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If
Miss Sullivan wrote fine English, the beauty of Helen Keller's style would,
in part, be explicable at once. But the extracts from Miss Sullivan's
letters and from her reports, although they are clear and accurate, have not
the beauty which distinguishes Miss Keller's English. Her service as a
teacher of English is not to be measured by her own skill in composition.
The reason why she read to her pupil so many good books is due, in some
measure, to the fact that she had so recently recovered her eyesight. When
she became Helen Keller's teacher she was just awakening to the good things
that are in books, from which she had been shut out during her years of
blindness.
In
Captain Keller's library she found excellent books, Lamb's "Tales from
Shakespeare," and better still Montaigne. After the first year or so of
elementary work she met her pupil on equal terms, and they read and enjoyed
good books together.
Besides
the selection of good books, there is one other cause for Miss Keller's
excellence in writing, for which Miss Sullivan deserves unlimited credit.
That is her tireless and unrelenting discipline, which is evident in all her
work. She never allowed her pupil to send off letters which contained
offenses against taste, but made her write them over until they were not
only correct, but charming and well phrased.
Any
one who has tried to write knows what Miss Keller owes to the endless
practice which Miss Sullivan demanded of her. Let a teacher with a liking
for good style insist on a child's writing a paragraph over and over again
until it is more than correct, and he will be training, even beyond his own
power of expression, the power of expression in the child.
How
far Miss Sullivan carried this process of refinement and selection is
evident from the humorous comment of Dr. Bell, that she made her pupil a
little old woman, too widely different from ordinary children in her
maturity of thought. When Dr. Bell said this he was arguing his own case.
For it was Dr. Bell who first saw the principles that underlie Miss
Sullivan's method, and explained the process by which Helen Keller absorbed
language from books.
There
is, moreover, a reason why Helen Keller writes good English, which lies in
the very absence of sight and hearing. The disadvantages of being deaf and
blind were overcome and the advantages remained. She excels other deaf
people because she was taught as if she were normal. On the other hand, the
peculiar value to her of language, which ordinary people take for granted as
a necessary part of them like their right hand, made her think about
language and love it. Language was her liberator, and from the first she
cherished it.
The
proof of Miss Keller's early skill in the use of English, and the final
comment on the excellence of this whole method of teaching, is contained in
an incident, which, although at the time it seemed unfortunate, can no
longer be regretted. I refer to the "Frost King" episode, which I
shall explain in detail. Miss Keller has given her account of it, and the
whole matter was discussed in the first Volta Bureau Souvenir from which I
quote at length:
MISS
SULLIVAN'S ACCOUNT OF THE "FROST KING"
HON.
JOHN HITZ,
Superintendent
of the Volta Bureau, Washington, D. C.
Dear
Sir: Since my paper was prepared for the second edition of the Souvenir
"Helen Keller," some facts have been brought to my notice which
are of interest in connection with the subject of the acquisition of
language by my pupil, and if it is not already too late for publication in
this issue of the Souvenir, I shall be glad if I may have opportunity to
explain them in detail.
Perhaps
it will be remembered that in my paper*, where allusion is made to Helen's
remarkable memory, it is noted that she appears to retain in her mind many
forms of expression which, at the time they are received, she probably does
not understand; but when further information is acquired, the language
retained in her memory finds full or partial expression in her conversation
or writing, according as it proves of greater or less value to her in the
fitness of its application to the new experience. Doubtless this is true in
the case of every intelligent child, and should not, perhaps, be considered
worthy of especial mention in Helen's case, but for the fact that a child
who is deprived of the senses of sight and hearing might not be expected to
be as gifted mentally as this little girl proves to be; hence it is quite
possible we may be inclined to class as marvelous many things we discover in
the development of her mind which do not merit such an explanation.
*
In this paper Miss Sullivan says: "During this winter (1891-92) I went
with her into the yard while a light snow was falling, and let her feel the
falling flakes. She appeared to enjoy it very much indeed. As we went in she
repeated these words, 'Out of the cloud-folds of his garments Winter shakes
the snow.' I inquired of her where she had read this; she did not remember
having read it, did not seem to know that she had learned it. As I had never
heard it, I inquired of several of my friends if they recalled the words; no
one seemed to remember it. The teachers at the Institution expressed the
opinion that the description did not appear in any book in raised print in
that library; but one lady, Miss Marrett, took upon herself the task of
examining books of poems in ordinary type, and was rewarded by finding the
following lines in one of Longfellow's minor poems, entitled 'Snowflakes':
'Out
of the bosom of the air,
Out
of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over
the woodlands brown and bare,
Over
the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent,
and soft, and slow
Descends
the snow.'
"It would seem that Helen had learned and treasured the memory
of this expression of the poet, and this morning in the snow-storm had found
its application."
In
the hope that I may be pardoned if I appear to overestimate the remarkable
mental capacity and power of comprehension and discrimination which my pupil
possesses, I wish to add that, while I have always known that Helen made
great use of such descriptions and comparisons as appeal to her imagination
and fine poetic nature, yet recent developments in her writings convince me
of the fact that I have not in the past been fully aware to what extent she
absorbs the language of her favourite authors. In the early part of her
education I had full knowledge of all the books she read and of nearly all
the stories which were read to her, and could without difficulty trace the
source of any adaptations noted in her writing or conversation; and I have
always been much pleased to observe how appropriately she applies the
expressions of a favourite author in her own compositions.
The
following extracts from a few of her published letters give evidence of how
valuable this power of retaining the memory of beautiful language has been
to her. One warm, sunny day in early spring, when we were at the North, the
balmy atmosphere appears to have brought to her mind the sentiment expressed
by Longfellow in "Hiawatha," and she almost sings with the poet:
"The ground was all aquiver with the stir of new life. My heart sang
for very joy. I thought of my own dear home. I knew that in that sunny land
spring had come in all its splendour. 'All its birds and all its blossoms,
all its flowers and all its grasses.'"
About
the same time, in a letter to a friend, in which she makes mention of her
Southern home, she gives so close a reproduction from a poem by one of her
favourite authors that I will give extracts from Helen's letter and from the
poem itself:
EXTRACTS
FROM HELEN'S LETTER
[The
entire letter is published on pp. 245 and 246 of the Report of the Perkins
Institution for 1891]
The
blue-bird with his azure plumes, the thrush clad all in brown, the robin
jerking his spasmodic throat, the oriole drifting like a flake of fire, the
jolly bobolink and his happy mate, the mocking-bird imitating the notes of
all, the red-bird with his one sweet trill, and the busy little wren, are
all making the trees in our front yard ring with their glad song.
FROM
THE POEM ENTITLED "SPRING" BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
The
bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes
The
fragrance borrowed from the myrtle blooms;
The
thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down,
Clad
in his remnant of autumnal brown;
The
oriole, drifting like a flake of fire
Rent
by a whirlwind from a blazing spire;
The
robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,
Repeats
imperious, his staccato note;
The
crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised
on a bullrush tipsy with his weight:
Nay,
in his cage the lone canary sings,
Feels
the soft air, and spreads his idle wings.
On
the last day of April she uses another expression from the same poem, which
is more an adaptation than a reproduction: "To-morrow April will hide
her tears and blushes beneath the flowers of lovely May."
In
a letter to a friend at the Perkins Institution, dated May 17, 1889, she
gives a reproduction from one of Hans Christian Andersen's stories, which I
had read to her not long before. This letter is published in the Perkins
Institution Report (1891), p. 204. The original story was read to her from a
copy of "Andersen's Stories," published by Leavitt & Allen
Bros., and may be found on p. 97 of Part I. in that volume.
Her
admiration for the impressive explanations which Bishop Brooks has given her
of the Fatherhood of God is well known. In one of his letters, speaking of
how God in every way tells us of His love, he says, "I think he writes
it even upon the walls of the great house of nature which we live in, that
he is our Father." The next year at Andover she said: "It seems to
me the world is full of goodness, beauty, and love; and how grateful we must
be to our heavenly Father, who has given us so much to enjoy! His love and
care are written all over the walls of nature."
In
these later years, since Helen has come in contact with so many persons who
are able to converse freely with her, she has made the acquaintance of some
literature with which I am not familiar; she has also found in books printed
in raised letters, in the reading of which I have been unable to follow her,
much material for the cultivation of the taste she possesses for poetical
imagery. The pages of the book she reads become to her like paintings, to
which her imaginative powers give life and colour. She is at once
transported into the midst of the events portrayed in the story she reads or
is told, and the characters and descriptions become real to her; she
rejoices when justice wins, and is sad when virtue goes unrewarded. The
pictures the language paints on her memory appear to make an indelible
impression; and many times, when an experience comes to her similar in
character, the language starts forth with wonderful accuracy, like the
reflection from a mirror.
Helen's
mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand with only the
faintest touch of explanation every possible variety of external relations.
One day in Alabama, as we were gathering wild flowers near the springs on
the hillsides, she seemed to understand for the first time that the springs
were surrounded by mountains, and she exclaimed: "The mountains are
crowding around the springs to look at their own beautiful
reflections!" I do not know where she obtained this language, yet it is
evident that it must have come to her from without, as it would hardly be
possible for a person deprived of the visual sense to originate such an
idea. In mentioning a visit to Lexington, Mass., she writes: "As we
rode along we could see the forest monarchs bend their proud forms to listen
to the little children of the woodlands whispering their secrets. The
anemone, the wild violet, the hepatica, and the funny little curled-up ferns
all peeped out at us from beneath the brown leaves." She closes this
letter with, "I must go to bed, for Morpheus has touched my eyelids
with his golden wand." Here again, I am unable to state where she
acquired these expressions.
She
has always seemed to prefer stories which exercise the imagination, and
catches and retains the poetic spirit in all such literature; but not until
this winter have I been conscious that her memory absorbed the exact
language to such an extent that she is herself unable to trace the source.
This
is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of her
parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves." She was at
work upon it about two weeks, writing a little each day, at her own
pleasure. When it was finished, and we read it in the family, it occasioned
much comment on account of the beautiful imagery, and we could not
understand how Helen could describe such pictures without the aid of sight.
As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this before, we inquired
of her where she read it; she replied, "I did not read it; it is my
story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday." While I was surprised that she could
write like this, I was not more astonished than I had been many times before
at the unexpected achievements of my little pupil, especially as we had
exchanged many beautiful thoughts on the subject of the glory of the
ripening foliage during the autumn of this year.
Before
Helen made her final copy of the story, it was suggested to her to change
its title to "The Frost King," as more appropriate to the subject
of which the story treated; to this she willingly assented. The story was
written by Helen in braille, as usual and copied by her in the same manner,
I then interlined the manuscript for the greater convenience of those who
desired to read it. Helen wrote a little letter, and, enclosing the
manuscript, forwarded both by mail to Mr. Anagnos for his birthday.
The
story was printed in the January number of the Mentor and, from a review of
it in the Goodson Gazette, I was startled to find that a very similar story
had been published in 1873, seven years before Helen was born. This story,
"Frost Fairies," appeared in a book written by Miss Margaret T.
Canby, entitled "Birdie and his Fairy Friends." The passages
quoted from the two stories were so much alike in thought and expression as
to convince me that Miss Canby's story must at some time have been read to
Helen.
As
I had never read this story, or even heard of the book, I inquired of Helen
if she knew anything about the matter, and found she did not. She was
utterly unable to recall either the name of the story or the book. Careful
examination was made of the books in raised print in the library of the
Perkins Institution to learn if any extracts from this volume could be found
there; but nothing was discovered. I then concluded that the story must have
been read to her a long time ago, as her memory usually retains with great
distinctness facts and impressions which have been committed to its keeping.
After
making careful inquiry, I succeeded in obtaining the information that our
friend, Mrs. S. C. Hopkins, had a copy of this book in 1888 which was
presented to her little daughter in 1873 or 1874. Helen and I spent the
summer of 1888 with Mrs. Hopkins at her home in Brewster, Mass., where she
kindly relieved me a part of the time, of the care of Helen. She amused and
entertained Helen by reading to her from a collection of juvenile
publications, among which was the copy of "Birdie and his Fairy
Friends"; and, while Mrs. Hopkins does not remember this story of
"Frost Fairies," she is confident that she read to Helen extracts,
if not entire stories, from this volume. But as she was not able to find her
copy, and applications for the volume at bookstores in Boston, New York,
Philadelphia, Albany, and other places resulted only in failure, search was
instituted for the author herself. This became a difficult task, as her
publishers in Philadelphia had retired from business many years ago;
however, it was eventually discovered that her residence is at Wilmington,
Delaware, and copies of the second edition of the book, 1889, were obtained
from her. She has since secured and forwarded to me a copy of the first
edition.
The
most generous and gratifying letters have been received from Miss Canby by
Helen's friends, a few extracts from which are given:
Under
date of February 24, 1892, after mentioning the order of the publication of
the stories in the magazine, she writes:
"All
the stories were revised before publishing them in book form; additions were
made to the number as first published, I think, and some of the titles may
have been changed."
In
the same letter she writes:
"I
hope that you will be able to make her understand that I am glad she enjoyed
my story, and that I hope the new book will give her pleasure by renewing
her friendship with the Fairies. I shall write to her in a short time. I am
so much impressed with what I have learned of her that I have written a
little poem entitled A Silent Singer, which I may send to her mother after a
while. Can you tell me in what paper the article appeared accusing Helen of
plagiarism, and giving passages from both stories? I should like much to see
it, and to obtain a few copies if possible."
Under
date of March 9, 1892, Miss Canby writes:
"I
find traces, in the Report which you so kindly sent me, of little Helen
having heard other stories than that of 'Frost Fairies.' On page 132, in a
letter, there is a passage which must have been suggested by my story called
'The Rose Fairies' (see pp. 13-16 of 'Birdie') and on pages 93 and 94 of the
Report the description of a thunderstorm is very much like Birdie's idea of
the same in the 'Dew Fairies' on page 59 and 60 of my book. What a
wonderfully active and retentive mind that gifted child must have! If she
had remembered and written down accurately, a short story, and that soon
after hearing it, it would have been a marvel; but to have heard the story
once, three years ago, and in such a way that neither her parents nor
teacher could ever allude to it or refresh her memory about it, and then to
have been able to reproduce it so vividly, even adding some touches of her
own in perfect keeping with the rest, which really improve the original, is
something that very few girls of riper age, and with every advantage of
sight, hearing, and even great talents for composition, could have done as
well, if at all. Under the circumstances, I do not see how any one can be so
unkind as to call it a plagiarism; it is a wonderful feat of memory, and
stands ALONE, as doubtless much of her work will in future, if her mental
powers grow and develop with her years as greatly as in the few years past.
I have known many children well, have been surrounded by them all my life,
and love nothing better than to talk with them, amuse them, and quietly
notice their traits of mind and character; but I do not recollect more than
one girl of Helen's age who had the love and thirst for knowledge, and the
store of literary and general information, and the skill in composition,
which Helen possesses. She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child.' Thank you very much
for the Report, Gazette, and Helen's Journal. The last made me realize the
great disappointment to the dear child more than before. Please give her my
warm love, and tell her not to feel troubled about it any more. No one shall
be allowed to think it was anything wrong; and some day she will write a
great, beautiful story or poem that will make many people happy. Tell her
there are a few bitter drops in every one's cup, and the only way is to take
the bitter patiently, and the sweet thankfully. I shall love to hear of her
reception of the book and how she likes the stories which are new to
her."
I
have now (March, 1892) read to Helen "The Frost Fairies,"
"The Rose Fairies," and a portion of "The Dew Fairies,"
but she is unable to throw any light on the matter. She recognized them at
once as her own stories, with variations, and was much puzzled to know how
they could have been published before she was born! She thinks it is
wonderful that two people should write stories so much alike; but she still
considers her own as original.
I
give below a portion of Miss Canby's story, "The Rose Fairies,"
and also Helen's letter to Mr. Anagnos containing her "dream," so
that the likenesses and differences may be studied by those interested in
the subject:
THE
ROSE FAIRIES
[From"Birdie
and his Fairy Friends," by Margaret T. Canby]
One
pleasant morning little Birdie might have been seen sitting quietly on the
grass-plat at the side of his mother's house, looking very earnestly at the
rose-bushes.
It
was quite early; great Mr. Sun, who is such an early riser in summer time,
had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to chirp their
"good-mornings" to each other; and as for the flowers, they were
still asleep. But Birdie was so busy all day, trotting about the house and
garden, that he was always ready for HIS nest at night, before the birds and
flowers had thought of seeking THEIRS; and so it came to pass that when Mr.
Sun raised his head above the green woods and smiled lovingly upon the
earth, Birdie was often the first to see him, and to smile back at him, all
the while rubbing his eyes with his dimpled fists, until between smiling and
rubbing, he was wide awake.
And
what do you think he did next! Why, the little rogue rolled into his mamma's
bed, and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, and her mouth, until she began to
dream that it was raining kisses; and at last she opened her eyes to see
what it all meant, and found that it was Birdie, trying to "kiss her
awake," as he said.
She
loved her little boy very dearly, and liked to make him happy, and when he
said, "Please dress me, dear mamma, and let me go out to play in the
garden," she cheerfully consented; and, soon after, Birdie went
downstairs in his morning-dress of cool linen, and with his round face
bright and rosy from its bath, and ran out on the gravel path to play, until
breakfast was ready.
He
stood still a moment to look about him, and think what he should do first.
The fresh morning air blew softly in his face, as if to welcome him and be
his merry playmate; and the bright eye of Mr. Sun looked at him with a warm
and glowing smile; but Birdie soon walked on to find something to play with.
As he came in sight of the rose-bushes that grew near the side of the house,
he suddenly clapped his hands, and with a little shout of joy stopped to
look at them; they were all covered with lovely rosebuds. Some were red,
some white, and others pale pink, and they were just peeping out of the
green leaves, as rosy-faced children peep out from their warm beds in
wintertime before they are quite willing to get up. A few days before,
Birdie's papa had told him that the green balls on the rose-bushes had
beautiful flowers shut up within them, but the little boy found it hard to
believe, for he was so young that he did not remember how pretty the roses
had been the summer before. Now he found out that his father's words were
true, for a few days of warm weather had turned the green balls into
rosebuds, and they were SO beautiful that it was enough to make Birdie stand
still before them, his blue eyes dancing with delight and his little hands
clasped tightly together.
After
awhile he went nearer, and looking closely at the buds, found that they were
folded up, leaf over leaf, as eyelids are folded over sleeping eyes, so that
Birdie thought they must be asleep. "Lazy roses, wake up," said
he, giving the branches a gentle shake; but only the dew fell off in bright
drops, and the flowers were still shut up. At last Birdie remembered how he
had awakened his mother with kisses, and thought he would try the same plan
with the roses; so he drew up his red lips until THEY looked like a rosebud,
too, and bending down a branch with a lovely pink bud upon it, he kissed it
softly two or three times.
Here
the similarity in the language of the story to that in the letter ceases.
HELEN'S
LETTER TO MR. ANAGNOS
(Written
February 2 and 3, 1890.)
[This
letter was enclosed in another written in French, dated Le 1 fevrier 1890.]
My
Dear Mr. Anagnos: You will laugh when you open your little friend's letter
and see all the queer mistakes she has made in French, but I think you will
be pleased to know that I can write even a short letter in French. It makes
me very happy to please you and my dear teacher. I wish I could see your
little niece Amelia. I am sure we should love each other. I hope you will
bring some of Virginia Evanghelides' poems home with you, and translate them
for me. Teacher and I have just returned from our walk. It is a beautiful
day. We met a sweet little child. She was playing on the pier with a wee
brother. She gave me a kiss and then ran away, because she was a shy little
girl. I wonder if you would like to have me tell you a pretty dream which I
had a long time ago when I was a very little child? Teacher says it was a
day-dream, and she thinks you would be delighted to hear it. One pleasant
morning in the beautiful springtime, I thought I was sitting on the soft
grass under my dear mother's window, looking very earnestly at the
rose-bushes which were growing all around me. It was quite early, the sun
had not been up very long; the birds were just beginning to sing joyously.
The flowers were still asleep. They would not awake until the sun had smiled
lovingly upon them. I was a very happy little child with rosy cheeks, and
large blue eyes, and the most beautiful golden ringlets you can imagine. The
fresh morning air blew gently in my face, as if to welcome me, and be my
merry playmate, and the sun looked at me with a warm and tender smile. I
clapped my chubby hands for joy when I saw that the rose-bushes were covered
with lovely buds. Some were red, some white, and others were delicate pink,
and they were peeping out from between the green leaves like beautiful
little fairies. I had never seen anything so lovely before, for I was very
young and I could not remember how pretty the roses had been the summer
before. My little heart was filled with a sweet joy, and I danced around the
rosebushes to show my delight. After a while I went very near to a beautiful
white rose-bush which was completely covered with buds and sparkling with
dewdrops; I bent down one of the branches with a lovely pure white bud upon
it, and kissed it softly many times; just then I felt two loving arms steal
gently around me, and loving lips kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, and my
mouth, until I began to think it was raining kisses; and at last I opened my
eyes to see what it all meant, and found it was my precious mother, who was
bending over me, trying to kiss me awake. Do you like my day-dream? If you
do, perhaps I will dream again for you some time.
Teacher
and all of your friends send you their love. I shall be so glad when you
come home, for I greatly miss you. Please give my love to your good Greek
friends, and tell them that I shall come to Athens some day.
Lovingly
your little friend and playmate,
HELEN
A. KELLER.
"The
Frost Fairies" and "The Frost Kings" are given in full, as
the differences are as important as the resemblances:
The
Frost Fairies [From "Birdie and his Fairy Friends"] by Margaret T.
Canby
King
Frost, or Jack Frost as he is sometimes called, lives in a cold country far
to the North; but every year he takes a journey over the world in a car of
golden clouds drawn by a strong and rapid steed called "North
Wind." Wherever he goes he does many wonderful things; he builds
bridges over every stream, clear as glass in appearance but often strong as
iron; he puts the flowers and plants to sleep by one touch of his hand, and
they all bow down and sink into the warm earth, until spring returns; then,
lest we should grieve for the flowers, he places at our windows lovely
wreaths and sprays of his white northern flowers, or delicate little forests
of fairy pine-trees, pure white and very beautiful. But his most wonderful
work is the painting of the trees, which look, after his task is done, as if
they were covered with the brightest layers of gold and rubies; and are
beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer.
I
will tell you how King Frost first thought of this kind work, for it is a
strange story. You must know that this King, like all other kings, has great
treasures of gold and precious stones in his palace; but, being a
good-hearted old fellow, he does not keep his riches locked up all the time,
but tries to do good and make others happy with them. He has two neighbours,
who live still farther north; one is King Winter, a cross and churlish old
monarch, who is hard and cruel, and delights in making the poor suffer and
weep; but the other neighbour is Santa Claus, a fine, good-natured, jolly
old soul, who loves to do good, and who brings presents to the poor, and to
nice little children at Christmas.
Well,
one day King Frost was trying to think of some good that he could do with
his treasure; and suddenly he concluded to send some of it to his kind
neighbour, Santa Claus, to buy presents of food and clothing for the poor,
that they might not suffer so much when King Winter went near their homes.
So he called together his merry little fairies, and showing them a number of
jars and vases filled with gold and precious stones, told them to carry
those carefully to the palace of Santa Claus, and give them to him with the
compliments of King Frost. "He will know how to make good use of the
treasure," added Jack Frost; then he told the fairies not to loiter by
the way, but to do his bidding quickly.
The
fairies promised obedience and soon started on their journey, dragging the
great glass jars and vases along, as well as they could, and now and then
grumbling a little at having such hard work to do, for they were idle
fairies, and liked play better than work. At last they reached a great
forest, and, being quite tired, they decided to rest awhile and look for
nuts before going any further. But lest the treasure should be stolen from
them, they hid the jars among the thick leaves of the forest trees, placing
some high up near the top, and others in different parts of the various
trees, until they thought no one could find them.
Then
they began to wander about and hunt for nuts, and climb the trees to shake
them down, and worked much harder for their own pleasure than they had done
for their master's bidding, for it is a strange truth that fairies and
children never complain of the toil and trouble they take in search of
amusement, although they often grumble when asked to work for the good of
others.
The
frost fairies were so busy and so merry over their nutting frolic that they
soon forgot their errand and their king's command to go quickly; but, as
they played and loitered in the forest until noon, they found the reason why
they were told to hasten; for although they had, as they thought, hidden the
treasure so carefully, they had not secured it from the power of Mr. Sun,
who was an enemy of Jack Frost, and delighted to undo his work and weaken
him whenever he could.
His
bright eyes found out the jars of treasure among the trees, and as the idle
fairies left them there until noon, at which time Mr. Sun is the strongest,
the delicate glass began to melt and break, and before long every jar and
vase was cracked or broken, and the precious treasures they contained were
melting, too, and dripping slowly in streams of gold and crimson over the
trees and bushes of the forest.
Still,
for awhile, the frost fairies did not notice this strange occurrence, for
they were down on the grass, so far below the tree-tops that the wonderful
shower of treasure was a long time in reaching them; but at last one of them
said, "Hark! I believe it is raining; I certainly hear the falling
drops." The others laughed, and told him that it seldom rained when the
sun was shining; but as they listened they plainly heard the tinkling of
many drops falling through the forest, and sliding from leaf to leaf until
they reached the bramble-bushes beside them, when, to their great dismay,
they found that the RAIN-DROPS were MELTED RUBIES, which hardened on the
leaves and turned them to bright crimson in a moment. Then looking more
closely at the trees around, they saw that the treasure was all melting
away, and that much of it was already spread over the leaves of the oak
trees and maples, which were shining with their gorgeous dress of gold and
bronze, crimson and emerald. It was very beautiful; but the idle fairies
were too much frightened at the mischief their disobedience had caused, to
admire the beauty of the forest, and at once tried to hide themselves among
the bushes, lest King Frost should come and punish them.
Their
fears were well founded, for their long absence had alarmed the king, and he
had started out to look for his tardy servants, and just as they were all
hidden, he came along slowly, looking on all sides for the fairies. Of
course, he soon noticed the brightness of the leaves, and discovered the
cause, too, when he caught sight of the broken jars and vases from which the
melted treasure was still dropping. And when he came to the nut trees, and
saw the shells left by the idle fairies and all the traces of their frolic,
he knew exactly how they had acted, and that they had disobeyed him by
playing and loitering on their way through the woods.
King
Frost frowned and looked very angry at first, and his fairies trembled for
fear and cowered still lower in their hiding-places; but just then two
little children came dancing through the wood, and though they did not see
King Frost or the fairies, they saw the beautiful colour of the leaves, and
laughed with delight, and began picking great bunches to take to their
mother. "The leaves are as pretty as flowers," said they; and they
called the golden leaves "buttercups," and the red ones
"roses," and were very happy as they went singing through the
wood.
Their
pleasure charmed away King Frost's anger, and he, too, began to admire the
painted trees, and at last he said to himself, "My treasures are not
wasted if they make little children happy. I will not be offended at my
idle, thoughtless fairies, for they have taught me a new way of doing
good." When the frost fairies heard these words they crept, one by one,
from their corners, and, kneeling down before their master, confessed their
fault, and asked his pardon. He frowned upon them for awhile, and scolded
them, too, but he soon relented, and said he would forgive them this time,
and would only punish them by making them carry more treasure to the forest,
and hide it in the trees, until all the leaves, with Mr. Sun's help, were
covered with gold and ruby coats.
Then
the fairies thanked him for his forgiveness, and promised to work very hard
to please him; and the good-natured king took them all up in his arms, and
carried them safely home to his palace. From that time, I suppose, it has
been part of Jack Frost's work to paint the trees with the glowing colours
we see in the autumn; and if they are NOT covered with gold and precious
stones, I do not know how he makes them so bright; DO YOU?
The
Frost King by Helen A. Keller
King
Frost lives in a beautiful palace far to the North, in the land of perpetual
snow. The palace, which is magnificent beyond description, was built
centuries ago, in the reign of King Glacier. At a little distance from the
palace we might easily mistake it for a mountain whose peaks were mounting
heavenward to receive the last kiss of the departing day. But on nearer
approach we should discover our error. What we had supposed to be peaks were
in reality a thousand glittering spires. Nothing could be more beautiful
than the architecture of this ice-palace. The walls are curiously
constructed of massive blocks of ice which terminate in cliff-like towers.
The entrance to the palace is at the end of an arched recess, and it is
guarded night and day by twelve soldierly-looking white Bears.
But,
children, you must make King Frost a visit the very first opportunity you
have, and see for yourselves this wonderful palace. The old King will
welcome you kindly, for he loves children, and it is his chief delight to
give them pleasure.
You
must know that King Frost, like all other kings, has great treasures of gold
and precious stones; but as he is a generous old monarch, he endeavours to
make a right use of his riches. So wherever he goes he does many wonderful
works; he builds bridges over every stream, as transparent as glass, but
often as strong as iron; he shakes the forest trees until the ripe nuts fall
into the laps of laughing children; he puts the flowers to sleep with one
touch of his hand; then, lest we should mourn for the bright faces of the
flowers, he paints the leaves with gold and crimson and emerald, and when
his task is done the trees are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight
of summer. I will tell you how King Frost happened to think of painting the
leaves, for it is a strange story.
One
day while King Frost was surveying his vast wealth and thinking what good he
could do with it, he suddenly bethought him of his jolly old neighbour,
Santa Claus. "I will send my treasures to Santa Claus," said the
King to himself. "He is the very man to dispose of them satisfactorily,
for he knows where the poor and the unhappy live, and his kind old heart is
always full of benevolent plans for their relief." So he called
together the merry little fairies of his household and, showing them the
jars and vases containing his treasures, he bade them carry them to the
palace of Santa Claus as quickly as they could. The fairies promised
obedience, and were off in a twinkling, dragging the heavy jars and vases
along after them as well as they could, now and then grumbling a little at
having such a hard task, for they were idle fairies and loved to play better
than to work. After awhile they came to a great forest and, being tired and
hungry, they thought they would rest a little and look for nuts before
continuing their journey. But thinking their treasure might be stolen from
them, they hid the jars among the thick green leaves of the various trees
until they were sure that no one could find them. Then they began to wander
merrily about searching for nuts, climbing trees, peeping curiously into the
empty birds' nests, and playing hide and seek from behind the trees. Now,
these naughty fairies were so busy and so merry over their frolic that they
forgot all about their errand and their master's command to go quickly, but
soon they found to their dismay why they had been bidden to hasten, for
although they had, as they supposed, hidden the treasure carefully, yet the
bright eyes of King Sun had spied out the jars among the leaves, and as he
and King Frost could never agree as to what was the best way of benefiting
the world, he was very glad of a good opportunity of playing a joke upon his
rather sharp rival. King Sun laughed softly to himself when the delicate
jars began to melt and break. At length every jar and vase was cracked or
broken, and the precious stones they contained were melting, too, and
running in little streams over the trees and bushes of the forest.
Still
the idle fairies did not notice what was happening, for they were down on
the grass, and the wonderful shower of treasure was a long time in reaching
them; but at last they plainly heard the tinkling of many drops falling like
rain through the forest, and sliding from leaf to leaf until they reached
the little bushes by their side, when to their astonishment they discovered
that the rain-drops were melted rubies which hardened on the leaves, and
turned them to crimson and gold in a moment. Then looking around more
closely, they saw that much of the treasure was already melted, for the oaks
and maples were arrayed in gorgeous dresses of gold and crimson and emerald.
It was very beautiful, but the disobedient fairies were too frightened to
notice the beauty of the trees. They were afraid that King Frost would come
and punish them. So they hid themselves among the bushes and waited silently
for something to happen. Their fears were well founded, for their long
absence had alarmed the King, and he mounted North Wind and went out in
search of his tardy couriers. Of course, he had not gone far when he noticed
the brightness of the leaves, and he quickly guessed the cause when he saw
the broken jars from which the treasure was still dropping. At first King
Frost was very angry, and the fairies trembled and crouched lower in their
hiding-places, and I do not know what might have happened to them if just
then a party of boys and girls had not entered the wood. When the children
saw the trees all aglow with brilliant colors they clapped their hands and
shouted for joy, and immediately began to pick great bunches to take home.
"The leaves are as lovely as the flowers!" cried they, in their
delight. Their pleasure banished the anger from King Frost's heart and the
frown from his brow, and he, too, began to admire the painted trees. He said
to himself, "My treasures are not wasted if they make little children
happy. My idle fairies and my fiery enemy have taught me a new way of doing
good."
When
the fairies heard this, they were greatly relieved and came forth from their
hiding-places, confessed their fault, and asked their master's forgiveness.
Ever
since that time it has been King Frost's great delight to paint the leaves
with the glowing colors we see in the autumn, and if they are not covered
with gold and precious stones I cannot imagine what makes them so bright,
can you?
If
the story of "The Frost Fairies" was read to Helen in the summer
of 1888, she could not have understood very much of it at that time, for she
had only been under instruction since March, 1887.
Can
it be that the language of the story had remained dormant in her mind until
my description of the beauty of the autumn scenery in 1891 brought it
vividly before her mental vision?
I
have made careful investigation among Helen's friends in Alabama and in
Boston and its vicinity, but thus far have been unable to ascertain any
later date when it could have been read to her.
Another
fact is of great significance in this connection. "The Rose
Fairies" was published in the same volume with "The Frost
Fairies," and, therefore, was probably read to Helen at or about the
same time.
Now
Helen, in her letter of February, 1890 (quoted above), alludes to this story
of Miss Canby's as a dream "WHICH I HAD A LONG TIME AGO WHEN I WAS A
VERY LITTLE CHILD." Surely, a year and a half would appear "a long
time ago" to a little girl like Helen; we therefore have reason to
believe that the stories must have been read to her at least as early as the
summer of 1888.
HELEN
KELLER'S OWN STATEMENT
(The
following entry made by Helen in her diary speaks for itself.)
'1892.
January 30. This morning I took a bath, and when teacher came upstairs to
comb my hair she told me some very sad news which made me unhappy all day.
Some one wrote to Mr. Anagnos that the story which I sent him as a birthday
gift, and which I wrote myself, was not my story at all, but that a lady had
written it a long time ago. The person said her story was called "Frost
Fairies." I am sure I never heard it. It made us feel so bad to think
that people thought we had been untrue and wicked. My heart was full of
tears, for I love the beautiful truth with my whole heart and mind.
'It
troubles me greatly now. I do not know what I shall do. I never thought that
people could make such mistakes. I am perfectly sure I wrote the story
myself. Mr. Anagnos is much troubled. It grieves me to think that I have
been the cause of his unhappiness, but of course I did not mean to do it.
'I
thought about my story in the autumn, because teacher told me about the
autumn leaves while we walked in the woods at Fern Quarry. I thought fairies
must have painted them because they are so wonderful, and I thought, too,
that King Frost must have jars and vases containing precious treasures,
because I knew that other kings long ago had, and because teacher told me
that the leaves were painted ruby, emerald, gold, crimson, and brown; so
that I thought the paint must be melted stones. I knew that they must make
children happy because they are so lovely, and it made me very happy to
think that the leaves were so beautiful and that the trees glowed so,
although I could not see them.
'I
thought everybody had the same thought about the leaves, but I do not know
now. I thought very much about the sad news when teacher went to the
doctor's; she was not here at dinner and I missed her.'
I
do not feel that I can add anything more that will be of interest. My own
heart is too "full of tears" when I remember how my dear little
pupil suffered when she knew "that people thought we had been untrue
and wicked," for I know that she does indeed "love the beautiful
truth with her whole heart and mind."
Yours
truly,
ANNIE
M. SULLIVAN.
So
much appears in the Volta Bureau Souvenir. The following letter from Mr.
Anagnos is reprinted from the American Annals of the Deaf, April, 1892:
PERKINS
INSTITUTION AND MASSACHUSETTS SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND
SO.
BOSTON, March 11, 1892.
TO
THE EDITOR OF THE ANNALS.
Sir:
In compliance with your wishes I make the following statement concerning
Helen Keller's story of "King Frost." It was sent to me as a
birthday gift on November 7th, from Tuscumbia, Alabama. Knowing as well as I
do Helen's extraordinary abilities I did not hesitate to accept it as her
own work; nor do I doubt to-day that she is fully capable of writing such a
composition. Soon after its appearance in print I was pained to learn,
through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the story (eight or nine
passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation of Miss Margaret Canby's
"Frost Fairies." I immediately instituted an inquiry to ascertain
the facts in the case. None of our teachers or officers who are accustomed
to converse with Helen ever knew or heard about Miss Canby's book, nor did
the child's parents and relatives at home have any knowledge of it. Her
father, Captain Keller, wrote to me as follows on the subject:
"I
hasten to assure you that Helen could not have received any idea of the
story from any of her relations or friends here, none of whom can
communicate with her readily enough to impress her with the details of a
story of that character."
At
my request, one of the teachers in the girls' department examined Helen in
regard to the construction of the story. Her testimony is as follows:
"I
first tried to ascertain what had suggested to Helen's mind the particular
fancies which made her story seem like a reproduction of one written by Miss
Margaret Canby. Helen told me that for a long time she had thought of Jack
Frost as a king, because of the many treasures which he possessed. Such rich
treasures must be kept in a safe place, and so she had imagined them stored
in jars and vases in one part of the royal palace. She said that one autumn
day her teacher told her as they were walking together in the woods, about
the many beautiful colours of the leaves, and she had thought that such
beauty must make people very happy, and very grateful to King Frost. I asked
Helen what stories she had read about Jack Frost. In answer to my question
she recited a part of the poem called 'Freaks of the Frost,' and she
referred to a little piece about winter, in one of the school readers. She
could not remember that any one had ever read to her any stories about King
Frost, but said she had talked with her teacher about Jack Frost and the
wonderful things he did."
The
only person that we supposed might possibly have read the story to Helen was
her friend, Mrs. Hopkins, whom she was visiting at the time in Brewster. I
asked Miss Sullivan to go at once to see Mrs. Hopkins and ascertain the
facts in the matter. The result of her investigation is embodied in the
printed note herewith enclosed. [This note is a statement of the bare facts
and an apology, which Mr. Anagnos inserted in his report of the Perkins
Institute.]
I
have scarcely any doubt that Miss Canby's little book was read to Helen, by
Mrs. Hopkins, in the summer of 1888. But the child has no recollection
whatever of this fact. On Miss Sullivan's return to Brewster, she read to
Helen the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which she had
purchased in Boston for the purpose. The child was at once fascinated and
absorbed with the charming story, which evidently made a deeper impression
upon her mind than any previously read to her, as was shown in the frequent
reference to it, both in her conversation and letters, for many months
afterward. Her intense interest in Fauntleroy must have buried all
remembrance of "Frost Fairies," and when, more than three years
later, she had acquired a fuller knowledge and use of language, and was told
of Jack Frost and his work, the seed so long buried sprang up into new
thoughts and fancies. This may explain the reason why Helen claims
persistently that "The Frost King" is her own story. She seems to
have some idea of the difference between original composition and
reproduction. She did not know the meaning of the word
"plagiarism" until quite recently, when it was explained to her.
She is absolutely truthful. Veracity is the strongest element of her
character. She was very much surprised and grieved when she was told that
her composition was an adaptation of Miss Canby's story of "Frost
Fairies." She could not keep back her tears, and the chief cause of her
pain seemed to be the fear lest people should doubt her truthfulness. She
said, with great intensity of feeling, "I love the beautiful
truth." A most rigid examination of the child of about two hours'
duration, at which eight persons were present and asked all sorts of
questions with perfect freedom, failed to elicit in the least any testimony
convicting either her teacher or any one else of the intention or attempt to
practice deception.
In
view of these facts I cannot but think that Helen, while writing "The
Frost King," was entirely unconscious of ever having had the story of
"Frost Fairies" read to her, and that her memory has been
accompanied by such a loss of associations that she herself honestly
believed her composition to be original. This theory is shared by many
persons who are perfectly well acquainted with the child and who are able to
rise above the clouds of a narrow prejudice.
Very
sincerely yours,
M.
ANAGNOS. Director of the Perkins Institution and Massachusetts School for
the Blind.
The
episode had a deadening effect on Helen Keller and on Miss Sullivan, who
feared that she had allowed the habit of imitation, which has in truth made
Miss Keller a writer, to go too far. Even to-day, when Miss Keller strikes
off a fine phrase, Miss Sullivan says in humorous despair, "I wonder
where she got that?" But she knows now, since she has studied with her
pupil in college the problems of composition, under the wise advice of Mr.
Charles T. Copeland, that the style of every writer and indeed, of every
human being, illiterate or cultivated, is a composite reminiscence of all
that he has read and heard. Of the sources of his vocabulary he is, for the
most part, as unaware as he is of the moment when he ate the food which
makes a bit of his thumbnail. With most of us the contributions from
different sources are blended, crossed and confused. A child with but few
sources may keep distinct what he draws from each. In this case Helen Keller
held almost intact in her mind, unmixed with other ideas, the words of a
story which at the time it was read to her she did not fully understand. The
importance of this cannot be overestimated. It shows how the child-mind
gathers into itself words it has heard, and how they lurk there ready to
come out when the key that releases the spring is touched. The reason that
we do not observe this process in ordinary children is, because we seldom
observe them at all, and because they are fed from so many sources that the
memories are confused and mutually destructive. The story of "The Frost
King" did not, however, come from Helen Keller's mind intact, but had
taken to itself the mould of the child's temperament and had drawn on a
vocabulary that to some extent had been supplied in other ways. The style of
her version is in some respects even better than the style of Miss Canby's
story. It has the imaginative credulity of a primitive folktale; whereas
Miss Canby's story is evidently told for children by an older person, who
adopts the manner of a fairy tale and cannot conceal the mature mood which
allows such didactic phrases as "Jack Frost as he is sometimes
called," "Noon, at which time Mr. Sun is strongest." Most
people will feel the superior imaginative quality of Helen Keller's opening
paragraph. Surely the writer must become as a little child to see things
like that. "Twelve soldierly-looking white bears" is a stroke of
genius, and there is beauty of rhythm throughout the child's narrative. It
is original in the same way that a poet's version of an old story is
original.
This
little story calls into life all the questions of language and the
philosophy of style. Some conclusions may be briefly suggested.
All
use of language is imitative, and one's style is made up of all other styles
that one has met.
The
way to write good English is to read it and hear it. Thus it is that any
child may be taught to use correct English by not being allowed to read or
hear any other kind. In a child, the selection of the better from the worse
is not conscious; he is the servant of his word experience.
The
ordinary man will never be rid of the fallacy that words obey thought, that
one thinks first and phrases afterward. There must first, it is true, be the
intention, the desire to utter something, but the idea does not often become
specific, does not take shape until it is phrased; certainly an idea is a
different thing by virtue of being phrased. Words often make the thought,
and the master of words will say things greater than are in him. A
remarkable example is a paragraph from Miss Keller's sketch in the Youth's
Companion. Writing of the moment when she learned that everything has a
name, she says: "We met the nurse carrying my little cousin; and
teacher spelled 'baby.' AND FOR THE FIRST TIME I was impressed with the
smallness and helplessness of a little baby, and mingled with the thought
there was another one of myself, and I was glad I was myself, and not a
baby." It was a word that created these thoughts in her mind. So the
master of words is master of thoughts which the words create, and says
things greater than he could otherwise know. Helen Keller writing "The
Frost King" was building better than she knew and saying more than she
meant.
Whoever
makes a sentence of words utters not his wisdom, but the wisdom of the race
whose life is in the words, though they have never been so grouped before.
The man who can write stories thinks of stories to write. The medium calls
forth the thing it conveys, and the greater the medium the deeper the
thoughts.
The
educated man is the man whose expression is educated. The substance of
thought is language, and language is the one thing to teach the deaf child
and every other child. Let him get language and he gets the very stuff that
language is made of, the thought and the experience of his race. The
language must be one used by a nation, not an artificial thing. Volapuk is a
paradox, unless one has French or English or German or some other language
that has grown up in a nation. The deaf child who has only the sign language
of De l'Epee is an intellectual Philip Nolan, an alien from all races, and
his thoughts are not the thoughts of an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a
Spaniard. The Lord's prayer in signs is not the Lord's prayer in English.
In
his essay on style De Quincey says that the best English is to be found in
the letters of the cultivated gentlewoman, because she has read only a few
good books and has not been corrupted by the style of newspapers and the
jargon of street, market-place, and assembly hall.
Precisely
these outward circumstances account for Helen Keller's use of English. In
the early years of her education she had only good things to read; some
were, indeed, trivial and not excellent in style, but not one was positively
bad in manner or substance. This happy condition has obtained throughout her
life. She has been nurtured on imaginative literature, and she has gathered
from it into her vigorous and tenacious memory the style of great writers.
"A new word opens its heart to me," she writes in a letter; and
when she uses the word its heart is still open. When she was twelve years
old, she was asked what book she would take on a long railroad journey.
"Paradise Lost," she answered, and she read it on the train.
Until
the last year or two she has not been master of her style, rather has her
style been master of her. It is only since she has made composition a more
conscious study that she has ceased to be the victim of the phrase; the
lucky victim, fortunately, of the good phrase.
When
in 1892, she was encouraged to write a sketch of her life for the Youth's
Companion, in the hope that it would reassure her and help her to recover
from the effect of "The Frost King," she produced a piece of
composition which is much more remarkable and in itself more entertaining at
some points than the corresponding part of her story in this book. When she
came to retell the story in a fuller form, the echo was still in her mind of
the phrases she had written nine years before. Yet she had not seen her
sketch in the Youth's Companion since she wrote it, except two passages
which Miss Sullivan read to her to remind her of things she should say in
this autobiography, and to show her, when her phrasing troubled her, how
much better she did as a little girl.
From
the early sketch I take a few passages which seem to me, without making very
much allowance for difference in time, almost as good as anything she has
written since:
I
discovered the true way to walk when I was a year old, and during the
radiant summer days that followed I was never still a minute....
Then
when my father came in the evening, I would run to the gate to meet him, and
he would take me up in his strong arms and put back the tangled curls from
my face and kiss me many times, saying, "What has my Little Woman been
doing to-day?"
But
the brightest summer has winter behind it. In the cold, dreary month of
February, when I was nineteen months old, I had a serious illness. I still
have confused memories of that illness. My mother sat beside my little bed
and tried to soothe my feverish moans while in her troubled heart she
prayed, "Father in Heaven, spare my baby's life!" But the fever
grew and flamed in my eyes, and for several days my kind physician thought I
would die.
But
early one morning the fever left me as mysteriously and unexpectedly as it
had come, and I fell into a quiet sleep. Then my parents knew I would live,
and they were very happy. They did not know for some time after my recovery
that the cruel fever had taken my sight and hearing; taken all the light and
music and gladness out of my little life.
But
I was too young to realize what had happened. When I awoke and found that
all was dark and still, I suppose I thought it was night, and I must have
wondered why day was so long coming. Gradually, however, I got used to the
silence and darkness that surrounded me, and forgot that it had ever been
day.
I
forgot everything that had been except my mother's tender love. Soon even my
childish voice was stilled, because I had ceased to hear any sound.
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