The Story of My Life
that something must be done. If it was natural for Helen to ask such
questions, it was my duty to answer them. It's a great mistake, I think,
to put children off with falsehoods and nonsense, when their growing
powers of observation and discrimination excite in them a desire to know
about things. From the beginning, I HAVE MADE IT A PRACTICE TO ANSWER
ALL HELEN'S QUESTIONS TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY IN A WAY INTELLIGIBLE
TO HER, and at the same time truthfully. "Why should I treat these
questions differently?" I asked myself. I decided that there was no
reason, except my deplorable ignorance of the great facts that underlie
our physical existence. It was no doubt because of this ignorance that
I rushed in where more experienced angels fear to tread. There isn't
a living soul in this part of the world to whom I can go for advice in
this, or indeed, in any other educational difficulty. The only thing for
me to do in a perplexity is to go ahead, and learn by making mistakes.
But in this case I don't think I made a mistake. I took Helen and my
Botany, "How Plants Grow," up in the tree, where we often go to read and
study, and I told her in simple words the story of plantlife. I reminded
her of the corn, beans and watermelon-seed she had planted in the
spring, and told her that the tall corn in the garden, and the beans and
watermelon vines had grown from those seeds. I explained how the earth
keeps the seeds warm and moist, until the little leaves are strong
enough to push themselves out into the light and air where they can
breathe and grow and bloom and make more seeds, from which other
baby-plants shall grow. I drew an analogy between plant and animal-life,
and told her that seeds are eggs as truly as hens' eggs and birds'
eggs--that the mother hen keeps her eggs warm and dry until the little
chicks come out. I made her understand that all life comes from an egg.
The mother bird lays her eggs in a nest and keeps them warm until the
birdlings are hatched. The mother fish lays her eggs where she knows
they will be moist and safe, until it is time for the little fish to
come out. I told her that she could call the egg the cradle of life.
Then I told her that other animals like the dog and cow, and human
beings, do not lay their eggs, but nourish their young in their own
bodies. I had no difficulty in making it clear to her that if plants and
animals didn't produce offspring after their kind, they would cease to
exist, and everything in the world would soon die. But the function of
sex I passed over as lightly as possible. I did, however, try to give
her the idea that love is the great continuer of life. The subject was
difficult, and my knowledge inadequate; but I am glad I didn't shirk
my responsibility; for, stumbling, hesitating, and incomplete as my
explanation was, it touched deep responsive chords in the soul of my
little pupil, and the readiness with which she comprehended the great
facts of physical life confirmed me in the opinion that the child has
dormant within him, when he comes into the world, all the experiences
of the race. These experiences are like photographic negatives, until
language develops them and brings out the memory-images.
September 4, 1887.
Helen had a letter this morning from her uncle, Doctor Keller. He
invited her to come to see him at Hot Springs. The name Hot Springs
interested her, and she asked many questions about it. She knows about
cold springs. There are several near Tuscumbia; one very large one
from which the town got its name. "Tuscumbia" is the Indian for "Great
Spring." But she was surprised that hot water should come out of the
ground. She wanted to know who made fire under the ground, and if it was
like the fire in stoves, and if it burned the roots of plants and trees.
She was much pleased with the letter, and after she had asked all the
questions she could think of, she took it to her mother, who was sewing
in the hall, and read it to her. It was amusing to see her hold it
before her eyes and spell the sentences out on her fingers, just as I
had done. Afterward she tried to read it to Belle (the dog) and Mildred.
Mrs. Keller and I watched the nursery comedy from the door. Belle was
sleepy, and Mildred inattentive. Helen looked very serious, and, once
or twice, when Mildred tried to take the letter, she put her hand away
impatiently. Finally Belle got up, shook herself, and was about to
walk away, when Helen caught her by the neck and forced her to lie down
again. In the meantime Mildred had got the letter and crept away with
it. Helen felt on the floor for it, but not finding it there, she
evidently suspected Mildred; for she made the little sound which is her
"baby call." Then she got up and stood very still, as if listening with
her feet for Mildred's "thump, thump." When she had located the sound,
she went quickly toward the little culprit and found her chewing the
precious letter! This was too much for Helen. She snatched the letter
and slapped the little hands soundly. Mrs. Keller took the baby in her
arms, and when we had succeeded in pacifying her, I asked Helen, "What
did you do to baby?" She looked troubled, and hesitated a moment before
answering. Then she said: "Wrong girl did eat letter. Helen did slap
very wrong girl." I told her that Mildred was very small, and didn't
know that it was wrong to put the letter in her mouth.
"I did tell baby, no, no, much (many) times," was Helen's reply.
I said, "Mildred doesn't understand your fingers, and we must be very
gentle with her."
She shook her head.
"Baby--not think. Helen will give baby pretty letter," and with that she
ran upstairs and brought down a neatly folded sheet of braille, on which
she had written some words, and gave it to Mildred, saying, "Baby can
eat all words."
September 18, 1887.
I do not wonder you were surprised to hear that I was going to write
something for the report. I do not know myself how it happened, except
that I got tired of saying "no," and Captain Keller urged me to do
it. He agreed with Mr. Anagnos that it was my duty to give others
the benefit of my experience. Besides, they said Helen's wonderful
deliverance might be a boon to other afflicted children.
When I sit down to write, my thoughts freeze, and when I get them on
paper they look like wooden soldiers all in a row, and if a live one
happens along, I put him in a strait-jacket. It's easy enough, however,
to say Helen is wonderful, because she really is. I kept a record of
everything she said last week, and I found that she knows six hundred
words. This does not mean, however, that she always uses them correctly.
Sometimes her sentences are like Chinese puzzles; but they are the kind
of puzzles children make when they try to express their half-formed
ideas by means of arbitrary language. She has the true language-impulse,
and shows great fertility of resource in making the words at her command
convey her meaning.
Lately she has been much interested in colour. She found the word
"brown" in her primer and wanted to know its meaning. I told her that
her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?" After we had
been all over the house, and I had told her the colour of everything
she touched, she suggested that we go to the hen-houses and barns; but
I told her she must wait until another day because I was very tired. We
sat in the hammock; but there was no rest for the weary there. Helen
was eager to know "more colour." I wonder if she has any vague idea of
colour--any reminiscent impression of light and sound. It seems as if a
child who could see and hear until her nineteenth month must retain some
of her first impressions, though ever so faintly. Helen talks a great
deal about things that she cannot know of through the sense of touch.
She asks many questions about the sky, day and night, the ocean and
mountains. She likes to have me tell her what I see in pictures.
But I seem to have lost the thread of my discourse. "What colour is
think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we swung to and
fro in the hammock. I told her that when we are happy our thoughts are
bright, and when we are naughty they are sad. Quick as a flash she said,
"My think is white, Viney's think is black." You see, she had an idea
that the colour of our thoughts matched that of our skin. I couldn't
help laughing, for at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of
her voice:
"I long to sit on dem jasper walls And see dem sinners stumble and
fall!"
October 3, 1887.
My account for the report is finished and sent off. I have two copies,
and will send you one; but you mustn't show it to anybody. It's Mr.
Anagnos's property until it is published.
I suppose the little girls enjoyed Helen's letter. She wrote it out of
her own head, as the children say.
She talks a great deal about what she will do when she goes to Boston.
She asked the other day, "Who made all things and Boston?" She says
Mildred will not go there because "Baby does cry all days."
October 25, 1887.
Helen wrote another letter to the little girls yesterday, and her father
sent it to Mr. Anagnos. Ask him to let you see it. She has begun to use
the pronouns of her own accord. This morning I happened to say, "Helen
will go upstairs." She laughed and said, "Teacher is wrong. You will
go upstairs." This is another great forward step. Thus it always is.
Yesterday's perplexities are strangely simple to-day, and to-day's
difficulties become to-morrow's pastime.
The rapid development of Helen's mind is beautiful to watch. I doubt if
any teacher ever had a work of such absorbing interest. There must have
been one lucky star in the heavens at my birth, and I am just beginning
to feel its beneficent influence.
I had two letters from Mr. Anagnos last week. He is more grateful for my
report than the English idiom will express. Now he wants a picture "of
darling Helen and her illustrious teacher, to grace the pages of the
forthcoming annual report."
October, 1887.
You have probably read, ere this, Helen's second letter to the little
girls. I am aware that the progress which she has made between the
writing of the two letters must seem incredible. Only those who are with
her daily can realize the rapid advancement which she is making in the
acquisition of language. You will see from her letter that she uses many
pronouns correctly. She rarely misuses or omits one in conversation. Her
passion for writing letters and putting her thoughts upon paper grows
more intense. She now tells stories in which the imagination plays an
important part. She is also beginning to realize that she is not like
other children. The other day she asked, "What do my eyes do?" I told
her that I could see things with my eyes, and that she could see them
with her fingers. After thinking a moment she said, "My eyes are bad!"
then she changed it into "My eyes are sick!"
Miss Sullivan's first report, which was published in the official report
of the Perkins Institution for the year 1887, is a short summary of what
is fully recorded in the letters. Here follows the last part, beginning
with the great day, April 5th, when Helen learned water.
In her reports Miss Sullivan speaks of "lessons" as if they came in
regular order. This is the effect of putting it all in a summary.
"Lesson" is too formal for the continuous daily work.
One day I took her to the cistern. As the water gushed from the pump I
spelled "w-a-t-e-r." Instantly she tapped my hand for a repetition, and
then made the word herself with a radiant face. Just then the nurse came
into the cistern-house bringing her little sister. I put Helen's hand
on the baby and formed the letters "b-a-b-y," which she repeated without
help and with the light of a new intelligence in her face.