The Story of My Life
and other wild animals, and is anxious to see a "walk-squirrel,"
which interpreted, means, I think, a "live squirrel." We go home about
dinner-time usually, and Helen is eager to tell her mother everything
she has seen. THIS DESIRE TO REPEAT WHAT HAS BEEN TOLD HER SHOWS A
MARKED ADVANCE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF HER INTELLECT, AND IS AN INVALUABLE
STIMULUS TO THE ACQUISITION OF LANGUAGE. I ASK ALL HER FRIENDS TO
ENCOURAGE HER TO TELL THEM OF HER DOINGS, AND TO MANIFEST AS MUCH
CURIOSITY AND PLEASURE IN HER LITTLE ADVENTURES AS THEY POSSIBLY CAN.
This gratifies the child's love of approbation and keeps up her interest
in things. This is the basis of real intercourse. She makes many
mistakes, of course, twists words and phrases, puts the cart before the
horse, and gets herself into hopeless tangles of nouns and verbs; but so
does the hearing child. I am sure these difficulties will take care of
themselves. The impulse to tell is the important thing. I supply a word
here and there, sometimes a sentence, and suggest something which she
has omitted or forgotten. Thus her vocabulary grows apace, and the new
words germinate and bring forth new ideas; and they are the stuff out of
which heaven and earth are made.
May 22, 1887.
My work grows more absorbing and interesting every day. Helen is a
wonderful child, so spontaneous and eager to learn. She knows about 300
words now and A GREAT MANY COMMON IDIOMS, and it is not three months yet
since she learned her first word. It is a rare privilege to watch
the birth, growth, and first feeble struggles of a living mind; this
privilege is mine; and moreover, it is given me to rouse and guide this
bright intelligence.
If only I were better fitted for the great task! I feel every day more
and more inadequate. My mind is full of ideas; but I cannot get them
into working shape. You see, my mind is undisciplined, full of skips
and jumps, and here and there a lot of things huddled together in dark
corners. How I long to put it in order! Oh, if only there were some one
to help me! I need a teacher quite as much as Helen. I know that the
education of this child will be the distinguishing event of my life, if
I have the brains and perseverance to accomplish it. I have made up my
mind about one thing: Helen must learn to use books--indeed, we must
both learn to use them, and that reminds me--will you please ask Mr.
Anagnos to get me Perez's and Sully's Psychologies? I think I shall find
them helpful.
We have reading lessons every day. Usually we take one of the little
"Readers" up in a big tree near the house and spend an hour or two
finding the words Helen already knows. WE MAKE A SORT OF GAME OF IT and
try to see who can find the words most quickly, Helen with her fingers,
or I with my eyes, and she learns as many new words as I can explain
with the help of those she knows. When her fingers light upon words she
knows, she fairly screams with pleasure and hugs and kisses me for joy,
especially if she thinks she has me beaten. It would astonish you to see
how many words she learns in an hour in this pleasant manner. Afterward
I put the new words into little sentences in the frame, and sometimes it
is possible to tell a little story about a bee or a cat or a little boy
in this way. I can now tell her to go upstairs or down, out of doors
or into the house, lock or unlock a door, take or bring objects, sit,
stand, walk, run, lie, creep, roll, or climb. She is delighted with
action-words; so it is no trouble at all to teach her verbs. She is
always ready for a lesson, and the eagerness with which she absorbs
ideas is very delightful. She is as triumphant over the conquest of a
sentence as a general who has captured the enemy's stronghold.
One of Helen's old habits, that is strongest and hardest to correct, is
a tendency to break things. If she finds anything in her way, she flings
it on the floor, no matter what it is: a glass, a pitcher, or even a
lamp. She has a great many dolls, and every one of them has been broken
in a fit of temper or ennui. The other day a friend brought her a new
doll from Memphis, and I thought I would see if I could make Helen
understand that she must not break it. I made her go through the motion
of knocking the doll's head on the table and spelled to her: "No,
no, Helen is naughty. Teacher is sad," and let her feel the grieved
expression on my face. Then I made her caress the doll and kiss the hurt
spot and hold it gently in her arms, and I spelled to her, "Good Helen,
teacher is happy," and let her feel the smile on my face. She went
through these motions several times, mimicking every movement, then she
stood very still for a moment with a troubled look on her face, which
suddenly cleared, and she spelled, "Good Helen," and wreathed her face
in a very large, artificial smile. Then she carried the doll upstairs
and put it on the top shelf of the wardrobe, and she has not touched it
since.
Please give my kind regards to Mr. Anagnos and let him see my letter, if
you think best. I hear there is a deaf and blind child being educated at
the Baltimore Institution.
June 2, 1887.
The weather is scorching. We need rain badly. We are all troubled about
Helen. She is very nervous and excitable. She is restless at night and
has no appetite. It is hard to know what to do with her. The doctor says
her mind is too active; but how are we to keep her from thinking? She
begins to spell the minute she wakes up in the morning, and continues
all day long. If I refuse to talk to her, she spells into her own hand,
and apparently carries on the liveliest conversation with herself.
I gave her my braille slate to play with, thinking that the mechanical
pricking of holes in the paper would amuse her and rest her mind. But
what was my astonishment when I found that the little witch was writing
letters! I had no idea she knew what a letter was. She has often
gone with me to the post-office to mail letters, and I suppose I have
repeated to her things I wrote to you. She knew, too, that I sometimes
write "letters to blind girls" on the slate; but I didn't suppose that
she had any clear idea what a letter was. One day she brought me a sheet
that she had punched full of holes, and wanted to put it in an envelope
and take it to the post-office. She said, "Frank--letter." I asked
her what she had written to Frank. She replied, "Much words. Puppy
motherdog--five. Baby--cry. Hot. Helen walk--no. Sunfire--bad.
Frank--come. Helen--kiss Frank. Strawberries--very good."
Helen is almost as eager to read as she is to talk. I find she grasps
the import of whole sentences, catching from the context the meaning
of words she doesn't know; and her eager questions indicate the outward
reaching of her mind and its unusual powers.
The other night when I went to bed, I found Helen sound asleep with a
big book clasped tightly in her arms. She had evidently been reading,
and fallen asleep. When I asked her about it in the morning, she said,
"Book--cry," and completed her meaning by shaking and other signs of
fear. I taught her the word AFRAID, and she said: "Helen is not afraid.
Book is afraid. Book will sleep with girl." I told her that the book
wasn't afraid, and must sleep in its case, and that "girl" mustn't read
in bed. She looked very roguish, and apparently understood that I saw
through her ruse.
I am glad Mr. Anagnos thinks so highly of me as a teacher. But "genius"
and "originality" are words we should not use lightly. If, indeed, they
apply to me even remotely, I do not see that I deserve any laudation on
that account.
And right here I want to say something which is for your ears alone.
Something within me tells me that I shall succeed beyond my dreams. Were
it not for some circumstances that make such an idea highly improbable,
even absurd, I should think Helen's education would surpass in interest
and wonder Dr. Howe's achievement. I know that she has remarkable
powers, and I believe that I shall be able to develop and mould them. I
cannot tell how I know these things. I had no idea a short time ago how
to go to work; I was feeling about in the dark; but somehow I know
now, and I know that I know. I cannot explain it; but when difficulties
arise, I am not perplexed or doubtful. I know how to meet them; I seem
to divine Helen's peculiar needs. It is wonderful.
Already people are taking a deep interest in Helen. No one can see her
without being impressed. She is no ordinary child, and people's interest
in her education will be no ordinary interest. Therefore let us be
exceedingly careful what we say and write about her. I shall write
freely to you and tell you everything, on one condition: It is this:
you must promise never to show my letters to any one. My beautiful Helen
shall not be transformed into a prodigy if I can help it.
June 5, 1887.
The heat makes Helen languid and quiet. Indeed, the Tophetic weather
has reduced us all to a semi-liquid state. Yesterday Helen took off her
clothes and sat in her skin all the afternoon. When the sun got round to
the window where she was sitting with her book, she got up impatiently
and shut the window. But when the sun came in just the same, she came
over to me with a grieved look and spelled emphatically: "Sun is bad
boy. Sun must go to bed."
She is the dearest, cutest little thing now, and so loving! One day,
when I wanted her to bring me some water, she said: "Legs very tired.
Legs cry much."
She is much interested in some little chickens that are pecking their
way into the world this morning. I let her hold a shell in her hand, and
feel the chicken "chip, chip." Her astonishment, when she felt the tiny
creature inside, cannot be put in a letter. The hen was very gentle, and
made no objection to our investigations. Besides the chickens, we have
several other additions to the family--two calves, a colt, and a penful
of funny little pigs. You would be amused to see me hold a squealing
pig in my arms, while Helen feels it all over, and asks countless
questions--questions not easy to answer either. After seeing the chicken
come out of the egg, she asked: "Did baby pig grow in egg? Where are
many shells?"
Helen's head measures twenty and one-half inches, and mine measures
twenty-one and one-half inches. You see, I'm only one inch ahead!
June 12, 1887.
The weather continues hot. Helen is about the same--pale and thin; but
you mustn't think she is really ill. I am sure the heat, and not
the natural, beautiful activity of her mind, is responsible for her
condition. Of course, I shall not overtax her brain. We are bothered a
good deal by people who assume the responsibility of the world when God
is neglectful. They tell us that Helen is "overdoing," that her mind
is too active (these very people thought she had no mind at all a few
months ago!) and suggest many absurd and impossible remedies. But so far
nobody seems to have thought of chloroforming her, which is, I
think, the only effective way of stopping the natural exercise of her
faculties. It's queer how ready people always are with advice in any
real or imaginary emergency, and no matter how many times experience has
shown them to be wrong, they continue to set forth their opinions, as if
they had received them from the Almighty!
I am teaching Helen the square-hand letters as a sort of diversion.
It gives her something to do, and keeps her quiet, which I think is
desirable while this enervating weather lasts. She has a perfect mania
for counting. She has counted everything in the house, and is now busy
counting the words in her primer. I hope it will not occur to her to
count the hairs of her head. If she could see and hear, I suppose
she would get rid of her superfluous energy in ways which would not,