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For
weeks we did nothing but talk and read and tell each other stories about
Christmas. Of course I do not try to explain all the new words, nor does Helen
fully understand the little stories I tell her; but constant repetition fixes
the words and phrases in the mind, and little by little the meaning will come to
her. I SEE NO SENSE IN "FAKING" CONVERSATION FOR THE SAKE OF TEACHING
LANGUAGE. IT'S STUPID AND DEADENING TO PUPIL AND TEACHER. TALK SHOULD BE NATURAL
AND HAVE FOR ITS OBJECT AN EXCHANGE OF IDEAS. If there is nothing in the child's
mind to communicate, it hardly seems worth while to require him to write on the
blackboard, or spell on his fingers, cut and dried sentences about "the
cat," "the bird," "a dog." I HAVE TRIED FROM THE
BEGINNING TO TALK NATURALLY TO HELEN AND TO TEACH HER TO TELL ME ONLY THINGS
THAT INTEREST HER AND ASK QUESTIONS ONLY FOR THE SAKE OF FINDING OUT WHAT SHE
WANTS TO KNOW. When I see that she is eager to tell me something, but is
hampered because she does not know the words, I supply them and the necessary
idioms, and we get along finely. The child's eagerness and interest carry her
over many obstacles that would be our undoing if we stopped to define and
explain everything. What would happen, do you think, if some one should try to
measure our intelligence by our ability to define the commonest words we use? I
fear me, if I were put to such a test, I should be consigned to the primary
class in a school for the feeble-minded.
It
was touching and beautiful to see Helen enjoy her first Christmas. Of course,
she hung her stocking--two of them lest Santa Claus should forget one, and she
lay awake for a long time and got up two or three times to see if anything had
happened. When I told her that Santa Claus would not come until she was asleep,
she shut her eyes and said, "He will think girl is asleep." She was
awake the first thing in the morning, and ran to the fireplace for her stocking;
and when she found that Santa Claus had filled both stockings, she danced about
for a minute, then grew very quiet, and came to ask me if I thought Santa Claus
had made a mistake, and thought there were two little girls, and would come back
for the gifts when he discovered his mistake. The ring you sent her was in the
toe of the stocking, and when I told her you gave it to Santa Claus for her, she
said, "I do love Mrs. Hopkins." She had a trunk and clothes for Nancy,
and her comment was, "Now Nancy will go to party." When she saw the
braille slate and paper, she said, "I will write many letters, and I will
thank Santa Claus very much." It was evident that every one, especially
Captain and Mrs. Keller, was deeply moved at the thought of the difference
between this bright Christmas and the last, when their little girl had no
conscious part in the Christmas festivities. As we came downstairs, Mrs. Keller
said to me with tears in her eyes, "Miss Annie, I thank God every day of my
life for sending you to us; but I never realized until this morning what a
blessing you have been to us." Captain Keller took my hand, but could not
speak. But his silence was more eloquent than words. My heart, too, was full of
gratitude and solemn joy.
The
other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story and asked her
mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather. Mrs. Keller
replied, "He is dead." "Did father shoot him?" Helen asked,
and added, "I will eat grandfather for dinner." So far, her only
knowledge of death is in connection with things to eat. She knows that her
father shoots partridges and deer and other game.
This
morning she asked me the meaning of "carpenter," and the question
furnished the text for the day's lesson. After talking about the various things
that carpenters make, she asked me, "Did carpenter make me?" and
before I could answer, she spelled quickly, "No, no, photographer made me
in Sheffield."
One
of the greatest iron furnaces has been started in Sheffield, and we went over
the other evening to see them make a "run." Helen felt the heat and
asked, "Did the sun fall?"
January
9, 1888.
The
report came last night. I appreciate the kind things Mr. Anagnos has said about
Helen and me; but his extravagant way of saying them rubs me the wrong way. The
simple facts would be so much more convincing! Why, for instance, does he take
the trouble to ascribe motives to me that I never dreamed of? You know, and he
knows, and I know, that my motive in coming here was not in any sense
philanthropic. How ridiculous it is to say I had drunk so copiously of the noble
spirit of Dr. Howe that I was fired with the desire to rescue from darkness and
obscurity the little Alabamian! I came here simply because circumstances made it
necessary for me to earn my living, and I seized upon the first opportunity that
offered itself, although I did not suspect nor did he, that I had any special
fitness for the work.
January
26, 1888.
I
suppose you got Helen's letter. The little rascal has taken it into her head not
to write with a pencil. I wanted her to write to her Uncle Frank this morning,
but she objected. She said: "Pencil is very tired in head. I will write
Uncle Frank braille letter." I said, "But Uncle Frank cannot read
braille." "I will teach him," she said. I explained that Uncle
Frank was old, and couldn't learn braille easily. In a flash she answered,
"I think Uncle Frank is much (too) old to read very small letters."
Finally I persuaded her to write a few lines; but she broke her pencil six times
before she finished it. I said to her, "You are a naughty girl."
"No," she replied, "pencil is very weak." I think her
objection to pencil-writing is readily accounted for by the fact that she has
been asked to write so many specimens for friends and strangers. You know how
the children at the Institution detest it. It is irksome because the process is
so slow, and they cannot read what they have written or correct their mistakes.
Helen
is more and more interested in colour. When I told her that Mildred's eyes were
blue, she asked, "Are they like wee skies?" A little while after I had
told her that a carnation that had been given her was red, she puckered up her
mouth and said, "Lips are like one pink." I told her they were tulips;
but of course she didn't understand the word-play. I can't believe that the
colour-impressions she received during the year and a half she could see and
hear are entirely lost. Everything we have seen and heard is in the mind
somewhere. It may be too vague and confused to be recognizable, but it is there
all the same, like the landscape we lose in the deepening twilight.
February
10, 1888.
We
got home last night. We had a splendid time in Memphis, but I didn't rest much.
It was nothing but excitement from first to last--drives, luncheons, receptions,
and all that they involve when you have an eager, tireless child like Helen on
your hands. She talked incessantly. I don't know what I should have done, had
some of the young people not learned to talk with her. They relieved me as much
as possible. But even then I can never have a quiet half hour to myself. It is
always: "Oh, Miss Sullivan, please come and tell us what Helen means,"
or "Miss Sullivan, won't you please explain this to Helen? We can't make
her understand." I believe half the white population of Memphis called on
us. Helen was petted and caressed enough to spoil an angel; but I do not think
it is possible to spoil her, she is too unconscious of herself, and too loving.
The
stores in Memphis are very good, and I managed to spend all the money that I had
with me. One day Helen said, "I must buy Nancy a very pretty hat." I
said, "Very well, we will go shopping this afternoon." She had a
silver dollar and a dime. When we reached the shop, I asked her how much she
would pay for Nancy's hat. She answered promptly, "I will pay ten
cents." "What will you do with the dollar?" I asked. "I will
buy some good candy to take to Tuscumbia," was her reply.
We
visited the Stock Exchange and a steamboat. Helen was greatly interested in the
boat, and insisted on being shown every inch of it from the engine to the flag
on the flagstaff. I was gratified to read what the Nation had to say about Helen
last week.
Captain
Keller has had two interesting letters since the publication of the
"Report," one from Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, and the other from Dr.
Edward Everett Hale. Dr. Hale claims kinship with Helen, and seems very proud of
his little cousin. Dr. Bell writes that Helen's progress is without a parallel
in the education of the deaf, or something like that and he says many nice
things about her teacher.
March
5, 1888.
I
did not have a chance to finish my letter yesterday. Miss Ev. came up to help me
make a list of words Helen has learned. We have got as far as P, and there are
900 words to her credit. I had Helen begin a journal March 1st.[Most of this
journal was lost. Fortunately, however, Helen Keller wrote so many letters and
exercises that there is no lack of records of that sort.] I don't know how long
she will keep it up. It's rather stupid business, I think. Just now she finds it
great fun. She seems to like to tell all she knows. This is what Helen wrote
Sunday:
"I
got up, washed my face and hands, combed my hair, picked three dew violets for
Teacher and ate my breakfast. After breakfast I played with dolls short. Nancy
was cross. Cross is cry and kick. I read in my book about large, fierce animals.
Fierce is much cross and strong and very hungry. I do not love fierce animals. I
wrote letter to Uncle James. He lives in Hotsprings. He is doctor. Doctor makes
sick girl well. I do not like sick. Then I ate my dinner. I like much icecream
very much. After dinner father went to Birmingham on train far away. I had
letter from Robert. He loves me. He said Dear Helen, Robert was glad to get a
letter from dear, sweet little Helen. I will come to see you when the sun
shines. Mrs. Newsum is Robert's wife. Robert is her husband. Robert and I will
run and jump and hop and dance and swing and talk about birds and flowers and
trees and grass and Jumbo and Pearl will go with us. Teacher will say, We are
silly. She is funny. Funny makes us laugh. Natalie is a good girl and does not
cry. Mildred does cry. She will be a nice girl in many days and run and play
with me. Mrs. Graves is making short dresses for Natalie. Mr. Mayo went to
Duckhill and brought home many sweet flowers. Mr. Mayo and Mr. Farris and Mr.
Graves love me and Teacher. I am going to Memphis to see them soon, and they
will hug and kiss me. Thornton goes to school and gets his face dirty. Boy must
be very careful. After supper I played romp with Teacher in bed. She buried me
under the pillows and then I grew very slow like tree out of ground. Now, I will
go to bed. HELEN KELLER."
April
16, 1888.
We
are just back from church. Captain Keller said at breakfast this morning that he
wished I would take Helen to church. The Presbytery would be there in a body,
and he wanted the ministers to see Helen. The Sunday-school was in session when
we arrived, and I wish you could have seen the sensation Helen's entrance
caused. The children were so pleased to see her at Sunday-school, they paid no
attention to their teachers, but rushed out of their seats and surrounded us.
She kissed them all, boys and girls, willing or unwilling. She seemed to think
at first that the children all belonged to the visiting ministers; but soon she
recognized some little friends among them, and I told her the ministers didn't
bring their children with them. She looked disappointed and said, "I'll
send them many kisses." One of the ministers wished me to ask Helen,
"What do ministers do?" She said, "They read and talk loud to
people to be good." He put her answer down in his note book. When it was
time for the church service to begin, she was in such a state of excitement that
I thought it best to take her away; but Captain Keller said, "No, she will
be all right." So there was nothing to do but stay. It was impossible to
keep Helen quiet. She hugged and kissed me, and the quiet-looking divine who sat
on the other side of her. He gave her his watch to play with; but that didn't
keep her still. She wanted to show it to the little boy in the seat behind us.
When the communion service began, she smelt the wine, and sniffed so loud that
every one in the church could hear. When the wine was passed to our neighbour,
he was obliged to stand up to prevent her taking it away from him. I never was
so glad to get out of a place as I was to leave that church! I tried to hurry
Helen out-of-doors, but she kept her arm extended, and every coat-tail she
touched must needs turn round and give an account of the children he left at
home, and receive kisses according to their number. Everybody laughed at her
antics, and you would have thought they were leaving a place of amusement rather
than a church. Captain Keller invited some of the ministers to dinner. Helen was
irrepressible. She described in the most animated pantomime, supplemented by
spelling, what she was going to do in Brewster. Finally she got up from the
table and went through the motion of picking seaweed and shells, and splashing
in the water, holding up her skirts higher than was proper under the
circumstances. Then she threw herself on the floor and began to swim so
energetically that some of us thought we should be kicked out of our chairs! Her
motions are often more expressive than any words, and she is as graceful as a
nymph.
I
wonder if the days seem as interminable to you as they do to me. We talk and
plan and dream about nothing but Boston, Boston, Boston. I think Mrs. Keller has
definitely decided to go with us, but she will not stay all summer.
May
15, 1888.
Do
you realize that this is the last letter I shall write to you for a long, long
time? The next word that you receive from me will be in a yellow envelope, and
it will tell you when we shall reach Boston. I am too happy to write letters;
but I must tell you about our visit to Cincinnati.
We
spent a delightful week with the "doctors." Dr. Keller met us in
Memphis. Almost every one on the train was a physician, and Dr. Keller seemed to
know them all. When we reached Cincinnati, we found the place full of doctors.
There were several prominent Boston physicians among them. We stayed at the
Burnet House. Everybody was delighted with Helen. All the learned men marveled
at her intelligence and gaiety. There is something about her that attracts
people. I think it is her joyous interest in everything and everybody.
Wherever
she went she was the centre of interest. She was delighted with the orchestra at
the hotel, and whenever the music began she danced round the room, hugging and
kissing every one she happened to touch. Her happiness impressed all; nobody
seemed to pity her. One gentleman said to Dr. Keller, "I have lived long
and seen many happy faces; but I have never seen such a radiant face as this
child's before to-night." Another said, "Damn me! but I'd give
everything I own in the world to have that little girl always near me." But
I haven't time to write all the pleasant things people said--they would make a
very large book, and the kind things they did for us would fill another volume.
Dr. Keller distributed the extracts from the report that Mr. Anagnos sent me,
and he could have disposed of a thousand if he had had them. Do you remember Dr.
Garcelon, who was Governor of Maine several years ago? He took us to drive one
afternoon, and wanted to give Helen a doll; but she said: "I do not like
too many children. Nancy is sick, and Adeline is cross, and Ida is very
bad." We laughed until we cried, she was so serious about it. "What
would you like, then?" asked the Doctor. "Some beautiful gloves to
talk with," she answered. The Doctor was puzzled. He had never heard of
"talking-gloves"; but I explained that she had seen a glove on which
the alphabet was printed, and evidently thought they could be bought. I told him
he could buy some gloves if he wished, and that I would have the alphabet
stamped on them.
We
lunched with Mr. Thayer (your former pastor) and his wife. He asked me how I had
taught Helen adjectives and the names of abstract ideas like goodness and
happiness. These same questions had been asked me a hundred times by the learned
doctors. It seems strange that people should marvel at what is really so simple.
Why, it is as easy to teach the name of an idea, if it is clearly formulated in
the child's mind, as to teach the name of an object. It would indeed be a
herculean task to teach the words if the ideas did not already exist in the
child's mind. If his experiences and observations hadn't led him to the
concepts, SMALL, LARGE, GOOD, BAD, SWEET, SOUR, he would have nothing to attach
the word-tags to.
I,
little ignorant I, found myself explaining to the wise men of the East and the
West such simple things as these: If you give a child something sweet, and he
wags his tongue and smacks his lips and looks pleased, he has a very definite
sensation; and if, every time he has this experience, he hears the word SWEET,
or has it spelled into his hand, he will quickly adopt this arbitrary sign for
his sensation. Likewise, if you put a bit of lemon on his tongue, he puckers up
his lips and tries to spit it out; and after he has had this experience a few
times, if you offer him a lemon, he shuts his mouth and makes faces, clearly
indicating that he remembers the unpleasant sensation. You label it SOUR, and he
adopts your symbol. If you had called these sensations respectively BLACK and
WHITE, he would have adopted them as readily; but he would mean by BLACK and
WHITE the same things that he means by SWEET and SOUR. In the same way the child
learns from many experiences to differentiate his feelings, and we name them for
him--GOOD, BAD, GENTLE, ROUGH, HAPPY, SAD. It is not the word, but the capacity
to experience the sensation that counts in his education.
This
extract from one of Miss Sullivan's letters is added because it contains
interesting casual opinions stimulated by observing the methods of others.
We
visited a little school for the deaf. We were very kindly received, and Helen
enjoyed meeting the children. Two of the teachers knew the manual alphabet, and
talked to her without an interpreter. They were astonished at her command of
language. Not a child in the school, they said, had anything like Helen's
facility of expression, and some of them had been under instruction for two or
three years. I was incredulous at first; but after I had watched the children at
work for a couple of hours, I knew that what I had been told was true, and I
wasn't surprised. In one room some little tots were standing before the
blackboard, painfully constructing "simple sentences." A little girl
had written: "I have a new dress. It is a pretty dress. My mamma made my
pretty new dress. I love mamma." A curly-headed little boy was writing:
"I have a large ball. I like to kick my large ball." When we entered
the room, the children's attention was riveted on Helen. One of them pulled me
by the sleeve and said, "Girl is blind." The teacher was writing on
the blackboard: "The girl's name is Helen. She is deaf. She cannot see. We
are very sorry." I said: "Why do you write those sentences on the
board? Wouldn't the children understand if you talked to them about Helen?"
The teacher said something about getting the correct construction, and continued
to construct an exercise out of Helen. I asked her if the little girl who had
written about the new dress was particularly pleased with her dress.
"No," she replied, "I think not; but children learn better if
they write about things that concern them personally." It seemed all so
mechanical and difficult, my heart ached for the poor little children. Nobody
thinks of making a hearing child say, "I have a pretty new dress," at
the beginning. These children were older in years, it is true, than the baby who
lisps, "Papa kiss baby--pretty," and fills out her meaning by pointing
to her new dress; but their ability to understand and use language was no
greater.
There
was the same difficulty throughout the school. In every classroom I saw
sentences on the blackboard, which evidently had been written to illustrate some
grammatical rule, or for the purpose of using words that had previously been
taught in the same, or in some other connection. This sort of thing may be
necessary in some stages of education; but it isn't the way to acquire language.
NOTHING, I THINK, CRUSHES THE CHILD'S IMPULSE TO TALK NATURALLY MORE EFFECTUALLY
THAN THESE BLACKBOARD EXERCISES. The schoolroom is not the place to teach any
young child language, least of all the deaf child. He must be kept as
unconscious as the hearing child of the fact that he is learning words,AND HE
SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO PRATTLE ON HIS FINGERS, OR WITH HIS PENCIL, IN
MONOSYLLABLES IF HE CHOOSES, UNTIL SUCH TIME AS HIS GROWING INTELLIGENCE DEMANDS
THE SENTENCE. Language should not be associated in his mind with endless hours
in school, with puzzling questions in grammar, or with anything that is an enemy
to joy. But I must not get into the habit of criticizing other people's methods
too severely. I may be as far from the straight road as they.
Miss
Sullivan's second report brings the account down to October 1st, 1888.
During
the past year Helen has enjoyed excellent health. Her eyes and ears have been
examined by specialists, and it is their opinion that she cannot have the
slightest perception of either light or sound.
It
is impossible to tell exactly to what extent the senses of smell and taste aid
her in gaining information respecting physical qualities; but, according to
eminent authority, these senses do exert a great influence on the mental and
moral development. Dugald Stewart says, "Some of the most significant words
relating to the human mind are borrowed from the sense of smell; and the
conspicuous place which its sensations occupy in the poetical language of all
nations shows how easily and naturally they ally themselves with the refined
operations of the fancy and the moral emotions of the heart." Helen
certainly derives great pleasure from the exercise of these senses. On entering
a greenhouse her countenance becomes radiant, and she will tell the names of the
flowers with which she is familiar, by the sense of smell alone. Her
recollections of the sensations of smell are very vivid. She enjoys in
anticipation the scent of a rose or a violet; and if she is promised a bouquet
of these flowers, a peculiarly happy expression lights her face, indicating that
in imagination she perceives their fragrance, and that it is pleasant to her. It
frequently happens that the perfume of a flower or the flavour of a fruit
recalls to her mind some happy event in home life, or a delightful birthday
party.
Her
sense of touch has sensibly increased during the year, and has gained in
acuteness and delicacy. Indeed, her whole body is so finely organized that she
seems to use it as a medium for bringing herself into closer relations with her
fellow creatures. She is able not only to distinguish with great accuracy the
different undulations of the air and the vibrations of the floor made by various
sounds and motions, and to recognize her friends and acquaintances the instant
she touches their hands or clothing, but she also perceives the state of mind of
those around her. It is impossible for any one with whom Helen is conversing to
be particularly happy or sad, and withhold the knowledge of this fact from her.
She
observes the slightest emphasis placed upon a word in conversation, and she
discovers meaning in every change of position, and in the varied play of the
muscles of the hand. She responds quickly to the gentle pressure of affection,
the pat of approval, the jerk of impatience, the firm motion of command, and to
the many other variations of the almost infinite language of the feelings; and
she has become so expert in interpreting this unconscious language of the
emotions that she is often able to divine our very thoughts.
In
my account of Helen last year, I mentioned several instances where she seemed to
have called into use an inexplicable mental faculty; but it now seems to me,
after carefully considering the matter, that this power may be explained by her
perfect familiarity with the muscular variations of those with whom she comes
into contact, caused by their emotions. She has been forced to depend largely
upon this muscular sense as a means of ascertaining the mental condition of
those about her. She has learned to connect certain movements of the body with
anger, others with joy, and others still with sorrow. One day, while she was out
walking with her mother and Mr. Anagnos, a boy threw a torpedo, which startled
Mrs. Keller. Helen felt the change in her mother's movements instantly, and
asked, "What are we afraid of?" On one occasion, while walking on the
Common with her, I saw a police officer taking a man to the station-house. The
agitation which I felt evidently produced a perceptible physical change; for
Helen asked, excitedly, "What do you see?"
A
striking illustration of this strange power was recently shown while her ears
were being examined by the aurists in Cincinnati. Several experiments were
tried, to determine positively whether or not she had any perception of sound.
All present were astonished when she appeared not only to hear a whistle, but
also an ordinary tone of voice. She would turn her head, smile, and act as
though she had heard what was said. I was then standing beside her, holding her
hand. Thinking that she was receiving impressions from me, I put her hands upon
the table, and withdrew to the opposite side of the room. The aurists then tried
their experiments with quite different results. Helen remained motionless
through them all, not once showing the least sign that she realized what was
going on. At my suggestion, one of the gentlemen took her hand, and the tests
were repeated. This time her countenance changed whenever she was spoken to, but
there was not such a decided lighting up of the features as when I had held her
hand.
In
the account of Helen last year it was stated that she knew nothing about death,
or the burial of the body; yet on entering a cemetery for the first time in her
life, she showed signs of emotion--her eyes actually filling with tears.
A
circumstance equally remarkable occurred last summer; but, before relating it, I
will mention what she now knows with regard to death. Even before I knew her,
she had handled a dead chicken, or bird, or some other small animal. Some time
after the visit to the cemetery before referred to, Helen became interested in a
horse that had met with an accident by which one of his legs had been badly
injured, and she went daily with me to visit him. The wounded leg soon became so
much worse that the horse was suspended from a beam. The animal groaned with
pain, and Helen, perceiving his groans, was filled with pity. At last it became
necessary to kill him, and, when Helen next asked to go and see him, I told her
that he was DEAD. This was the first time that she had heard the word. I then
explained that he had been shot to relieve him from suffering, and that he was
now BURIED--put into the ground. I am inclined to believe that the idea of his
having been intentionally shot did not make much impression upon her; but I
think she did realize the fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead
birds she had touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this
occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but with no
further explanation of its meaning.
While
making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied my friend and
me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after another, and seemed
pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of the flowers, but showed no
desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered a few for her, she refused to have
them pinned on her dress. When her attention was drawn to a marble slab
inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she dropped upon the ground as
though looking for something, then turned to me with a face full of trouble, and
asked, "Were is poor little Florence?" I evaded the question, but she
persisted. Turning to my friend, she asked, "Did you cry loud for poor
little Florence?" Then she added: "I think she is very dead. Who put
her in big hole?" As she continued to ask these distressing questions, we
left the cemetery. Florence was the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady
at the time of her death; but Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she
even know that my friend had had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed and
carriage for her dolls, which she had received and used like any other gift. On
her return to the house after her visit to the cemetery, she ran to the closet
where these toys were kept, and carried them to my friend, saying, "They
are poor little Florence's." This was true, although we were at a loss to
understand how she guessed it. A letter written to her mother in the course of
the following week gave an account of her impression in her own words:
"I
put my little babies to sleep in Florence's little bed, and I take them to ride
in her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead. She was very sick and died. Mrs.
H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got in the ground, and she is
very dirty, and she is cold. Florence was very lovely like Sadie, and Mrs. H.
kissed her and hugged her much. Florence is very sad in big hole. Doctor gave
her medicine to make her well, but poor Florence did not get well. When she was
very sick she tossed and moaned in bed. Mrs. H. will go to see her soon."
Notwithstanding
the activity of Helen's mind, she is a very natural child. She is fond of fun
and frolic, and loves dearly to be with other children. She is never fretful or
irritable, and I have never seen her impatient with her playmates because they
failed to understand her. She will play for hours together with children who
cannot understand a single word she spells, and it is pathetic to watch the
eager gestures and excited pantomime through which her ideas and emotions find
expression. Occasionally some little boy or girl will try to learn the manual
alphabet. Then it is beautiful to observe with what patience, sweetness, and
perseverance Helen endeavours to bring the unruly fingers of her little friend
into proper position.
One
day, while Helen was wearing a little jacket of which she was very proud, her
mother said: "There is a poor little girl who has no cloak to keep her
warm. Will you give her yours?" Helen began to pull off the jacket, saying,
"I must give it to a poor little strange girl."
She
is very fond of children younger than herself, and a baby invariably calls forth
all the motherly instincts of her nature. She will handle the baby as tenderly
as the most careful nurse could desire. It is pleasant, too, to note her
thoughtfulness for little children, and her readiness to yield to their whims.
She
has a very sociable disposition, and delights in the companionship of those who
can follow the rapid motions of her fingers; but if left alone she will amuse
herself for hours at a time with her knitting or sewing.
She
reads a great deal. She bends over her book with a look of intense interest, and
as the forefinger of her left hand runs along the line, she spells out the words
with the other hand; but often her motions are so rapid as to be unintelligible
even to those accustomed to reading the swift and varied movements of her
fingers.
Every
shade of feeling finds expression through her mobile features. Her behaviour is
easy and natural, and it is charming because of its frankness and evident
sincerity. Her heart is too full of unselfishness and affection to allow a dream
of fear or unkindness. She does not realize that one can be anything but
kind-hearted and tender. She is not conscious of any reason why she should be
awkward; consequently, her movements are free and graceful.
She
is very fond of all the living things at home, and she will not have them
unkindly treated. When she is riding in the carriage she will not allow the
driver to use the whip, because, she says, "poor horses will cry." One
morning she was greatly distressed by finding that one of the dogs had a block
fastened to her collar. We explained that it was done to keep Pearl from running
away. Helen expressed a great deal of sympathy, and at every opportunity during
the day she would find Pearl and carry the burden from place to place.
Her
father wrote to her last summer that the birds and bees were eating all his
grapes. At first she was very indignant, and said the little creatures were
"very wrong"; but she seemed pleased when I explained to her that the
birds and bees were hungry, and did not know that it was selfish to eat all the
fruit. In a letter written soon afterward she says:
"I
am very sorry that bumblebees and hornets and birds and large flies and worms
are eating all of my father's delicious grapes. They like juicy fruit to eat as
well as people, and they are hungry. They are not very wrong to eat too many
grapes because they do not know much."
She
continues to make rapid progress in the acquisition of language as her
experiences increase. While these were few and elementary, her vocabulary was
necessarily limited; but, as she learns more of the world about her, her
judgment grows more accurate, her reasoning powers grow stronger, more active
and subtle, and the language by which she expresses this intellectual activity
gains in fluency and logic.
When
traveling she drinks in thought and language. Sitting beside her in the car, I
describe what I see from the window--hills and valleys and the rivers;
cotton-fields and gardens in which strawberries, peaches, pears, melons, and
vegetables are growing; herds of cows and horses feeding in broad meadows, and
flocks of sheep on the hillside; the cities with their churches and schools,
hotels and warehouses, and the occupations of the busy people. While I am
communicating these things, Helen manifests intense interest; and, in default of
words, she indicates by gestures and pantomime her desire to learn more of her
surroundings and of the great forces which are operating everywhere. In this
way, she learns countless new expressions without any apparent effort.
From
the day when Helen first grasped the idea that all objects have names, and that
these can be communicated by certain movements of the fingers, I have talked to
her exactly as I should have done had she been able to hear, with only this
exception, that I have addressed the words to her fingers instead of to her
ears. Naturally, there was at first a strong tendency on her part to use only
the important words in a sentence. She would say: "Helen milk." I got
the milk to show her that she had used the correct word; but I did not let her
drink it until she had, with my assistance, made a complete sentence, as
"Give Helen some milk to drink." In these early lessons I encouraged
her in the use of different forms of expression for conveying the same idea. If
she was eating some candy, I said: "Will Helen please give teacher some
candy?" or, "Teacher would like to eat some of Helen's candy,"
emphasizing the 's. She very soon perceived that the same idea could be
expressed in a great many ways. In two or three months after I began to teach
her she would say: "Helen wants to go to bed," or, "Helen is
sleepy, and Helen will go to bed."
I
am constantly asked the question, "How did you teach her the meaning of
words expressive of intellectual and moral qualities?" I believe it was
more through association and repetition than through any explanation of mine.
This is especially true of her earlier lessons, when her knowledge of language
was so slight as to make explanation impossible.
I
always made it a practice to use the words descriptive of emotions, of
intellectual or moral qualities and actions, in connection with the circumstance
which required these words. Soon after I became her teacher Helen broke her new
doll, of which she was very fond. She began to cry. I said to her, "Teacher
is SORRY." After a few repetitions she came to associate the word with the
feeling.
The
word HAPPY she learned in the same way; ALSO, RIGHT, WRONG, GOOD, BAD, and other
adjectives. The word LOVE she learned as other children do--by its association
with caresses.
One
day I asked her a simple question in a combination of numbers, which I was sure
she knew. She answered at random. I checked her, and she stood still, the
expression of her face plainly showing that she was trying to think. I touched
her forehead, and spelled "t-h-i-n-k." The word, thus connected with
the act, seemed to impress itself on her mind much as if I had placed her hand
upon an object and then spelled its name. Since that time she has always used
the word THINK.
At
a later period I began to use such words as PERHAPS, SUPPOSE, EXPECT, FORGET,
REMEMBER. If Helen asked, "Where is mother now?" I replied: "I do
not know. PERHAPS she is with Leila."
She
is always anxious to learn the names of people we meet in the horse-cars or
elsewhere, and to know where they are going, and what they will do.
Conversations of this kind are frequent:
HELEN.
What is little boy's name?
TEACHER.
I do not know, for he is a little stranger; but PERHAPS his name is Jack.
HELEN.
Where is he going?
TEACHER.
He MAY BE going to the Common to have fun with other boys.
HELEN.
What will he play?
TEACHER.
I SUPPOSE he will play ball.
HELEN.
What are boys doing now?
TEACHER.
PERHAPS they are expecting Jack, and are waiting for him.
After
the words have become familiar to her, she uses them in composition.
September
26, [1888].
"This
morning teacher and I sat by the window and we saw a little boy walking on the
sidewalk. It was raining very hard and he had a very large umbrella to keep off
the rain-drops.
"I
do not know how old he was but THINK he MAY HAVE BEEN six years old. PERHAPS his
name was Joe. I do not know where he was going because he was a little strange
boy. But PERHAPS his mother sent him to a store to buy something for dinner. He
had a bag in one hand. I SUPPOSE he was going to take it to his mother."
In
teaching her the use of language, I have not confined myself to any particular
theory or system. I have observed the spontaneous movements of my pupil's mind,
and have tried to follow the suggestions thus given to me.
Owing
to the nervousness of Helen's temperament, every precaution has been taken to
avoid unduly exciting her already very active brain. The greater part of the
year has been spent in travel and in visits to different places, and her lessons
have been those suggested by the various scenes and experiences through which
she has passed. She continues to manifest the same eagerness to learn as at
first. It is never necessary to urge her to study. Indeed, I am often obliged to
coax her to leave an example or a composition.
While
not confining myself to any special system of instruction, I have tried to add
to her general information and intelligence, to enlarge her acquaintance with
things around her, and to bring her into easy and natural relations with people.
I have encouraged her to keep a diary, from which the following selection has
been made:
"March
22nd, 1888.
"Mr.
Anagnos came to see me Thursday. I was glad to hug and kiss him. He takes care
of sixty little blind girls and seventy little blind boys. I do love them.
Little blind girls sent me a pretty work-basket. I found scissors and thread,
and needle-book with many needles in it, and crochet hook and emery, and
thimble, and box, and yard measure and buttons, and pin-cushion. I will write
little blind girls a letter to thank them. I will make pretty clothes for Nancy
and Adeline and Allie. I will go to Cincinnati in May and buy another child.
Then I will have four children. New baby's name is Harry. Mr. Wilson and Mr.
Mitchell came to see us Sunday. Mr. Anagnos went to Louisville Monday to see
little blind children. Mother went to Huntsville. I slept with father, and
Mildred slept with teacher. I did learn about calm. It does mean quiet and
happy. Uncle Morrie sent me pretty stories. I read about birds. The quail lays
fifteen or twenty eggs and they are white. She makes her nest on the ground. The
blue-bird makes her nest in a hollow tree and her eggs are blue. The robin's
eggs are green. I learned a song about spring. March, April, May are spring.
Now
melts the snow.
The
warm winds blow
The
waters flow
And
robin dear,
Is
come to show
That
Spring is here.
"James
killed snipes for breakfast. Little chickens did get very cold and die. I am
sorry. Teacher and I went to ride on Tennessee River, in a boat. I saw Mr.
Wilson and James row with oars. Boat did glide swiftly and I put hand in water
and felt it flowing.
"I
caught fish with hook and line and pole. We climbed high hill and teacher fell
and hurt her head. I ate very small fish for supper. I did read about cow and
calf. The cow loves to eat grass as well as girl does bread and butter and milk.
Little calf does run and leap in field. She likes to skip and play, for she is
happy when the sun is bright and warm. Little boy did love his calf. And he did
say, I will kiss you, little calf, and he put his arms around calf's neck and
kissed her. The calf licked good boy's face with long rough tongue. Calf must
not open mouth much to kiss. I am tired, and teacher does not want me to write
more."
In
the autumn she went to a circus. While we were standing before his cage the lion
roared, and Helen felt the vibration of the air so distinctly that she was able
to reproduce the noise quite accurately.
I
tried to describe to her the appearance of a camel; but, as we were not allowed
to touch the animal, I feared that she did not get a correct idea of its shape.
A few days afterward, however, hearing a commotion in the schoolroom, I went in
and found Helen on all fours with a pillow so strapped upon her back as to leave
a hollow in the middle, thus making a hump on either side. Between these humps
she had placed her doll, which she was giving a ride around the room. I watched
her for some time as she moved about, trying to take long strides in order to
carry out the idea I had given her of a camel's gait. When I asked her what she
was doing, she replied, "I am a very funny camel."
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