girls of riper age, and with every advantage of sight, hearing, and even

great talents for composition, could have done as well, if at all. Under

the circumstances, I do not see how any one can be so unkind as to call

it a plagiarism; it is a wonderful feat of memory, and stands ALONE, as

doubtless much of her work will in future, if her mental powers grow and

develop with her years as greatly as in the few years past. I have known

many children well, have been surrounded by them all my life, and love

nothing better than to talk with them, amuse them, and quietly notice

their traits of mind and character; but I do not recollect more than one

girl of Helen's age who had the love and thirst for knowledge, and the

store of literary and general information, and the skill in composition,

which Helen possesses. She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child.' Thank you very

much for the Report, Gazette, and Helen's Journal. The last made me

realize the great disappointment to the dear child more than before.

Please give her my warm love, and tell her not to feel troubled about

it any more. No one shall be allowed to think it was anything wrong; and

some day she will write a great, beautiful story or poem that will make

many people happy. Tell her there are a few bitter drops in every one's

cup, and the only way is to take the bitter patiently, and the sweet

thankfully. I shall love to hear of her reception of the book and how

she likes the stories which are new to her."

I have now (March, 1892) read to Helen "The Frost Fairies," "The Rose

Fairies," and a portion of "The Dew Fairies," but she is unable to throw

any light on the matter. She recognized them at once as her own stories,

with variations, and was much puzzled to know how they could have been

published before she was born! She thinks it is wonderful that two

people should write stories so much alike; but she still considers her

own as original.

I give below a portion of Miss Canby's story, "The Rose Fairies," and

also Helen's letter to Mr. Anagnos containing her "dream," so that the

likenesses and differences may be studied by those interested in the

subject:

THE ROSE FAIRIES

[From"Birdie and his Fairy Friends," by Margaret T. Canby]

One pleasant morning little Birdie might have been seen sitting quietly

on the grass-plat at the side of his mother's house, looking very

earnestly at the rose-bushes.

It was quite early; great Mr. Sun, who is such an early riser in summer

time, had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to chirp

their "good-mornings" to each other; and as for the flowers, they were

still asleep. But Birdie was so busy all day, trotting about the house

and garden, that he was always ready for HIS nest at night, before the

birds and flowers had thought of seeking THEIRS; and so it came to

pass that when Mr. Sun raised his head above the green woods and smiled

lovingly upon the earth, Birdie was often the first to see him, and

to smile back at him, all the while rubbing his eyes with his dimpled

fists, until between smiling and rubbing, he was wide awake.

And what do you think he did next! Why, the little rogue rolled into his

mamma's bed, and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, and her mouth, until

she began to dream that it was raining kisses; and at last she opened

her eyes to see what it all meant, and found that it was Birdie, trying

to "kiss her awake," as he said.

She loved her little boy very dearly, and liked to make him happy, and

when he said, "Please dress me, dear mamma, and let me go out to play

in the garden," she cheerfully consented; and, soon after, Birdie went

downstairs in his morning-dress of cool linen, and with his round face

bright and rosy from its bath, and ran out on the gravel path to play,

until breakfast was ready.

He stood still a moment to look about him, and think what he should do

first. The fresh morning air blew softly in his face, as if to welcome

him and be his merry playmate; and the bright eye of Mr. Sun looked at

him with a warm and glowing smile; but Birdie soon walked on to find

something to play with. As he came in sight of the rose-bushes that grew

near the side of the house, he suddenly clapped his hands, and with a

little shout of joy stopped to look at them; they were all covered with

lovely rosebuds. Some were red, some white, and others pale pink, and

they were just peeping out of the green leaves, as rosy-faced children

peep out from their warm beds in wintertime before they are quite

willing to get up. A few days before, Birdie's papa had told him that

the green balls on the rose-bushes had beautiful flowers shut up within

them, but the little boy found it hard to believe, for he was so young

that he did not remember how pretty the roses had been the summer

before. Now he found out that his father's words were true, for a few

days of warm weather had turned the green balls into rosebuds, and they

were SO beautiful that it was enough to make Birdie stand still before

them, his blue eyes dancing with delight and his little hands clasped

tightly together.

After awhile he went nearer, and looking closely at the buds, found that

they were folded up, leaf over leaf, as eyelids are folded over sleeping

eyes, so that Birdie thought they must be asleep. "Lazy roses, wake up,"

said he, giving the branches a gentle shake; but only the dew fell off

in bright drops, and the flowers were still shut up. At last Birdie

remembered how he had awakened his mother with kisses, and thought he

would try the same plan with the roses; so he drew up his red lips until

THEY looked like a rosebud, too, and bending down a branch with a lovely

pink bud upon it, he kissed it softly two or three times.

Here the similarity in the language of the story to that in the letter

ceases.

HELEN'S LETTER TO MR. ANAGNOS

(Written February 2 and 3, 1890.)

[This letter was enclosed in another written in French, dated Le 1

fevrier 1890.]

My Dear Mr. Anagnos: You will laugh when you open your little friend's

letter and see all the queer mistakes she has made in French, but I

think you will be pleased to know that I can write even a short letter

in French. It makes me very happy to please you and my dear teacher. I

wish I could see your little niece Amelia. I am sure we should love each

other. I hope you will bring some of Virginia Evanghelides' poems home

with you, and translate them for me. Teacher and I have just returned

from our walk. It is a beautiful day. We met a sweet little child. She

was playing on the pier with a wee brother. She gave me a kiss and then

ran away, because she was a shy little girl. I wonder if you would like

to have me tell you a pretty dream which I had a long time ago when I

was a very little child? Teacher says it was a day-dream, and she thinks

you would be delighted to hear it. One pleasant morning in the beautiful

springtime, I thought I was sitting on the soft grass under my dear

mother's window, looking very earnestly at the rose-bushes which were

growing all around me. It was quite early, the sun had not been up very

long; the birds were just beginning to sing joyously. The flowers were

still asleep. They would not awake until the sun had smiled lovingly

upon them. I was a very happy little child with rosy cheeks, and large

blue eyes, and the most beautiful golden ringlets you can imagine. The

fresh morning air blew gently in my face, as if to welcome me, and be my

merry playmate, and the sun looked at me with a warm and tender smile.

I clapped my chubby hands for joy when I saw that the rose-bushes were

covered with lovely buds. Some were red, some white, and others were

delicate pink, and they were peeping out from between the green leaves

like beautiful little fairies. I had never seen anything so lovely

before, for I was very young and I could not remember how pretty the

roses had been the summer before. My little heart was filled with a

sweet joy, and I danced around the rosebushes to show my delight.

After a while I went very near to a beautiful white rose-bush which was

completely covered with buds and sparkling with dewdrops; I bent down

one of the branches with a lovely pure white bud upon it, and kissed it

softly many times; just then I felt two loving arms steal gently around

me, and loving lips kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, and my mouth, until

I began to think it was raining kisses; and at last I opened my eyes

to see what it all meant, and found it was my precious mother, who was

bending over me, trying to kiss me awake. Do you like my day-dream? If

you do, perhaps I will dream again for you some time.

Teacher and all of your friends send you their love. I shall be so glad

when you come home, for I greatly miss you. Please give my love to your

good Greek friends, and tell them that I shall come to Athens some day.

Lovingly your little friend and playmate, HELEN A. KELLER.

"The Frost Fairies" and "The Frost Kings" are given in full, as the

differences are as important as the resemblances:

The Frost Fairies [From "Birdie and his Fairy Friends"] by Margaret T.

Canby

King Frost, or Jack Frost as he is sometimes called, lives in a cold

country far to the North; but every year he takes a journey over the

world in a car of golden clouds drawn by a strong and rapid steed called

"North Wind." Wherever he goes he does many wonderful things; he builds

bridges over every stream, clear as glass in appearance but often strong

as iron; he puts the flowers and plants to sleep by one touch of his

hand, and they all bow down and sink into the warm earth, until spring

returns; then, lest we should grieve for the flowers, he places at our

windows lovely wreaths and sprays of his white northern flowers,

or delicate little forests of fairy pine-trees, pure white and very

beautiful. But his most wonderful work is the painting of the trees,

which look, after his task is done, as if they were covered with the

brightest layers of gold and rubies; and are beautiful enough to comfort

us for the flight of summer.

I will tell you how King Frost first thought of this kind work, for it

is a strange story. You must know that this King, like all other kings,

has great treasures of gold and precious stones in his palace; but,

being a good-hearted old fellow, he does not keep his riches locked up

all the time, but tries to do good and make others happy with them. He

has two neighbours, who live still farther north; one is King Winter, a

cross and churlish old monarch, who is hard and cruel, and delights in

making the poor suffer and weep; but the other neighbour is Santa Claus,

a fine, good-natured, jolly old soul, who loves to do good, and who

brings presents to the poor, and to nice little children at Christmas.

Well, one day King Frost was trying to think of some good that he could

do with his treasure; and suddenly he concluded to send some of it to

his kind neighbour, Santa Claus, to buy presents of food and clothing

for the poor, that they might not suffer so much when King Winter went

near their homes. So he called together his merry little fairies, and

showing them a number of jars and vases filled with gold and precious

stones, told them to carry those carefully to the palace of Santa Claus,

and give them to him with the compliments of King Frost. "He will know

how to make good use of the treasure," added Jack Frost; then he told

the fairies not to loiter by the way, but to do his bidding quickly.

The fairies promised obedience and soon started on their journey,

dragging the great glass jars and vases along, as well as they could,

and now and then grumbling a little at having such hard work to do, for

they were idle fairies, and liked play better than work. At last they

reached a great forest, and, being quite tired, they decided to rest

awhile and look for nuts before going any further. But lest the treasure

should be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the thick leaves

of the forest trees, placing some high up near the top, and others in

different parts of the various trees, until they thought no one could

find them.

Then they began to wander about and hunt for nuts, and climb the trees

to shake them down, and worked much harder for their own pleasure than

they had done for their master's bidding, for it is a strange truth that

fairies and children never complain of the toil and trouble they take in

search of amusement, although they often grumble when asked to work for

the good of others.

The frost fairies were so busy and so merry over their nutting frolic

that they soon forgot their errand and their king's command to go

quickly; but, as they played and loitered in the forest until noon, they

found the reason why they were told to hasten; for although they had, as

they thought, hidden the treasure so carefully, they had not secured it

from the power of Mr. Sun, who was an enemy of Jack Frost, and delighted

to undo his work and weaken him whenever he could.

His bright eyes found out the jars of treasure among the trees, and as

the idle fairies left them there until noon, at which time Mr. Sun is

the strongest, the delicate glass began to melt and break, and before

long every jar and vase was cracked or broken, and the precious

treasures they contained were melting, too, and dripping slowly in

streams of gold and crimson over the trees and bushes of the forest.

Still, for awhile, the frost fairies did not notice this strange

occurrence, for they were down on the grass, so far below the tree-tops

that the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time in reaching

them; but at last one of them said, "Hark! I believe it is raining; I

certainly hear the falling drops." The others laughed, and told him that

it seldom rained when the sun was shining; but as they listened they

plainly heard the tinkling of many drops falling through the forest, and

sliding from leaf to leaf until they reached the bramble-bushes beside

them, when, to their great dismay, they found that the RAIN-DROPS were

MELTED RUBIES, which hardened on the leaves and turned them to bright

crimson in a moment. Then looking more closely at the trees around,

they saw that the treasure was all melting away, and that much of it was

already spread over the leaves of the oak trees and maples, which

were shining with their gorgeous dress of gold and bronze, crimson

and emerald. It was very beautiful; but the idle fairies were too much

frightened at the mischief their disobedience had caused, to admire the

beauty of the forest, and at once tried to hide themselves among the

bushes, lest King Frost should come and punish them.

Their fears were well founded, for their long absence had alarmed the

king, and he had started out to look for his tardy servants, and just as

they were all hidden, he came along slowly, looking on all sides for the

fairies. Of course, he soon noticed the brightness of the leaves, and

discovered the cause, too, when he caught sight of the broken jars and

vases from which the melted treasure was still dropping. And when he

came to the nut trees, and saw the shells left by the idle fairies and

all the traces of their frolic, he knew exactly how they had acted,

and that they had disobeyed him by playing and loitering on their way

through the woods.

King Frost frowned and looked very angry at first, and his fairies

trembled for fear and cowered still lower in their hiding-places; but

just then two little children came dancing through the wood, and though

they did not see King Frost or the fairies, they saw the beautiful

colour of the leaves, and laughed with delight, and began picking great

bunches to take to their mother. "The leaves are as pretty as flowers,"

said they; and they called the golden leaves "buttercups," and the red

ones "roses," and were very happy as they went singing through the wood.

Their pleasure charmed away King Frost's anger, and he, too, began to

admire the painted trees, and at last he said to himself, "My treasures

are not wasted if they make little children happy. I will not be

offended at my idle, thoughtless fairies, for they have taught me a new

way of doing good." When the frost fairies heard these words they crept,

one by one, from their corners, and, kneeling down before their master,

confessed their fault, and asked his pardon. He frowned upon them for

awhile, and scolded them, too, but he soon relented, and said he would

forgive them this time, and would only punish them by making them carry

more treasure to the forest, and hide it in the trees, until all the

leaves, with Mr. Sun's help, were covered with gold and ruby coats.

Then the fairies thanked him for his forgiveness, and promised to work

very hard to please him; and the good-natured king took them all up in

his arms, and carried them safely home to his palace. From that time, I

suppose, it has been part of Jack Frost's work to paint the trees with

the glowing colours we see in the autumn; and if they are NOT covered

with gold and precious stones, I do not know how he makes them so

bright; DO YOU?

The Frost King by Helen A. Keller

King Frost lives in a beautiful palace far to the North, in the land of

perpetual snow. The palace, which is magnificent beyond description, was

built centuries ago, in the reign of King Glacier. At a little distance

from the palace we might easily mistake it for a mountain whose peaks

were mounting heavenward to receive the last kiss of the departing

day. But on nearer approach we should discover our error. What we had

supposed to be peaks were in reality a thousand glittering spires.

Nothing could be more beautiful than the architecture of this

ice-palace. The walls are curiously constructed of massive blocks of ice

which terminate in cliff-like towers. The entrance to the palace is at

the end of an arched recess, and it is guarded night and day by twelve

soldierly-looking white Bears.

But, children, you must make King Frost a visit the very first

opportunity you have, and see for yourselves this wonderful palace. The

old King will welcome you kindly, for he loves children, and it is his

chief delight to give them pleasure.

You must know that King Frost, like all other kings, has great treasures

of gold and precious stones; but as he is a generous old monarch, he

endeavours to make a right use of his riches. So wherever he goes he

does many wonderful works; he builds bridges over every stream, as

transparent as glass, but often as strong as iron; he shakes the forest

trees until the ripe nuts fall into the laps of laughing children; he

puts the flowers to sleep with one touch of his hand; then, lest we

should mourn for the bright faces of the flowers, he paints the leaves

with gold and crimson and emerald, and when his task is done the trees

are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer. I will tell

you how King Frost happened to think of painting the leaves, for it is a

strange story.

One day while King Frost was surveying his vast wealth and thinking what

good he could do with it, he suddenly bethought him of his jolly old

neighbour, Santa Claus. "I will send my treasures to Santa Claus,"

said the King to himself. "He is the very man to dispose of them

satisfactorily, for he knows where the poor and the unhappy live, and

his kind old heart is always full of benevolent plans for their relief."

So he called together the merry little fairies of his household and,

showing them the jars and vases containing his treasures, he bade them

carry them to the palace of Santa Claus as quickly as they could. The

fairies promised obedience, and were off in a twinkling, dragging the

heavy jars and vases along after them as well as they could, now and

then grumbling a little at having such a hard task, for they were idle

fairies and loved to play better than to work. After awhile they came to

a great forest and, being tired and hungry, they thought they would rest

a little and look for nuts before continuing their journey. But thinking

their treasure might be stolen from them, they hid the jars among the

thick green leaves of the various trees until they were sure that no one

could find them. Then they began to wander merrily about searching for

nuts, climbing trees, peeping curiously into the empty birds' nests, and

playing hide and seek from behind the trees. Now, these naughty fairies

were so busy and so merry over their frolic that they forgot all about

their errand and their master's command to go quickly, but soon they

found to their dismay why they had been bidden to hasten, for although

they had, as they supposed, hidden the treasure carefully, yet the

bright eyes of King Sun had spied out the jars among the leaves, and

as he and King Frost could never agree as to what was the best way of

benefiting the world, he was very glad of a good opportunity of playing

a joke upon his rather sharp rival. King Sun laughed softly to himself

when the delicate jars began to melt and break. At length every jar and

vase was cracked or broken, and the precious stones they contained were

melting, too, and running in little streams over the trees and bushes of

the forest.

Still the idle fairies did not notice what was happening, for they were

down on the grass, and the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time

in reaching them; but at last they plainly heard the tinkling of many

drops falling like rain through the forest, and sliding from leaf to

leaf until they reached the little bushes by their side, when to their

astonishment they discovered that the rain-drops were melted rubies

which hardened on the leaves, and turned them to crimson and gold in

a moment. Then looking around more closely, they saw that much of the

treasure was already melted, for the oaks and maples were arrayed in

gorgeous dresses of gold and crimson and emerald. It was very beautiful,

but the disobedient fairies were too frightened to notice the beauty of

the trees. They were afraid that King Frost would come and punish

them. So they hid themselves among the bushes and waited silently for

something to happen. Their fears were well founded, for their long

absence had alarmed the King, and he mounted North Wind and went out

in search of his tardy couriers. Of course, he had not gone far when he

noticed the brightness of the leaves, and he quickly guessed the cause

when he saw the broken jars from which the treasure was still dropping.

At first King Frost was very angry, and the fairies trembled and

crouched lower in their hiding-places, and I do not know what might have

happened to them if just then a party of boys and girls had not entered

the wood. When the children saw the trees all aglow with brilliant

colors they clapped their hands and shouted for joy, and immediately

began to pick great bunches to take home. "The leaves are as lovely as

the flowers!" cried they, in their delight. Their pleasure banished the

anger from King Frost's heart and the frown from his brow, and he, too,

began to admire the painted trees. He said to himself, "My treasures are

not wasted if they make little children happy. My idle fairies and my

fiery enemy have taught me a new way of doing good."

When the fairies heard this, they were greatly relieved and came

forth from their hiding-places, confessed their fault, and asked their

master's forgiveness.

Ever since that time it has been King Frost's great delight to paint the

leaves with the glowing colors we see in the autumn, and if they are not

covered with gold and precious stones I cannot imagine what makes them

so bright, can you?

If the story of "The Frost Fairies" was read to Helen in the summer of

1888, she could not have understood very much of it at that time, for

she had only been under instruction since March, 1887.

Can it be that the language of the story had remained dormant in her

mind until my description of the beauty of the autumn scenery in 1891

brought it vividly before her mental vision?

I have made careful investigation among Helen's friends in Alabama and

in Boston and its vicinity, but thus far have been unable to ascertain

any later date when it could have been read to her.

Another fact is of great significance in this connection. "The Rose

Fairies" was published in the same volume with "The Frost Fairies," and,

therefore, was probably read to Helen at or about the same time.

Now Helen, in her letter of February, 1890 (quoted above), alludes to

this story of Miss Canby's as a dream "WHICH I HAD A LONG TIME AGO WHEN

I WAS A VERY LITTLE CHILD." Surely, a year and a half would appear "a

long time ago" to a little girl like Helen; we therefore have reason to

believe that the stories must have been read to her at least as early as

the summer of 1888.

HELEN KELLER'S OWN STATEMENT

(The following entry made by Helen in her diary speaks for itself.)

'1892. January 30. This morning I took a bath, and when teacher came

upstairs to comb my hair she told me some very sad news which made me

unhappy all day. Some one wrote to Mr. Anagnos that the story which I

sent him as a birthday gift, and which I wrote myself, was not my story

at all, but that a lady had written it a long time ago. The person said

her story was called "Frost Fairies." I am sure I never heard it. It

made us feel so bad to think that people thought we had been untrue and

wicked. My heart was full of tears, for I love the beautiful truth with

my whole heart and mind.

'It troubles me greatly now. I do not know what I shall do. I never

thought that people could make such mistakes. I am perfectly sure I

wrote the story myself. Mr. Anagnos is much troubled. It grieves me to

think that I have been the cause of his unhappiness, but of course I did

not mean to do it.

'I thought about my story in the autumn, because teacher told me about

the autumn leaves while we walked in the woods at Fern Quarry. I thought

fairies must have painted them because they are so wonderful, and

I thought, too, that King Frost must have jars and vases containing

precious treasures, because I knew that other kings long ago had, and

because teacher told me that the leaves were painted ruby, emerald,

gold, crimson, and brown; so that I thought the paint must be melted

stones. I knew that they must make children happy because they are

so lovely, and it made me very happy to think that the leaves were so

beautiful and that the trees glowed so, although I could not see them.

'I thought everybody had the same thought about the leaves, but I do not

know now. I thought very much about the sad news when teacher went to

the doctor's; she was not here at dinner and I missed her.'

I do not feel that I can add anything more that will be of interest.

My own heart is too "full of tears" when I remember how my dear little

pupil suffered when she knew "that people thought we had been untrue and

wicked," for I know that she does indeed "love the beautiful truth with

her whole heart and mind."

Yours truly, ANNIE M. SULLIVAN.

So much appears in the Volta Bureau Souvenir. The following letter from

Mr. Anagnos is reprinted from the American Annals of the Deaf, April,

1892:

PERKINS INSTITUTION AND MASSACHUSETTS SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND SO. BOSTON,

March 11, 1892. TO THE EDITOR OF THE ANNALS.

Sir: In compliance with your wishes I make the following statement

concerning Helen Keller's story of "King Frost." It was sent to me as a

birthday gift on November 7th, from Tuscumbia, Alabama. Knowing as well

as I do Helen's extraordinary abilities I did not hesitate to accept

it as her own work; nor do I doubt to-day that she is fully capable of

writing such a composition. Soon after its appearance in print I was

pained to learn, through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the

story (eight or nine passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation

of Miss Margaret Canby's "Frost Fairies." I immediately instituted an

inquiry to ascertain the facts in the case. None of our teachers or

officers who are accustomed to converse with Helen ever knew or heard

about Miss Canby's book, nor did the child's parents and relatives at

home have any knowledge of it. Her father, Captain Keller, wrote to me

as follows on the subject:

"I hasten to assure you that Helen could not have received any idea of

the story from any of her relations or friends here, none of whom can

communicate with her readily enough to impress her with the details of a

story of that character."

At my request, one of the teachers in the girls' department examined

Helen in regard to the construction of the story. Her testimony is as

follows:

"I first tried to ascertain what had suggested to Helen's mind the

particular fancies which made her story seem like a reproduction of one

written by Miss Margaret Canby. Helen told me that for a long time she

had thought of Jack Frost as a king, because of the many treasures which

he possessed. Such rich treasures must be kept in a safe place, and so

she had imagined them stored in jars and vases in one part of the royal

palace. She said that one autumn day her teacher told her as they were

walking together in the woods, about the many beautiful colours of

the leaves, and she had thought that such beauty must make people very

happy, and very grateful to King Frost. I asked Helen what stories she

had read about Jack Frost. In answer to my question she recited a part

of the poem called 'Freaks of the Frost,' and she referred to a little

piece about winter, in one of the school readers. She could not remember

that any one had ever read to her any stories about King Frost, but

said she had talked with her teacher about Jack Frost and the wonderful

things he did."

The only person that we supposed might possibly have read the story to

Helen was her friend, Mrs. Hopkins, whom she was visiting at the time

in Brewster. I asked Miss Sullivan to go at once to see Mrs. Hopkins and

ascertain the facts in the matter. The result of her investigation

is embodied in the printed note herewith enclosed. [This note is a

statement of the bare facts and an apology, which Mr. Anagnos inserted

in his report of the Perkins Institute.]

I have scarcely any doubt that Miss Canby's little book was read to

Helen, by Mrs. Hopkins, in the summer of 1888. But the child has

no recollection whatever of this fact. On Miss Sullivan's return to

Brewster, she read to Helen the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy,"

which she had purchased in Boston for the purpose. The child was at once

fascinated and absorbed with the charming story, which evidently made a

deeper impression upon her mind than any previously read to her, as

was shown in the frequent reference to it, both in her conversation and

letters, for many months afterward. Her intense interest in Fauntleroy

must have buried all remembrance of "Frost Fairies," and when, more

than three years later, she had acquired a fuller knowledge and use

of language, and was told of Jack Frost and his work, the seed so long

buried sprang up into new thoughts and fancies. This may explain the

reason why Helen claims persistently that "The Frost King" is her own

story. She seems to have some idea of the difference between original

composition and reproduction. She did not know the meaning of the word

"plagiarism" until quite recently, when it was explained to her. She is

absolutely truthful. Veracity is the strongest element of her character.

She was very much surprised and grieved when she was told that her

composition was an adaptation of Miss Canby's story of "Frost Fairies."

She could not keep back her tears, and the chief cause of her pain

seemed to be the fear lest people should doubt her truthfulness. She

said, with great intensity of feeling, "I love the beautiful truth."

A most rigid examination of the child of about two hours' duration, at

which eight persons were present and asked all sorts of questions with

perfect freedom, failed to elicit in the least any testimony convicting

either her teacher or any one else of the intention or attempt to

practice deception.

In view of these facts I cannot but think that Helen, while writing "The

Frost King," was entirely unconscious of ever having had the story of

"Frost Fairies" read to her, and that her memory has been accompanied

by such a loss of associations that she herself honestly believed her

composition to be original. This theory is shared by many persons who

are perfectly well acquainted with the child and who are able to rise

above the clouds of a narrow prejudice.

Very sincerely yours, M. ANAGNOS. Director of the Perkins Institution

and Massachusetts School for the Blind.

The episode had a deadening effect on Helen Keller and on Miss Sullivan,

who feared that she had allowed the habit of imitation, which has in

truth made Miss Keller a writer, to go too far. Even to-day, when

Miss Keller strikes off a fine phrase, Miss Sullivan says in humorous

despair, "I wonder where she got that?" But she knows now, since she has

studied with her pupil in college the problems of composition, under the

wise advice of Mr. Charles T. Copeland, that the style of every writer

and indeed, of every human being, illiterate or cultivated, is a

composite reminiscence of all that he has read and heard. Of the sources

of his vocabulary he is, for the most part, as unaware as he is of the

moment when he ate the food which makes a bit of his thumbnail. With

most of us the contributions from different sources are blended, crossed

and confused. A child with but few sources may keep distinct what he

draws from each. In this case Helen Keller held almost intact in her

mind, unmixed with other ideas, the words of a story which at the time

it was read to her she did not fully understand. The importance of this

cannot be overestimated. It shows how the child-mind gathers into itself

words it has heard, and how they lurk there ready to come out when

the key that releases the spring is touched. The reason that we do not

observe this process in ordinary children is, because we seldom observe

them at all, and because they are fed from so many sources that the

memories are confused and mutually destructive. The story of "The Frost

King" did not, however, come from Helen Keller's mind intact, but had

taken to itself the mould of the child's temperament and had drawn on

a vocabulary that to some extent had been supplied in other ways. The

style of her version is in some respects even better than the style

of Miss Canby's story. It has the imaginative credulity of a primitive

folktale; whereas Miss Canby's story is evidently told for children

by an older person, who adopts the manner of a fairy tale and cannot

conceal the mature mood which allows such didactic phrases as "Jack

Frost as he is sometimes called," "Noon, at which time Mr. Sun is

strongest." Most people will feel the superior imaginative quality of

Helen Keller's opening paragraph. Surely the writer must become as a

little child to see things like that. "Twelve soldierly-looking white

bears" is a stroke of genius, and there is beauty of rhythm throughout

the child's narrative. It is original in the same way that a poet's

version of an old story is original.

This little story calls into life all the questions of language and the

philosophy of style. Some conclusions may be briefly suggested.

All use of language is imitative, and one's style is made up of all

other styles that one has met.

The way to write good English is to read it and hear it. Thus it is that

any child may be taught to use correct English by not being allowed to

read or hear any other kind. In a child, the selection of the better

from the worse is not conscious; he is the servant of his word

experience.

The ordinary man will never be rid of the fallacy that words obey

thought, that one thinks first and phrases afterward. There must first,

it is true, be the intention, the desire to utter something, but the

idea does not often become specific, does not take shape until it is

phrased; certainly an idea is a different thing by virtue of being

phrased. Words often make the thought, and the master of words will say

things greater than are in him. A remarkable example is a paragraph from

Miss Keller's sketch in the Youth's Companion. Writing of the moment

when she learned that everything has a name, she says: "We met the nurse

carrying my little cousin; and teacher spelled 'baby.' AND FOR THE FIRST

TIME I was impressed with the smallness and helplessness of a little

baby, and mingled with the thought there was another one of myself, and

I was glad I was myself, and not a baby." It was a word that created

these thoughts in her mind. So the master of words is master of thoughts

which the words create, and says things greater than he could otherwise

know. Helen Keller writing "The Frost King" was building better than she

knew and saying more than she meant.

Whoever makes a sentence of words utters not his wisdom, but the wisdom

of the race whose life is in the words, though they have never been

so grouped before. The man who can write stories thinks of stories to

write. The medium calls forth the thing it conveys, and the greater the

medium the deeper the thoughts.

The educated man is the man whose expression is educated. The substance

of thought is language, and language is the one thing to teach the deaf

child and every other child. Let him get language and he gets the very

stuff that language is made of, the thought and the experience of his

race. The language must be one used by a nation, not an artificial

thing. Volapük is a paradox, unless one has French or English or German

or some other language that has grown up in a nation. The deaf child who

has only the sign language of De l'Epee is an intellectual Philip Nolan,

an alien from all races, and his thoughts are not the thoughts of an

Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. The Lord's prayer in signs is

not the Lord's prayer in English.

In his essay on style De Quincey says that the best English is to be

found in the letters of the cultivated gentlewoman, because she has

read only a few good books and has not been corrupted by the style of

newspapers and the jargon of street, market-place, and assembly hall.

Precisely these outward circumstances account for Helen Keller's use of

English. In the early years of her education she had only good things to

read; some were, indeed, trivial and not excellent in style, but not

one was positively bad in manner or substance. This happy condition

has obtained throughout her life. She has been nurtured on imaginative

literature, and she has gathered from it into her vigorous and tenacious

memory the style of great writers. "A new word opens its heart to me,"

she writes in a letter; and when she uses the word its heart is still

open. When she was twelve years old, she was asked what book she would

take on a long railroad journey. "Paradise Lost," she answered, and she

read it on the train.

Until the last year or two she has not been master of her style,

rather has her style been master of her. It is only since she has made

composition a more conscious study that she has ceased to be the victim

of the phrase; the lucky victim, fortunately, of the good phrase.

When in 1892, she was encouraged to write a sketch of her life for the

Youth's Companion, in the hope that it would reassure her and help her

to recover from the effect of "The Frost King," she produced a piece

of composition which is much more remarkable and in itself more

entertaining at some points than the corresponding part of her story in

this book. When she came to retell the story in a fuller form, the echo

was still in her mind of the phrases she had written nine years before.

Yet she had not seen her sketch in the Youth's Companion since she wrote

it, except two passages which Miss Sullivan read to her to remind her of

things she should say in this autobiography, and to show her, when her

phrasing troubled her, how much better she did as a little girl.

From the early sketch I take a few passages which seem to me, without

making very much allowance for difference in time, almost as good as

anything she has written since:

I discovered the true way to walk when I was a year old, and during the

radiant summer days that followed I was never still a minute....

Then when my father came in the evening, I would run to the gate to meet

him, and he would take me up in his strong arms and put back the tangled

curls from my face and kiss me many times, saying, "What has my Little

Woman been doing to-day?"

But the brightest summer has winter behind it. In the cold, dreary month

of February, when I was nineteen months old, I had a serious illness.

I still have confused memories of that illness. My mother sat beside my

little bed and tried to soothe my feverish moans while in her troubled

heart she prayed, "Father in Heaven, spare my baby's life!" But the

fever grew and flamed in my eyes, and for several days my kind physician

thought I would die.

But early one morning the fever left me as mysteriously and unexpectedly

as it had come, and I fell into a quiet sleep. Then my parents knew I

would live, and they were very happy. They did not know for some time

after my recovery that the cruel fever had taken my sight and hearing;

taken all the light and music and gladness out of my little life.

But I was too young to realize what had happened. When I awoke and found

that all was dark and still, I suppose I thought it was night, and I

must have wondered why day was so long coming. Gradually, however, I got

used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me, and forgot that it

had ever been day.

I forgot everything that had been except my mother's tender love. Soon

even my childish voice was stilled, because I had ceased to hear any

sound.

But all was not lost! After all, sight and hearing are but two of the

beautiful blessings which God had given me. The most precious, the

most wonderful of His gifts was still mine. My mind remained clear and

active, "though fled fore'er the light."

As soon as my strength returned, I began to take an interest in what the

people around me were doing. I would cling to my mother's dress as she

went about her household duties, and my little hands felt every object

and observed every motion, and in this way I learned a great many

things.

When I was a little older I felt the need of some means of communication

with those around me, and I began to make simple signs which my parents

and friends readily understood; but it often happened that I was unable

to express my thoughts intelligibly, and at such times I would give way

to my angry feelings utterly....

Teacher had been with me nearly two weeks, and I had learned eighteen

or twenty words, before that thought flashed into my mind, as the sun

breaks upon the sleeping world; and in that moment of illumination the

secret of language was revealed to me, and I caught a glimpse of the

beautiful country I was about to explore.

Teacher had been trying all the morning to make me understand that the

mug and the milk in the mug had different names; but I was very dull,

and kept spelling MILK for mug, and mug for milk until teacher must have

lost all hope of making me see my mistake. At last she got up, gave

me the mug, and led me out of the door to the pump-house. Some one was

pumping water, and as the cool fresh stream burst forth, teacher made me

put my mug under the spout and spelled "w-a-t-e-r," Water!

That word startled my soul, and it awoke, full of the spirit of the

morning, full of joyous, exultant song. Until that day my mind had been

like a darkened chamber, waiting for words to enter and light the lamp,

which is thought....

I learned a great many words that day. I do not remember what they all

were; but I do know that MOTHER, FATHER, SISTER and TEACHER were among

them. It would have been difficult to find a happier little child than I

was that night as I lay in my crib and thought over the joy the day had

brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

The next morning I awoke with joy in my heart. Everything I touched

seemed to quiver with life. It was because I saw everything with the

new, strange, beautiful sight which had been given me. I was never angry

after that because I understood what my friends said to me, and I was

very busy learning many wonderful things. I was never still during the

first glad days of my freedom. I was continually spelling and acting

out the words as I spelled them. I would run, skip, jump and swing, no

matter where I happened to be. Everything was budding and blossoming.

The honeysuckle hung in long garlands, deliciously fragrant, and

the roses had never been so beautiful before. Teacher and I lived

out-of-doors from morning until night, and I rejoiced greatly in the

forgotten light and sunshine found again....

The morning after our arrival I awoke bright and early. A beautiful

summer day had dawned, the day on which I was to make the acquaintance

of a somber and mysterious friend. I got up, and dressed quickly and ran

downstairs. I met Teacher in the hall, and begged to be taken to the

sea at once. "Not yet," she responded, laughing. "We must have breakfast

first." As soon as breakfast was over we hurried off to the shore. Our

pathway led through low, sandy hills, and as we hastened on, I often

caught my feet in the long, coarse grass, and tumbled, laughing, in the

warm, shining sand. The beautiful, warm air was peculiarly fragrant, and

I noticed it got cooler and fresher as we went on.

Suddenly we stopped, and I knew, without being told, the Sea was at my

feet. I knew, too, it was immense! awful! and for a moment some of the

sunshine seemed to have gone out of the day. But I do not think I was

afraid; for later, when I had put on my bathing-suit, and the little

waves ran up on the beach and kissed my feet, I shouted for joy, and

plunged fearlessly into the surf. But, unfortunately, I struck my foot

on a rock and fell forward into the cold water.

Then a strange, fearful sense of danger terrified me. The salt water

filled my eyes, and took away my breath, and a great wave threw me up on

the beach as easily as if I had been a little pebble. For several days

after that I was very timid, and could hardly be persuaded to go in the

water at all; but by degrees my courage returned, and almost before the

summer was over, I thought it the greatest fun to be tossed about by the

sea-waves....

I do not know whether the difference or the similarity in phrasing

between the child's version and the woman's is the more remarkable. The

early story is simpler and shows less deliberate artifice, though even

then Miss Keller was prematurely conscious of style, but the art of the

later narrative, as in the passage about the sea, or the passage on the

medallion of Homer, is surely a fulfilment of the promise of the early

story. It was in these early days that Dr. Holmes wrote to her: "I am

delighted with the style of your letters. There is no affectation about

them, and as they come straight from your heart, so they go straight to

mine."

In the years when she was growing out of childhood, her style lost its

early simplicity and became stiff and, as she says, "periwigged." In

these years the fear came many times to Miss Sullivan lest the success

of the child was to cease with childhood. At times Miss Keller seemed

to lack flexibility, her thoughts ran in set phrases which she seemed to

have no power to revise or turn over in new ways.

Then came the work in college--original theme writing with new ideals

of composition or at least new methods of suggesting those ideals.

Miss Keller began to get the better of her old friendly taskmaster, the

phrase. This book, her first mature experiment in writing, settles the

question of her ability to write.

The style of the Bible is everywhere in Miss Keller's work, just as

it is in the style of most great English writers. Stevenson, whom

Miss Sullivan likes and used to read to her pupil, is another marked

influence. In her autobiography are many quotations, chiefly from the

Bible and Stevenson, distinct from the context or interwoven with it,

the whole a fabric quite of her own design. Her vocabulary has all

the phrases that other people use, and the explanation of it, and the

reasonableness of it ought to be evident by this time. There is no

reason why she should strike from her vocabulary all words of sound and

vision. Writing for other people, she should in many cases be true to

outer fact rather than to her own experience. So long as she uses words

correctly, she should be granted the privilege of using them freely, and

not be expected to confine herself to a vocabulary true to her lack of

sight and hearing. In her style, as in what she writes about, we must

concede to the artist what we deny to the autobiographer. It should be

explained, too, that LOOK and SEE are used by the blind, and HEAR by the

deaf, for PERCEIVE; they are simple and more convenient words. Only

a literal person could think of holding the blind to PERCEPTION or

APPERCEPTION, when SEEING and LOOKING are so much easier, and have,

moreover, in the speech of all men the meaning of intellectual

recognition as well as recognition through the sense of sight. When Miss

Keller examines a statue, she says in her natural idiom, as her fingers

run over the marble, "It looks like a head of Flora."

It is true, on the other hand, that in her descriptions, she is

best from the point of view of art when she is faithful to her own

sensations; and this is precisely true of all artists.

Her recent training has taught her to drop a good deal of her

conventionality and to write about experiences in her life which are

peculiar to her and which, like the storm in the wild cherry tree, mean

most and call for the truest phrasing. She has learned more and more to

give up the style she borrowed from books and tried to use, because she

wanted to write like other people; she has learned that she is at her

best when she "feels" the lilies sway; lets the roses press into her

hands and speaks of the heat which to her means light.

Miss Keller's autobiography contains almost everything that she ever

intended to publish. It seems worth while, however, to quote from some

of her chance bits of writing, which are neither so informal as her

letters nor so carefully composed as her story of her life. These

extracts are from her exercises in her course in composition, where she

showed herself at the beginning of her college life quite without rival

among her classmates. Mr. Charles T. Copeland, who has been for many

years instructor in English and Lecturer on English Literature at

Harvard and Radcliffe, said to me: "In some of her work she has shown

that she can write better than any pupil I ever had, man or woman. She

has an excellent 'ear' for the flow of sentences." The extracts follow:

A few verses of Omar Khayyam's poetry have just been read to me, and I

feel as if I had spent the last half-hour in a magnificent sepulcher.

Yes, it is a tomb in which hope, joy and the power of acting nobly

lie buried. Every beautiful description, every deep thought glides

insensibly into the same mournful chant of the brevity of life, of the

slow decay and dissolution of all earthly things. The poet's bright,

fond memories of love, youth and beauty are but the funeral torches

shedding their light on this tomb, or to modify the image a little,

they are the flowers that bloom on it, watered with tears and fed by a

bleeding heart. Beside the tomb sits a weary soul, rejoicing neither in

the joys of the past nor in the possibilities of the future, but seeking

consolation in forgetfulness. In vain the inspiring sea shouts to this

languid soul, in vain the heavens strive with its weakness; it still

persists in regretting and seeks a refuge in oblivion from the pangs

of present woe. At times it catches some faint echo from the living,

joyous, real world, a gleam of the perfection that is to be; and,

thrilled out of its despondency, feels capable of working out a grand

ideal even "in the poor, miserable, hampered actual," wherein it is

placed; but in a moment the inspiration, the vision is gone, and

this great, much-suffering soul is again enveloped in the darkness of

uncertainty and despair.

It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If

they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow

men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.

I often think that beautiful ideas embarrass most people as much as

the company of great men. They are regarded generally as far more

appropriate in books and in public discourses than in the parlor or at

the table. Of course I do not refer to beautiful sentiments, but to the

higher truths relating to everyday life. Few people that I know seem

ever to pause in their daily intercourse to wonder at the beautiful bits

of truth they have gathered during their years of study. Often when I

speak enthusiastically of something in history or in poetry, I receive

no response, and I feel that I must change the subject and return to the

commonest topics, such as the weather, dressmaking, sports, sickness,

"blues" and "worries." To be sure, I take the keenest interest in

everything that concerns those who surround me; it is this very interest

which makes it so difficult for me to carry on a conversation with some

people who will not talk or say what they think, but I should not be

sorry to find more friends ready to talk with me now and then about the

wonderful things I read. We need not be like "Les Femmes Savantes" but

we ought to have something to say about what we learn as well as about

what we MUST do, and what our professors say or how they mark our

themes.

To-day I took luncheon with the Freshman Class of Radcliffe. This was

my first real experience in college life, and a delightful experience

it was! For the first time since my entrance into Radcliffe I had the

opportunity to make friends with all my classmates, and the pleasure of

knowing that they regarded me as one of themselves, instead of thinking

of me as living apart and taking no interest in the everyday nothings

of their life, as I had sometimes feared they did. I have often been

surprised to hear this opinion expressed or rather implied by girls of

my own age and even by people advanced in years. Once some one wrote to

me that in his mind I was always "sweet and earnest," thinking only of

what is wise, good and interesting--as if he thought I was one of those

wearisome saints of whom there are only too many in the world! I always

laugh at these foolish notions, and assure my friends that it is much

better to have a few faults and be cheerful and responsive in spite of

all deprivations than to retire into one's shell, pet one's affliction,

clothe it with sanctity, and then set one's self up as a monument of

patience, virtue, goodness and all in all; but even while I laugh I feel

a twinge of pain in my heart, because it seems rather hard to me that

any one should imagine that I do not feel the tender bonds which draw

me to my young sisters--the sympathies springing from what we have in

common--youth, hope, a half-eager, half-timid attitude towards the life

before us and above all the royalty of maidenhood.

Sainte-Beuve says, "Il vient un age peut-etre quand on n'ecrit plus."

This is the only allusion I have read to the possibility that the

sources of literature, varied and infinite as they seem now, may

sometime be exhausted. It surprises me to find that such an idea has

crossed the mind of any one, especially of a highly gifted critic. The

very fact that the nineteenth century has not produced many authors

whom the world may count among the greatest of all time does not in my

opinion justify the remark, "There may come a time when people cease to

write."

In the first place, the fountains of literature are fed by two vast

worlds, one of action, one of thought, by a succession of creations in

the one and of changes in the other. New experiences and events call

forth new ideas and stir men to ask questions unthought of before, and

seek a definite answer in the depths of human knowledge.

In the second place, if it is true that as many centuries must pass

before the world becomes perfect as passed before it became what it

is to-day, literature will surely be enriched incalculably by the

tremendous changes, acquisitions and improvements that cannot fail

to take place in the distant future. If genius has been silent for a

century it has not been idle. On the contrary, it has been collecting

fresh materials not only from the remote past, but also from the age of

progress and development, and perhaps in the new century there will

be outbursts of splendor in all the various branches of literature. At

present the world is undergoing a complete revolution, and in the

midst of falling systems and empires, conflicting theories and creeds,

discoveries and inventions, it is a marvel how one can produce any great

literary works at all. This is an age of workers, not of thinkers. The

song to-day is:

Let the dead past bury its dead, Act, act in the living present, Heart

within and God overhead.

A little later, when the rush and heat of achievement relax, we can

begin to expect the appearance of grand men to celebrate in glorious

poetry and prose the deeds and triumphs of the last few centuries.

It is very interesting to watch a plant grow, it is like taking part in

creation. When all outside is cold and white, when the little children

of the woodland are gone to their nurseries in the warm earth, and the

empty nests on the bare trees fill with snow, my window-garden glows and

smiles, making summer within while it is winter without. It is wonderful

to see flowers bloom in the midst of a snow-storm! I have felt a bud

"shyly doff her green hood and blossom with a silken burst of sound,"

while the icy fingers of the snow beat against the window-panes. What

secret power, I wonder, caused this blossoming miracle? What mysterious

force guided the seedling from the dark earth up to the light, through

leaf and stem and bud, to glorious fulfilment in the perfect flower? Who

could have dreamed that such beauty lurked in the dark earth, was latent

in the tiny seed we planted? Beautiful flower, you have taught me to see

a little way into the hidden heart of things. Now I understand that the

darkness everywhere may hold possibilities better even than my hopes.

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM HORACE BOOK II-18.

I am not one of those on whom fortune deigns to smile. My house is not

resplendent with ivory and gold; nor is it adorned with marble arches,

resting on graceful columns brought from the quarries of distant

Africa. For me no thrifty spinners weave purple garments. I have not

unexpectedly fallen heir to princely estates, titles or power; but I

have something more to be desired than all the world's treasures--the

love of my friends, and honorable fame, won by my own industry and

talents. Despite my poverty, it is my privilege to be the companion of

the rich and mighty. I am too grateful for all these blessings to wish

for more from princes, or from the gods. My little Sabine farm is dear

to me; for here I spend my happiest days, far from the noise and strife

of the world.

O, ye who live in the midst of luxury, who seek beautiful marbles for

new villas, that shall surpass the old in splendor, you never dream that

the shadow of death is hanging over your halls. Forgetful of the tomb,

you lay the foundation of your palaces. In your mad pursuit of pleasure

you rob the sea of its beach and desecrate hallowed ground. More even

than this, in your wickedness you destroy the peaceful homes of your

clients! Without a touch of remorse you drive the father from his land,

clasping to his bosom his household gods and his half-naked children.

You forget that death comes to the rich and the poor alike, and comes

once for all; but remember, Acheron could not be bribed by gold to ferry

the crafty Prometheus back to the sunlit world. Tantalus, too, great as

he was above all mortals, went down to the kingdom of the dead, never

to return. Remember, too, that, although death is inexorable, yet he is

just; for he brings retribution to the rich for their wickedness, and

gives the poor eternal rest from their toil and sorrow.

Ah, the pranks that the nixies of Dreamland play on us while we sleep!

Methinks "they are jesters at the Court of Heaven." They frequently take

the shape of daily themes to mock me; they strut about on the stage of

Sleep like foolish virgins, only they carry well-trimmed note-books

in their hands instead of empty lamps. At other times they examine and

cross-examine me in all the studies I have ever had, and invariably ask

me questions as easy to answer as this: "What was the name of the first

mouse that worried Hippopotamus, satrap of Cambridge under Astyagas,

grandfather of Cyrus the Great?" I wake terror-stricken with the words

ringing in my ears, "An answer or your life!"

Such are the distorted fancies that flit through the mind of one who is

at college and lives as I do in an atmosphere of ideas, conceptions and

half-thoughts, half-feelings which tumble and jostle each other until

one is almost crazy. I rarely have dreams that are not in keeping with

what I really think and feel, but one night my very nature seemed to

change, and I stood in the eye of the world a mighty man and a terrible.

Naturally I love peace and hate war and all that pertains to war; I see

nothing admirable in the ruthless career of Napoleon, save its finish.

Nevertheless, in that dream the spirit of that pitiless slayer of men

entered me! I shall never forget how the fury of battle throbbed in my

veins--it seemed as if the tumultuous beating of my heart would stop my

breath. I rode a fiery hunter--I can feel the impatient toss of his head

now and the quiver that ran through him at the first roar of the cannon.

From the top of the hill where I stood I saw my army surging over a

sunlit plain like angry breakers, and as they moved, I saw the green of

fields, like the cool hollows between billows. Trumpet answered trumpet

above the steady beat of drums and the rhythm of marching feet. I

spurred my panting steed and waving my sword on high and shouting, "I

come! Behold me, warriors--Europe!" I plunged into the oncoming billows,

as a strong swimmer dives into breakers, and struck, alas, 'tis true,

the bedpost!

Now I rarely sleep without dreaming; but before Miss Sullivan came to

me, my dreams were few and far between, devoid of thought or coherency,

except those of a purely physical nature. In my dreams something was

always falling suddenly and heavily, and at times my nurse seemed to

punish me for my unkind treatment of her in the daytime and return at an

usurer's rate of interest my kickings and pinchings. I would wake with

a start or struggle frantically to escape from my tormentor. I was very

fond of bananas, and one night I dreamed that I found a long string of

them in the dining-room, near the cupboard, all peeled and deliciously

ripe, and all I had to do was to stand under the string and eat as long

as I could eat.

After Miss Sullivan came to me, the more I learned, the oftener I

dreamed; but with the waking of my mind there came many dreary fancies

and vague terrors which troubled my sleep for a long time. I dreaded the

darkness and loved the woodfire. Its warm touch seemed so like a human

caress, I really thought it was a sentient being, capable of loving

and protecting me. One cold winter night I was alone in my room. Miss

Sullivan had put out the light and gone away, thinking I was sound

asleep. Suddenly I felt my bed shake, and a wolf seemed to spring on me

and snarl in my face. It was only a dream, but I thought it real, and my

heart sank within me. I dared not scream, and I dared not stay in bed.

Perhaps this was a confused recollection of the story I had heard not

long before about Red Riding Hood. At all events, I slipped down from

the bed and nestled close to the fire which had not flickered out.

The instant I felt its warmth I was reassured, and I sat a long time

watching it climb higher and higher in shining waves. At last sleep

surprised me, and when Miss Sullivan returned she found me wrapped in a

blanket by the hearth.

Often when I dream, thoughts pass through my mind like cowled shadows,

silent and remote, and disappear. Perhaps they are the ghosts of

thoughts that once inhabited the mind of an ancestor. At other times the

things I have learned and the things I have been taught, drop away, as

the lizard sheds its skin, and I see my soul as God sees it. There are

also rare and beautiful moments when I see and hear in Dreamland. What

if in my waking hours a sound should ring through the silent halls

of hearing? What if a ray of light should flash through the darkened

chambers of my soul? What would happen, I ask many and many a time.

Would the bow-and-string tension of life snap? Would the heart,

overweighted with sudden joy, stop beating for very excess of happiness?

THE END

The Story of My Life With her letters (1887-1901) and a supplementary account of her education, including passages from the reports and letters of her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, by John Albert Macy · 第 27 / 27 章

Akin to this idea of talking to the child about what interests him, is