Page 291 - The Story of My Lif

July 31, 1887.

Helen’s pencil-writing is excellent, as you will see from the enclosed letter,
which she wrote for her own amusement. I am teaching her the braille alphabet,
and she is delighted to be able to make words herself that she can feel.

She has now reached the question stage of her development. It is “what?”
“why?” “when?” especially “why?” all day long, and as her intelligence grows
her inquiries become more insistent. I remember how unbearable I used to find
the inquisitiveness of my friends’ children; but I know now that these questions
indicate the child’s growing interest in the cause of things. The “why?”

is the DOOR THROUGH WHICH HE ENTERS THE WORLD OF REASON
AND

REFLECTION. “How does carpenter know to build house?” “Who put chickens
in eggs?” “Why is Viney black?” “Flies bite—why?” “Can flies know not to
bite?” “Why did father kill sheep?” Of course she asks many questions that are
not as intelligent as these. Her mind isn’t more logical than the minds of ordinary
children. On the whole, her questions are analogous to those that a bright three-
year-old child asks; but her desire for knowledge is so earnest, the questions are
never tedious, though they draw heavily upon my meager store of information,

and tax my ingenuity to the utmost.

I had a letter from Laura Bridgman last Sunday. Please give her my love, and tell
her Helen sends her a kiss. I read the letter at the supper-table, and Mrs. Keller
exclaimed: “My, Miss Annie, Helen writes almost as well as that now!” It is true.

August 21, 1887.