Page 370 - The Story of My Lif

Helen’s mind is so gifted by nature that she seems able to understand with only

the faintest touch of explanation every possible variety of external relations. One
day in Alabama, as we were gathering wild flowers near the springs on the
hillsides, she seemed to understand for the first time that the springs were
surrounded by mountains, and she exclaimed: “The mountains are crowding
around the springs to look at their own beautiful reflections!” I do not know
where she obtained this language, yet it is evident that it must have come to her
from without, as it would hardly be possible for a person deprived of the visual
sense to originate such an idea. In mentioning a visit to Lexington, Mass., she
writes: “As we rode along we could see the forest monarchs bend their proud
forms to listen to the little children of the woodlands whispering their secrets.
The anemone, the wild violet, the hepatica, and the funny little curled-up ferns
all peeped out at us from beneath the brown leaves.” She closes this letter with,
“I must go to bed, for Morpheus has touched my eyelids with his golden wand.”
Here again, I am unable to state where she acquired these expressions.

She has always seemed to prefer stories which exercise the imagination, and
catches and retains the poetic spirit in all such literature; but not until this winter
have I been conscious that her memory absorbed the exact language to such an
extent that she is herself unable to trace the source.

This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of her
parents in Tuscumbia, which she called “Autumn Leaves.” She was at work
upon it about two weeks, writing a little each day, at her own pleasure. When it
was finished, and we read it in the family, it occasioned much comment on
account of the beautiful imagery, and we could not understand how Helen could
describe such pictures without the aid of sight. As we had never seen or heard of
any such story as this before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, “I
did not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos’s birthday.” While I was surprised

that she could write like this, I was not more astonished than I had been many
times before at the unexpected achievements of my little pupil, especially as we
had exchanged many beautiful thoughts on the subject of the glory of the
ripening foliage during the autumn of this year.