Page 284 - The Story of My Lif

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