The Story of My Life
side of a long open hall. Round the house was a wide piazza, where the
mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza
most of the time--there we worked, ate and played. At the back door
there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built,
and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel
the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the
autumn blast.
Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. In the evening, by the campfire, the
men played cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport. They told
stories of their wonderful feats with fowl, fish and quadruped--how
many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had
caught, and how they had bagged the craftiest foxes, outwitted the most
clever 'possums and overtaken the fleetest deer, until I thought that
surely the lion, the tiger, the bear and the rest of the wild tribe
would not be able to stand before these wily hunters. "To-morrow to the
chase!" was their good-night shout as the circle of merry friends broke
up for the night. The men slept in the hall outside our door, and I
could feel the deep breathing of the dogs and the hunters as they lay on
their improvised beds.
At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the rattling of guns,
and the heavy footsteps of the men as they strode about, promising
themselves the greatest luck of the season. I could also feel the
stamping of the horses, which they had ridden out from town and hitched
under the trees, where they stood all night, neighing loudly, impatient
to be off. At last the men mounted, and, as they say in the old songs,
away went the steeds with bridles ringing and whips cracking and hounds
racing ahead, and away went the champion hunters "with hark and whoop
and wild halloo!"
Later in the morning we made preparations for a barbecue. A fire was
kindled at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground, big sticks were laid
crosswise at the top, and meat was hung from them and turned on spits.
Around the fire squatted negroes, driving away the flies with long
branches. The savoury odour of the meat made me hungry long before the
tables were set.
When the bustle and excitement of preparation was at its height, the
hunting party made its appearance, struggling in by twos and threes, the
men hot and weary, the horses covered with foam, and the jaded hounds
panting and dejected--and not a single kill! Every man declared that he
had seen at least one deer, and that the animal had come very close;
but however hotly the dogs might pursue the game, however well the
guns might be aimed, at the snap of the trigger there was not a deer
in sight. They had been as fortunate as the little boy who said he came
very near seeing a rabbit--he saw his tracks. The party soon forgot its
disappointment, however, and we sat down, not to venison, but to a tamer
feast of veal and roast pig.
One summer I had my pony at Fern Quarry. I called him Black Beauty, as I
had just read the book, and he resembled his namesake in every way, from
his glossy black coat to the white star on his forehead. I spent many of
my happiest hours on his back. Occasionally, when it was quite safe,
my teacher would let go the leading-rein, and the pony sauntered on or
stopped at his sweet will to eat grass or nibble the leaves of the trees
that grew beside the narrow trail.
On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would
start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves
to get lost amid the trees and vines, with no road to follow except
the paths made by cows and horses. Frequently we came upon impassable
thickets which forced us to take a round about way. We always returned
to the cottage with armfuls of laurel, goldenrod, ferns and gorgeous
swamp-flowers such as grow only in the South.
Sometimes I would go with Mildred and my little cousins to gather
persimmons. I did not eat them; but I loved their fragrance and enjoyed
hunting for them in the leaves and grass. We also went nutting, and I
helped them open the chestnut burrs and break the shells of hickory-nuts
and walnuts--the big, sweet walnuts!
At the foot of the mountain there was a railroad, and the children
watched the trains whiz by. Sometimes a terrific whistle brought us to
the steps, and Mildred told me in great excitement that a cow or a
horse had strayed on the track. About a mile distant there was a trestle
spanning a deep gorge. It was very difficult to walk over, the ties were
wide apart and so narrow that one felt as if one were walking on knives.
I had never crossed it until one day Mildred, Miss Sullivan and I were
lost in the woods, and wandered for hours without finding a path.
Suddenly Mildred pointed with her little hand and exclaimed, "There's
the trestle!" We would have taken any way rather than this; but it was
late and growing dark, and the trestle was a short cut home. I had to
feel for the rails with my toe; but I was not afraid, and got on
very well, until all at once there came a faint "puff, puff" from the
distance.
"I see the train!" cried Mildred, and in another minute it would have
been upon us had we not climbed down on the crossbraces while it rushed
over our heads. I felt the hot breath from the engine on my face, and
the smoke and ashes almost choked us. As the train rumbled by, the
trestle shook and swayed until I thought we should be dashed to the
chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track. Long
after dark we reached home and found the cottage empty; the family were
all out hunting for us.
CHAPTER XII
After my first visit to Boston, I spent almost every winter in the
North. Once I went on a visit to a New England village with its frozen
lakes and vast snow fields. It was then that I had opportunities such as
had never been mine to enter into the treasures of the snow.
I recall my surprise on discovering that a mysterious hand had stripped
the trees and bushes, leaving only here and there a wrinkled leaf. The
birds had flown, and their empty nests in the bare trees were filled
with snow. Winter was on hill and field. The earth seemed benumbed by
his icy touch, and the very spirits of the trees had withdrawn to their
roots, and there, curled up in the dark, lay fast asleep. All life
seemed to have ebbed away, and even when the sun shone the day was
Shrunk and cold,
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly
For a last dim look at earth and sea.
The withered grass and the bushes were transformed into a forest of
icicles.
Then came a day when the chill air portended a snowstorm. We rushed
out-of-doors to feel the first few tiny flakes descending. Hour by hour
the flakes dropped silently, softly from their airy height to the earth,
and the country became more and more level. A snowy night closed upon
the world, and in the morning one could scarcely recognize a feature
of the landscape. All the roads were hidden, not a single landmark was
visible, only a waste of snow with trees rising out of it.
In the evening a wind from the northeast sprang up, and the flakes
rushed hither and thither in furious melee. Around the great fire we sat
and told merry tales, and frolicked, and quite forgot that we were in
the midst of a desolate solitude, shut in from all communication with
the outside world. But during the night the fury of the wind increased
to such a degree that it thrilled us with a vague terror. The rafters
creaked and strained, and the branches of the trees surrounding the
house rattled and beat against the windows, as the winds rioted up and
down the country.
On the third day after the beginning of the storm the snow ceased. The
sun broke through the clouds and shone upon a vast, undulating
white plain. High mounds, pyramids heaped in fantastic shapes, and
impenetrable drifts lay scattered in every direction.
Narrow paths were shoveled through the drifts. I put on my cloak and
hood and went out. The air stung my cheeks like fire. Half walking in
the paths, half working our way through the lesser drifts, we succeeded
in reaching a pine grove just outside a broad pasture. The trees stood
motionless and white like figures in a marble frieze. There was no odour
of pine-needles. The rays of the sun fell upon the trees, so that the
twigs sparkled like diamonds and dropped in showers when we touched
them. So dazzling was the light, it penetrated even the darkness that
veils my eyes.
As the days wore on, the drifts gradually shrunk, but before they were
wholly gone another storm came, so that I scarcely felt the earth under
my feet once all winter. At intervals the trees lost their icy covering,
and the bulrushes and underbrush were bare; but the lake lay frozen and
hard beneath the sun.
Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places
the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water's edge. Down these
steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy
would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping
hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming
surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For
one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and
joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!
CHAPTER XIII
It was in the spring of 1890 that I learned to speak. The impulse to
utter audible sounds had always been strong within me. I used to make
noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other hand felt the
movements of my lips. I was pleased with anything that made a noise and
liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my
hand on a singer's throat, or on a piano when it was being played.
Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was fast learning to talk, but
after my illness it was found that I had ceased to speak because I could
not hear. I used to sit in my mother's lap all day long and keep my
hands on her face because it amused me to feel the motions of her lips;
and I moved my lips, too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My
friends say that I laughed and cried naturally, and for awhile I
made many sounds and word-elements, not because they were a means of
communication, but because the need of exercising my vocal organs was
imperative. There was, however, one word the meaning of which I still
remembered, WATER. I pronounced it "wa-wa." Even this became less and
less intelligible until the time when Miss Sullivan began to teach me.
I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my
fingers.
I had known for a long time that the people about me used a method of
communication different from mine; and even before I knew that a deaf
child could be taught to speak, I was conscious of dissatisfaction with
the means of communication I already possessed. One who is entirely
dependent upon the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint,
of narrowness. This feeling began to agitate me with a vexing,
forward-reaching sense of a lack that should be filled. My thoughts
would often rise and beat up like birds against the wind, and I
persisted in using my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage this
tendency, fearing lest it would lead to disappointment. But I persisted,
and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of
this great barrier--I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.
In 1890 Mrs. Lamson, who had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, and
who had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden, came to see me,
and told me of Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had
actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had scarcely finished telling