The Story of My Life - Helen Keller (best romance books of all time .txt) 📗

for a moment, and it was evident from her face, which was flushed and troubled, that a struggle was going on in her mind. Then she said: “Helen did (does) not love teacher. Helen do love mother. Mother will whip Viney.” I told her that she had better not talk about it any more, but think. She knew that I was much troubled, and would have liked to stay near me; but I thought it best for her to sit by herself. At the dinner-table she was greatly disturbed because I didn’t eat, and suggested that “Cook make tea for teacher.” But I told her that my heart was sad, and I didn’t feel like eating. She began to cry and sob and clung to me.

She was very much excited when we went upstairs; so I tried to interest her in a curious insect called a stick-bug. It’s the queerest thing I ever saw⁠—a little bundle of fagots fastened together in the middle. I wouldn’t believe it was alive until I saw it move. Even then it looked more like a mechanical toy than a living creature. But the poor little girl couldn’t fix her attention. Her heart was full of trouble, and she wanted to talk about it. She said: “Can bug know about naughty girl? Is bug very happy?” Then, putting her arms round my neck, she said: “I am (will be) good tomorrow. Helen is (will be) good all days.” I said, “Will you tell Viney you are very sorry you scratched and kicked her?” She smiled and answered, “Viney (can) not spell words.” “I will tell Viney you are very sorry,” I said. “Will you go with me and find Viney?” She was very willing to go, and let Viney kiss her, though she didn’t return the caress. She has been unusually affectionate since, and it seems to me there is a sweetness⁠—a soul-beauty in her face which I have not seen before.

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.

We had a beautiful time in Huntsville. Everybody there was delighted with Helen, and showered her with gifts and kisses. The first evening she learned the names of all the people in the hotel, about twenty, I think. The next morning we were astonished to find that she remembered all of them, and recognized everyone she had met the night before. She taught the young people the alphabet, and several of them learned to talk with her. One of the girls taught her to dance the polka, and a little boy showed her his rabbits and spelled their names for her. She was delighted, and showed her pleasure by hugging and kissing the little fellow, which embarrassed him very much.

We had Helen’s picture taken with a fuzzy, red-eyed little poodle, who got himself into my lady’s good graces by tricks and cunning devices known only to dogs with an instinct for getting what they want.

She has talked incessantly since her return about what she did in Huntsville, and we notice a very decided improvement in her ability to use language. Curiously enough, a drive we took to the top of Monte Sano, a beautiful mountain not far from Huntsville, seems to have impressed her more than anything else, except the wonderful poodle. She remembers all that I told her about it, and in telling her mother repeated the very words and phrases I had used in describing it to her. In conclusion she asked her mother if she should like to see “very high mountain and beautiful cloudcaps.” I hadn’t used this expression. I said, “The clouds touch the mountain softly, like beautiful flowers.” You see, I had to use words and images with which she was familiar through the sense of touch. But it hardly seems possible that any mere words should convey to one who has never seen a mountain the faintest idea of its grandeur; and I don’t see how anyone is ever to know what impression she did receive, or the cause of her pleasure in what was told her about it. All that we do know certainly is that she has a good memory and imagination and the faculty of association.

August 28, 1887.

I do wish things would stop being born! “New puppies,” “new calves” and “new babies” keep Helen’s interest in the why and wherefore of things at white heat. The arrival of a new baby at Ivy