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Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen

Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen

Question about Electronic Arts Lemonade Tycoon 2: New York Edition Does anyone have the crack or activation code for airport tycoon 3? Lemonade Tycoon, first released as Lemonade Inc., is a Shockwave-based game. LemonadeTycoon 2 New York Edition Full Version (serial). 4th & Inches is an action/strategy football game for one or two players. During a storm at sea, he was tossed overboard and lands at New York City away.

Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen - your business!

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  Simulation   

Lemonade Tycoon 2 is the sequel to Lemonade Tycoon. This game contains more features, improved graphics, and is set in New York City, unlike its predecessor. Also, this version allowed the player to have more than one stand and the ability to have stands in more than one location at once. 

Lemonade Tycoon 2 revolves around selling lemonade for a profit. The player can buy upgrades to make customers happier and make lemonade faster. 

 Lemonade Tycoon has 19 locations where a stand can be located, which include The Bronx, Brooklyn, Greenwich Village, Central Park, Times Square, Statue of Liberty, and Grand Central Station.

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this is an old one that was like half started so I just hammered out something that felt about right... I'm not 100% happy with this one either, but as usual the concept IS there. It happens sometime before Faraday Cage and And We Danced, if memory serves. Done me best to line shit up and make it make sense with... mixed results

Faraday Cage--thermodynamic equilibrium present, as well as honor among thieves and jacqueda mentions; as usual, Cassie is a free agent

F slur used once but in reverse hays code (the gays code, if you will) fashion, there is retribution

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“Nothing’s better than a backyard barbecue in Beverly Hills,” said Cassie Cage, lifting her glass of lemonade to salute the weather. The sun shone high overhead, the palm trees swayed in the gentle ocean breeze, and her father was at the grill, stacking the coals.

“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,” confirmed Jacqueline Briggs—Jacqui to her friends—lifting her own glass and settling back on a folding chair.

“Where’s Takeda?” Johnny asked from the grill, satisfied in the pile he had created and now dousing it with lighter fluid.

“Classified, Mr. Cage, you know that,” said Jacqui, a mock serious expression on her face. “But I think I’ve convinced Dad to come, so keep your eyes peeled.”

Cassie dropped into a folding chair nearby and placed her glass in the cupholder on the armrest. She wondered who would be able to make it; their invitation had been an open one. She expected Earthrealm guests only, this time, but one never knew.

“Cassie, hey, mind lettin’ us in? Got our hands full,” came a call from over the fence. She hopped up, recognizing the voice immediately as Kung Jin, a friend from SF, now on liaison duty in Outworld—well, he was, but evidently he had acquired some vacation time. We? She wondered. Who’s he with? She pictured, for a moment, the colossal Kotal, one of the triarchs of outworld and all-around badass with thighs like tree trunks. His thighs were only concerning to her because she was sure that, if he was here, they would be exposed. The people of Earthrealm did not dress that way and the questions raised by his arrival might’ve been more than she was equipped or willing to handle.

Then again, she reminded herself, this is Beverly Hills.

She tugged the gate open, already pleased that she did not see a massive head and shoulders hovering over the fence line. Instead, Jin stood there, arms piled with dishes full of food, two folding chairs slung on his back. Behind him, carrying a large cooler, was a man Cassie did not recognize immediately. It was not until she met his eyes, dark gray things that were sharp, perceptive, and just a little unnerving, the eyes of a hired gun, that she made the connection.

“Erron, Jin, c’mon in—uh, yeah, that table there for salads; that one for drinks, unless you’re keepin’ ‘em nearby.” She could not have hoped to explain her initial desire to refer to the cowboy as Mr. Black, save for his age; she was sure he and her father were just about equivalent in years.

“Outworld hooch,” grunted Erron, “I ain’t sharin’.”

“Unless someone asks,” Jin corrected, “and then you’re sharing.”

Erron’s shoulders sagged a little and he moved almost reluctantly over to the drink table. On his journey thereto, he found himself stepping around a large, round pad which looked to be made of rubber, though he only had time to wonder at it a moment. His load was getting heavy.

The table had an empty bowl thereupon, with a large dipping ladle nearby and stacks of cups. Cassie had yet to mix the punch as the party was not scheduled to start until quarter to four, or thereabouts. It was only two-thirty, though she appreciated the early arrivals.

“Wow,” Cassie whispered to Jin as he set his dishes down upon the salads and sides table, “you ah… really got him—”

“Whipped?” Jin’s voice was low, conspiratorial, and mischievous. “I’m kidding—he’s just… out of his element. I’m not sure we’ve ever… gone anywhere together; thought this was a good opportunity.” Erron Black’s element was high noon at the OK Corral, as far as Cassie was concerned, or at least the dust and grit of Outworld. Earthrealmer he might have been, but he had integrated well with the rough-and-tumble ways of those oh, so savage lands.

“It is,” she assured him, “and we’re glad you came. He’s good for you, I think.”

“He is.” The glowing look on Jin’s face told Cassie all she needed to know about that and she asked no more. They watched Erron slide the cooler off to one side, setting out a couple of bottles that did not need to be kept cold, and then observed as he placed the cooler—an Earthrealm purchase, obviously—thoughtfully underneath the table and out of the sun.

Cassie returned to Jacqui, who was leaning forward and squinting behind her sunglasses. “Is’sat?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

Both women looked at each other, tried to hold back their laughter, and failed miserably. Johnny had by that point come out from behind the grill, content to watch the coals heat. He grabbed a beer from a nearby cooler on the way and moved a folding chair so he could both speak with his guests and watch those coals. Coal heat, he had found over the years, was of vital importance.

He, too, had noticed Erron Black walking in with Jin, had some desire to speak with the latter, curious about the goings-on in Outworld, and all at once decided against it, returning momentarily for another beer and offering the cowboy the other drink. Erron took it, regarded the bottle, Johnny, and the house.

“Nice place y’got here, Cage,” he grunted, accepting one of the two folding chairs from Jin, who had already set his up near his old SF squad.

“Thanks. Lotta blood, sweat, and tears went into it… not mine; I got stunt guys for that.” Johnny chuckled and settled into his chair. Erron opened his with one swift jerk of his powerful arm and, taking only a moment to decide, set it down near Johnny Cage, rather than Jin, Jacqui, and Cassie. They had plenty to catch up on and Erron wasn’t in a gossiping mood.

Johnny, evidently, also was not and the two men sat in silence, watching the few clouds in the sky, the grill, and the perspiration of their beers. Erron wished desperately for his hat, but Jin told him no one in California unironically wore cowboy hats unless they wanted to be mistaken for a trick. Erron had scoffed, but ultimately had obeyed.

He did not much care how he looked, but did not want Jin to look or feel he looked foolish. Kid’s growin’ on me, he thought, not without fondness. It had, he decided, been too long since he had been back to Earthrealm for any amount of time without engaging in kombat.

When Jin flopped into his chair near Jacqui and Cassie, the three began engaging in small talk. That lasted all of two minutes, which, Cassie decided, was a new record between them.

“So spill,” she said, voice low. “How’d you hook up with Showdown at the Outworld Corral over there?”

Jin blushed, but only with excitement. He was not bashful. Outworld had driven the shyness out of him… and Kotal Kahn’s kind words. ‘In Outworld, there is little room for Earthrealm prejudices; I suggest you leave those behind and seize happiness where you can.’ He had drawn Jade close when he said this. Jin caught his meaning.

“Kotal Kahn was throwing this party, right? To celebrate an independent Edenia… he made Erron a member of his council, too!” Jin was elated, both for the success of Edenian negotiation and for Erron Black, a man with formerly dubious morals and a checkered past. To have come so far as this was nothing short of miraculous. “He still talks about koin, but… I really think he believes in it.”

Jacqui and Cassie both detected the depth of feeling and nodded, smiling a little between themselves and nodding, each in turn. Kotal Kahn was a magnanimous ruler. With Edenia being set up as an independent state and Kitana upon that throne, they, the Shokan people, and Kotal himself, were beginning a serious endeavor to form a council of Outworld peoples, to more fairly govern their territories. Kotal, Kitana, and Sheeva, Goro’s fiery successor, had even set up a triarchy, all styling themselves with royal titles, Kahn, Kahnum, and Queen, respectively. They held sovereignty over their own lands, but came together on matters of state which affected all the realm.

But now was not the time for solemn contemplations. They were at a party, catching up and gossipping. Maybe all the gory details wouldn’t be shared, but there would be enough implications to last them the whole afternoon and well into the evening.

“Oh my god,” Jacqui said after a moment, chuckling behind her hand and leaning forward. All three of their heads were pressed close together now. “A party hook-up? And he’s still here? Damn, what is your secret?”

“Between us girls,” Jin whispered, snickering, “I don’t remember a ton of it.”

Cassie roller her eyes. “If you don’t wanna tell us, Jin…”

“No no, really, Outworld booze hits different; trust me. But… okay, here’s the thing, when the sun came up, you’re right, he was still there.” There was real emotion choking Jin’s voice, but he swallowed it down. Jacqui watched him, meeting Cassie’s gaze for a moment before reaching out and patting Jin’s shoulder.

“Well, you did something right ‘cause now he’s at Cassie’s dad’s barbecue and they honestly look like they’re talking about grill shit, so…”

“Hey, speaking of dads… Jacqui—”

“No, don’t do that,” warned Jin, red to the ears now, hands up, shaking his head, his ponytail tossing itself this way and that.

“Do what?” Cassie leaned back. “Call Erron a dad? ‘Cause he definitely could be.”

“Or a ‘daddy’,” Jacqui ventured, mischief sparkling in dark eyes, glad for the distraction from the question that was most certainly coming: where was Jax. “There any of that goin’ on?”

Jin’s eyes were wide. “N-no! No. Uh-uh… Listen, guys, I have… plenty of kinks, but that, I promise you, is not one of them.”

“Ain’t whatcha said last night,” came a twangy purr from somewhere behind the trio. Evidently, Erron had gotten up to grab more drinks for himself and his fellow “dad” and had overheard. That, or they were not so quiet as they thought.

Could Kung Jin go any redder than he already was? Cassie and Jacqui had begun to wonder how many shades of that color existed. They burst into laughter with Jin covering his face.

“Sorry kid,” grunted the cowboy, patting Jin on the back as he passed with his other hand wrapped around two more beers, from their stash, this time, “couldn’t resist. Girls, give’m a break.”

Both girls immediately stopped laughing and nodded, eyes wide. “Yessir,” they both responded in unison. Maybe it was the downright fatherly tone he had used, or Jin’s face-in-hands distress, but they both leaned forward and pried his fingers from his face, laughing once more and reassuring him that they were not, in any way, judging him.

“Honestly,” Cassie said, “I’m just glad you’re happy. You too, Jacqui. You guys’ve found something good; I can see that from here.”

“What about you?” Jin asked after a moment. Cassie shook her head.

“Don’t need it… not yet. I think I’ll know when I do.”

“And your dad?” Jacqui’s voice dipped low once more and the three of them peered over at the two men clinking their beers together and chatting. Cassie shook her head.

“I dunno… he’s doing better, but sometimes you can just sorta… see it in his face; he’s missing a huge part of himself… I know he misses mom, but it’s something deeper. He’s… he needs someone.” Dad’s one of those people who doesn’t do too well on their own. This last remained unspoken.

Johnny engaged Erron in conversation easily. He was a gregarious man by nature, so any form of socializing was absolutely within the scope of things he could and did do regularly when he had the opportunity. Retiring from SF had been his first step to regaining some semblance of whatever passed as normalcy in his life, and thence, diving back into his film career.

“There’s a real call for guys my age these days… Shifting demographics, or whatever; my agent says I’m in the prime of my life for this shit. Feels good, y’know, to be out of my err… Ninja Mime era.”

“Not bad films, though,” grunted Erron, inclining his head. “I mean… script leaves somethin’ to be desired, but first time I saw one, I knew you were the real deal.”

“Thanks, Black, that means a shitload comin’ from you,” said Johnny, smiling genuinely and tipping his beer toward the other man. “To second chances?”

“I’ll drink to it.”

They tapped their beers together and drank deeply, relishing the cool carbonation in the heat of a California afternoon. The liquid was refreshing and perfumed, a dark porter, just like they both seemed to enjoy. In truth, Erron would take any offered Earthrealm beer. Carbonation was not simple to achieve in Outworld and hops were all but unattainable. He had been promised that Edenia had been fertile and lush and that, under Kitana’s rule, their territory could be again, but that was a ways off.

Johnny shifted minutely at the sound of the gate being tapped on politely. He opened one eye to look at Cassie, who met his gaze and shrugged. Everyone was here, weren’t they? The Earthrealmers they had expected, anyway. They had sent out other invitations, so to speak, but they hadn’t thought...

“I got it,” said Jin, standing and stretching, handing the drink he had recently acquired to Jacqui and heading over to the gate. Tugging the latch, he opened the way for two familiar faces, if not dressed familiarly.

“Grandmaster...s?” Jin stammered, saluting both and bowing deeply. Sub-Zero grinned, standing a little way behind Scorpion, who stared with his usual intensity at Jin before grasping the boy’s shoulder, squeezing it, and entering Johnny Cage’s back yard.

“You are surprised to see us,” Sub-Zero said, not without amusement.

“If we expected you, you’d be shitty ninjas,” Cassie observed, lifting her glass in greeting. Sub-Zero could not help a smile. His stern face glowed with mirth and, despite the California heat and sun, he seemed to be doing just fine. Outworld Kryomancers were of tough stock, evidently, and he was the baddest bitch of them all, as far as she was aware.

“Ah, Cass, I think it’s just ninja,” Jacqui observed, taking a sip from her glass and watching Jin assist Grandmaster Hanzo Hasashi, with what they had brought. He swiftly rearranged the table to better accommodate the dishes which were being brought.

“Nothin’ just about THOSE ninja,” Johnny supplied. He’d stood and was fussing with the coals, Erron gesturing and quietly coaching him, which he did not seem to appreciate and soon the two fell into earnest discussion about grilling.

“They aren’t ninja anyway,” said Jin, hoisting the cooler on top of one of the long tables and pulling out a few salads and side dishes. These, he then arranged in the most pleasing way he could manage. He reflected that it was all food in the end, so there really was no downside. They all looked fantastic and were clearly homemade and he made brief, sharp eye contact with Cassie, as if to say “would you take a look at THIS”.

The idea of either Sub-Zero or Scorpion cooking, baking, or preparing any kind of food brought a hysterical bubble of laughter to Cassie’s lips and she swiftly drowned it with drink. Laughing at ninja was a good way to get shanked. Ninja shanked. Shuriken…ed? Come to think of it, she had never seen Scorpion or Sub-Zero use that particular weapon—only ice-axes and that crazy spear on a chain. She swallowed at the thought of that and was relieved all at once that he was on THEIR side.

“Sweets on that table,” she called, gesturing to a smaller apparatus that had been set up, but held no food yet. She’d made some fairly attractive cupcakes (in all actually, she’d had them made and picked them up that morning) and was going to set them out when there were more people.

“You guys need chairs?” Jacqui stood, offering to grab them from inside the house. She was Cassie’s best friend and Cassie’s dad’s casa counted as hers, which meant it counted as Jacqui’s. Sub-Zero shook his head and gestured.

“We have brought our own.” He set out a sturdy-looking folding chair, a little closer to Erron Black and Johnny than to what Cassie was starting to think of as the “kids table” with not a small amount of humor; she’d begun to see crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and swore there was some gray in her hair, though that was probably a trick of the light.

Holding the back of the seat, the Kryomancer awaited Scorpion’s rear-end and then, without missing a beat, built an icy chair next to it. The thing was solid and weeping condensation, but would hold as long as he remained in the area. Scorpion leaned over and whispered something to him that Jacqui thought looked like a scolding word and Sub-Zero chuckled, affectionately touching the man’s arm.

“Makes sense,” Jin observed, taking his seat. “He’s a Kryomancer, y’know, and this kinda heat is rough. He’s tough, but he’s not the Grandmaster because he’s stupid.”

“This has got to be the weirdest barbecue—are we expecting any Outworlders? ‘Cause I swear,” Jacqui said, leaning back, “if the Kahn Squad comes through that gate, I might need y’all to catch my ass before I hit the ground.”

They laughed heartily at this thought, but then all eyes were on the gate, just in case.

“So,” Cassie said, by way of making more conversation, “Jin… what’s going on in Outworld right now… that whole Triarchy thing has gotta be weird for ‘em, right?”

“It is,” Jin admitted, nodding. “I’m surprised we got time off, even for this.” He gestured between himself and Erron. “Things between the Tarkatan and Shokan aren’t great.”

“They’re like, eternal rivals, right?” Jacqui had boned up on Outworld history in the time she and Takeda Takahashi had been seeing each other, to better understand the history of his clan, even if he was not a native.

“The bitterest… Hatfield and McCoy on ‘roids.” Jin’s words were humorous, but his expression was grave. “The Shokan claim it is the fault of the Tarkatans that their ancestral home, the subterranean lands, were taken by the Kytinn.”

“Those fucked up bug… things,” said Cassie, the grimace on her face being mimicked perfectly in her voice. She made a “yuck” sound and shuddered. She hated bugs, especially bugs that walked on two legs and affected the stance of a sensual humanoid female. It was the sensual part that was most unsettling.

She attributed it to pheromones, but it had been hard to look away. She shuddered again.

“Fucking nasty.”

Everyone agreed.

Jacqui sighed then and plopped her chin in one hand. She clicked her tongue and pursed her lips, grimacing. “I really wish Takeda could be here,” she said after a moment. Jin laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Wherever he is,” said the Shaolin archer, “I’m pretty sure he’d rather be here, too.”

“I just miss him so much when he’s not around,” she lamented. “It’s embarrassing, y’know? Needing to be near someone like that—knowing that you can feel whole and shit, but not being able to because duty or obligation or… whatever-it-is takes you away. I knew what I was signing up for, but it’s never easy.”

Her gaze drifted toward the pair of elder warriors seated side-by-side and zeroed in on Scorpion, who was leaning forward in his chair to participate in some discussion going on between Johnny and Erron. She looked like she might be ready to launch herself toward Grandmaster Hasashi and give the man a piece of her mind, but she restrained herself, understanding that whatever it was, it needed to be done. A man who had so often lost everything was not likely to waste resources, especially not valuable ones like Takeda.

Cassie admired her friend’s strength, always had, and she lifted a glass to it. “To Jacqui’s balls of steel,” she suggested, “and saintly patience.”

“Here-here,” echoed Jin and Jacqui with smiles, both amused and melancholy. Jin missed Takeda as well. The two had been good friends, perhaps more on and off, and they were still very close. Whatever mission was given to him, no one had any doubt he’d complete it with finesse. All the same, they were still allowed to worry and to miss him.

“I think the grandmaster really digs your man, Jacqui,” Cassie suggested. “I mean… Takeda’s his right hand, practically his son, y’know?”

Jacqui nodded, leaning closer to the others to speak in low tones once more. “I think he’s tapped for next GM,” she said with confidence. “And frankly, he deserves it.”

“And Grandmaster Hasashi deserves to pull his laurels out of whatever cedar chest he keeps ‘em in and plant his ass on those things,” added Jin. “I think those guys’ve done enough, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Cassie said, “but say that to their faces. God, imagine if I’d said that to my mom… Christ…” She sat back and allowed herself a laugh. There would have been no way in hell Sonya Blade would have been convinced to retire short of a completely uncontrollable disaster. The fact that she’d met her end that way, still in her prime, still kicking ass and killing bad guys didn’t make her loss sting less, but it did give Cassie and her father a measure of peace. Sonya was the epitome of “she died doing what she loved” and they could both respect that for her.

“She’d have crucified you,” Jacqui agreed, nodding, “and then hired Pale Goth Homeboy to resurrect you so she could do it again.”

Jin’s drink nearly came out his nose when Jacqui supplied this absolute wreck of a nickname for the sorcerer Quan-Chi, a man who had fancied himself the Elder God Shinnok’s right hand but whom they suspected was more of a tool of little interest to the being—perhaps a groupie. Cassie barked a laugh at Jin’s malfunction and Jacqui’s brows and shoulders rose.

“Well, am I wrong?”

Shaking his head, Jin fished about for a napkin, which Cassie provided. As she did so, her father approached, leaving the grill for a moment to speak to the “kids table”. Old guys like Johnny saw anyone under 40 as a kid, even if these were soldiers in their thirties.

“Jin, I got those black bean burgers you recommended when you were here last time,” he said, “hope that’s okay.”

“Oh—OH yeah, that’s great! Man… I can’t wait; I haven’t had a good burger since I left Earthrealm. Thanks for inviting us.”

Johnny flashed a thumbs-up before asking if anyone else needed drinks. Cassie assured him she had it well under control. “Hey, dad,” she said after a moment, “are the Shaolin Rowdy Boys gunna be here?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “I contacted ‘em, but Lao said they had something going on—wasn’t specific an’ I didn’t push; figured it’s some kinda Wu-Shi mysticism or somethin’.” He looked to Jin for confirmation of the presence of such “mysticism” and Jin nodded.

“Transcending to other planes via deep meditation, most likely,” he said. The other two looked at him, then at Johnny, whose brows had risen. When Jin snorted a laugh, Jacqui and Cassie laughed as well and Johnny smiled, shaking his head and waving them off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what that means,” he said, moving back to the gaggle of older men near the grill. Johnny’s mannerisms were casual and the look on his face gave nothing away, but his mind had flown to the temple of light and his two Shaolin companions. He had not seen them in a while and had a feeling something was amiss, but wasn’t quite rude enough to ask—not anymore anyway.

He returned to tending the food when a muffled crack of thunder split the peaceful afternoon and a bolt of blue-white lightning descended in a flash onto the wide, thick, rubber pad at one corner of Johnny’s yard. Johnny did not realize how his face lit up at the presence of the thunder god, but both Erron Black and Grandmaster Kuai Liang were watching him. Their eyes met presently and a look passed between them of bewildered amusement.

“Thought I felt my hairs standing up,” Cassie said as she stood to greet the deity whom she was beginning to regard as a second father.

“I apologize for my lateness, Cassandra Cage,” said Raiden, who was dressed, as ever, to the nines in godly attire. The only real difference was a distinct lack of the leather-like cowl he usually wore. His hair tumbled freely over his shoulders in loose ringlets and gentle curls. It swayed and bounced as he moved.

Cassie had visions of him in white sweats, a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt, and some kind of simple, but well-made bathrobe for ultimate comfort, but for some reason could not quite bring the vision to fruition. One day, she vowed. Humorous thoughts aside, the woman had only ever known him in this and his dreadful armor. Cassie preferred this.

“Lord Raiden,” said both grandmasters almost simultaneously, standing and offering deep bows. There would be no obeisance, as he was not a subject of worship, but there was respect. He inclined his head to them and they returned to their seats. Erron tipped his hat, trying his best not to stare at the exposed hair; he’d never thought about what might be under that cowl and was surprised by what there was.

“One of these days,” Cassie said, meeting Raiden halfway across the lawn and fearlessly offering him her arm, which he took. She pressed close to keep from being electrocuted, “I’m going to get you in bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt—shades an’ all; it’ll be great. You’ll look like The Dude. Hair’s a good start, though.”

“I admire your enthusiasm,” said the deity honestly as she guided him to what she now decided was the dad zone. She felt almost as if she was dropping a child off at daycare or something—dadcare, perhaps. She ran the idea by her father.

“Payin’ someone to watch your dad, y’know, while you go out shopping with the girls or whatever… they’ve got football on and sippy cups with beer in ‘em,” she said. Her father grinned wide and nodded.

“Couches for naptime,” he suggested. She shot him finger guns as she receded and left him to get a chair for their divine guest. Returning to her posse, Cassie commenced to whispering, under no impression Raiden could not hear her, but not caring. She knew he was above those things, physically and metaphorically.

“Dad’s really happy,” she said, “y’know, that he showed.”

“He seems to be, yeah,” Jacqui agreed. “And honestly, your dad deserves it. He’s… I mean we’ve all been through a lot.” She found herself wondering if Johnny Cage thought of Raiden the way she thought of Takeda and her heart ached a little. Jin shook his head.

“You know he would land a god, wouldn’t he? I mean isn’t that just like Mr. Cage?” They still all referred to Johnny this way. It was how they’d come to know him, or had grown up around him and even though they were all adults, well into their thirties, he was always going to be Mr. Cage. Jin wondered with some humor if Raiden would also be Mr. Cage.

“Eugh don’t make me think about it,” Cassie warned. “Listen, I’m happy he’s happy, but as far as I’m concerned, even mom and dad only ever had sex once and maybe not even that.”

“What, like immaculate conception?” Jacqui supplied with a snorting giggle.

“I hope so,” responded Cassie, pulling a face. Jacqui and Jin were both happy and relieved to hear Cassie speaking so fondly of her departed mother and with no animosity toward her father’s … did one call it a crush? Could one crush on a deity? A quick glance in the direction of the dad zone would have told anyone with eyes all they needed to know.

“Mind watchin’ this for me a sec?” Johnny asked Erron as he moved away from the grill to grab a plate. The tables were all set up and everything was ready to go, except that he had forgotten a serving plate, which was typical. There was always something. “Raidude,” he added just inside the door, “can I take your hat?”

“You may.” He pulled the broad thing from his head and Johnny was thrilled to see that it was one that he had given Raiden. He disappeared inside with the precious thing and left the hatless deity to sit under the porch awning with their mortal friends.

Black was more than happy to take a gander at the meat as it finished sizzling and he took up a position behind the grill as Johnny retreated into his house. He adjusted his own hat as he moved out from under the shade and wondered if gods could feel such heat as the sun was pouring down upon them. Raiden watched him go and then turned toward the others.

“Your clans, Grandmasters, how do they fare? I regret being unable to—”

Sub-Zero held up a hand and shook his head. “We understand, Lord Raiden, that the boundaries of Earthrealm are being tested on all sides, even now, without Shao Kahn. If war is not brewing, it is a strange day.” He spared a glance toward the younger warriors with their heads once more together, whispering and laughing and clinking glasses. “But the future is in good hands.”

“Let us talk of something other than the defense of this realm,” Scorpion suggested, to the general surprise of the other three gathered about. “What?” He grunted. “Is it so strange that I might desire peace, even if only a little?”

“Uh… yeah, kinda,” Erron said, pushing the brim on his hat upward to meet Scorpion’s eyes. “Y’all had a smackdown brawl for yer weddin’, I mean… fergive my pointin’ it out, but you ain’t much of a… relaxer.”

This prompted Sub-Zero to chuckle, Scorpion to scowl, and Raiden to utter a low chuckle that echoed like thunder rolling in over the ocean. His eldritch eyes glowed with that mirth and the lines on his fine-boned face seemed to alleviate somewhat, making him appear much younger. Finally, Grandmaster Hasashi relented and he laughed as well while his husband took one of his hands and pressed smiling lips to knuckles which had only recently healed from bloody bruises. It was their way, after all.

“Cassandra Cage,” Raiden called—actually, he spoke the words, but his voice tended to carry. She sat up immediately and turned.

“What’s up, Raidad?” The name made Jacqui slap a hand over her mouth and Jin once more nearly spit his drink. She ignored them.

“I do not have a… scrunchie… for my hair,” he said. “I think Fujin has a collection at Sky Temple, but I…” He seemed almost embarrassed by his oversight. He would have asked Scorpion but the thrifty man likely only had the one that was already securing his voluminous, dark hair.

Cassie inspected her wrist, then made a dive for Jacqui’s purse, which sat near her chair. Purse digging was well within the limits of their friendship and Jacqui made no move to stop her. She might have had a few left from some other hair-based endeavor, or some that Cassie herself had left. She didn’t have nearly the volume of hair Raiden did, but she also knew he rarely put it all up.

“I got one,” said Jin, lifting one from his own stash. It was plain, black, and thick, but if it held his hair, it would work. He lifted it one one thumb and, being the expert marksman he was, shot it like a well-aimed rubber band toward Raiden. He had accounted for distance, wind direction, and arc, even compensating for the presence of the awning, and it landed neatly in the deity’s open palm.

“Thank you, Kung Jin; your tribute is greatly appreciated.” Was that humor? Had Raiden just made a joke? Jin looked to Cassie, whose blue eyes—they were so like her father’s—were wide with sudden surprise before narrowing with mirth. She barked a laugh and then sat back and began to guffaw. It really had not been that funny, but his delivery and the source was a combination with which she could not hope to compete.

One corner of Raiden’s thin-lipped mouth curled up for a moment before he turned to the task at hand. He pulled some of his hair up behind his head and began to roll it gently into a small bun before binding it with the tough, black hair tie. It was a simple thing and he appreciated this, simple and strong. There was no need for embellishment when it came to this sort of thing. Ornamentation only got in the way.

“I gotta take these off pretty quick,” said Erron with a minute glance toward the slider door which led inside. “Someone mind checkin’ on our fine host?”

Just as he spoke these words, raised voices could be heard coming through the glass and screen of the slider door. They were muffled and unintelligible, but there were distinctly two, both male and both agitated. Raiden stood and, without a word, pulled the slider door open, ducking inside.

“...voice down, dad! I’ve got fucking guests for chrissake!” Were the only words that were heard before the glass slid shut behind the deity and the people outside were left wondering. Cassie had gotten up from her seat and made her way toward the patio. Scorpion shifted in his seat and fixed her with an intense gaze (as if he had any other).

“Your grandfather, I think,” he said.

“Oh shit,” she grunted, shoulders slumping, color draining from her face, save for high on her cheeks. A spark of rage lit behind her eyes and the grandmaster actually stood to restrain her with a hand upon her upper arm, shaking his head. She met his eyes hotly and opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it. This was something Johnny would be embarrassed to deal with in his daughter’s presence, she was sure.

“A man has his honor,” said Black without looking up, “but we could use a servin’ plate.”

“I’ve ah… shit I think I left an extra one under the potato salad,” said Cassie, gathering her thoughts slowly and moving off to grab it. They would carry on, by god. She grabbed the buns on her way and returned with both them and a large platter. If the Cage family had a motto, there was no doubt in her mind that it would be “the show must go on”.

Raiden entered Johnny Cage’s spacious home and tracked the sound of raised voices to one of the guest rooms near the front of the house. He listened to the conversation, to gather a bit of what was going on, and then allowed his innate ability to divine the history of a situation to take over. This man was indeed Jonathan Carlton’s father, a man of little moral fortitude and plenty of gall, to come here at all, much less begging for money and a place to stay.

“Come on Jonathan, give your old man a friggin’ break will ya? I’m on the upswing. I’ve got a coupla girls lined up—I’ll get ‘em jobs in no time. I know what’s in now. I just need a little help gettin’ back on my feet.”

“Don’t call me that, dad; that’s not my name now and—”

“Too proud to keep the name I gave ya, huh? Yeah, well, you’re just like that cunt I married. Jeezis kid, I saw that stunt you pulled. They let you host the Oscars and you do that? I know it’s trendy now, boy, but let me tell you something, a Carlton never sucks a cock for what he’s got, you hear? What about that gorgeous broad you were married to, huh? Cassandra’s mom? What about her? You cant just get pussy and then prance around like some kinda faggot; that ain’t how shit works.”

“Dad what the fuck?” Johnny’s tone was sharp, his voice rising. He was livid. Raiden didn’t much like the tension he felt in the air. The electricity crackled around his body, mimicking how Johnny felt. He didn’t want to step in too early, wanted to allow Johnny the chance to deal with this on his own. Erron Black had been right, a man did have his honor. But there was no need to suffer fools alone.

“No goddamn son of mine—”

“Did you mishear him, Gordon Carlton?” Raiden’s frame filled the doorway, and though he stood easily and comfortably, he was still more than a little intimidating. Johnny’s head snapped up and his eyes were instantly on Raiden, the look on his face half grateful and half embarrassed.

“Fuck’s this, huh?” Johnny’s father gestured to Raiden, eyes never leaving his son. “You into exotic dick, now? Ain’t enough you gotta disgrace our name, then you get some strange from—fuck, where’re you from, Norway?”

Raiden regarded him coolly. It was certainly not the strangest question he had ever been asked and he knew from experience that men like Gordon Carlton were not interested in any answer he might give. He was only snapping at Johnny to make a point. It was a point poorly made, but he was clinging hard to it.

Noting his features, the thunder god decided that the man had possibly once been handsome. He and Johnny had the same eyes, but his hair, which was missing in that tonsured way of old men, still held traces of the red it had been. He wasn’t overweight, but his shape had hardly held whatever good looks it might once have had.

“You prolly got a library of freaks out back, don’tcha? You gunna expose my fuckin’ granddaughter to this shit?”

Johnny bristled. “The moral high ground, dad, really? Holy shit you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He was beside himself with indignation, righteous or otherwise, and looked like he wanted to pound his father with his bare fists until the man was pulp. Raiden crossed big arms over his chest.

“It is clear you are not welcome here, Gordon Carlton. Johnny Cage has been more than polite.” The implication was, naturally, that Raiden would not be.

“So you got your… fetish gear on in front o’ god an’ everyone,” snarled Johnny’s father, sweat glistening on his upper lip, veins standing out on neck and head. “And you’re gunna sit here and tell me I can’t be in my own son’s house? No way. No fuckin’ way. You gunna let him talk to me that way?”

“He is not your son,” Raiden said simply. “You are Gordon Carlton and he is Johnny Cage.” Of course he knew even humans in the same family had different names, but the point was made. Carlton’s face went sheet white and then beat red, and then purple. “If you had a son, I would pity him. But I do not pity this man.”

Johnny moved quickly between his father and Raiden. “Dad, just leave, okay? Leave and I’ll pretend this shit never happened. I dunno if you’re drunk or high, but you’ve gotta get your shit together and you can’t do it here.” He knew he owed the man no explanation, but something about saying it aloud was therapeutic. “I’m not giving you any money, either, so don’t start that. Just go. I don’t want Cassie to see you this way.” In truth, he did not want Cassie to see the man ever. Continued estrangement was a better way, for everyone.

“I’ve built something valuable here,” Johnny continued, trying to make his father understand and knowing at some level that he never would, that the man did not want to understand. He wanted what he felt he was owed and for whatever sick status quo that had crawled into his mind to be maintained. “I’ve got a life, dad, a real one—this isn’t some tinsel town bullshit show, okay? This isn’t temporary. This… it’s me and I wish I could say I’m sorry you don’t get it, but that’s… it’s on you.”

His father blanched, as if unable to believe his son would dare speak to him that way. Never mind that Johnny was in his late fifties. That was irrelevant. Never mind that he had made it on his own, without his leech of a father. He whirled on Raiden.

“Your kind fucking did this to my kid. I fucking raised him to be a—a… well fuck, somethin’ better’n a goddamn f—”

“I advise holding your tongue,” said Raiden mildly, but with enough force that Gordon Carlton’s mouth stopped moving mid-stride. “If Johnny Cage chooses to identify himself with that word, it is his decision. You have no claim over it and it is rude to use in polite company which this was until you arrived. Take your leave, mortal.”

His eyes flashed, then, in a way that could not be mistaken for any special effect or strange set of contact lenses. The electricity dancing over his upper body was visible now, arcing this way and that, snapping at anything that might ground it. He hadn’t singed anything, but he could and this display made that very clear.

“What the fuck is this shit—” Gordon Carlton’s gaze locked with Raiden’s the way a deer’s will lock with headlights on a highway. He could not look away. There was awe on his face, and a strange rapture that almost brought back the good looks of his youth. But the mouth soon twisted and the brows knitted as he stormed forward, moving to shove past Raiden.

Raiden stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder and looked down at him. “You have trespassed in my realm, foolish mortal. Do not make a habit of this. Johnny Cage may forgive you, but I will not—I do not. This ground is sacred and you profane it with your filth.

“You gave up your family long ago and now you are alone. That is your burden to bear, not his. You created these circumstances, as every mortal has the ability to do. Johnny Cage has created his own circumstances and is now reaping the benefits of his life’s work.

“This home is not yours. It is the fruit of his labor and as he has invited me into it and his life, I have claimed it as my own.” Raiden explained these things as if speaking to a particularly dull child, slowly and with a firm voice, so that he would be understood. “Cassandra Cage is not your granddaughter, but she is my daughter and I will protect her from your ilk. Likewise, Johnny Cage is no son of yours—in that, you were correct. He is, however, a man beloved of me and I am not a being someone like you will ever possess the power to cross.”

When he released Johnny’s father’s arm, it was with a finality that promised extreme prejudice if ever that touch was to be felt again. Gordon Carlton seemed to have shrunken and he shuffled toward the door, his jaw working, hands knotted into hard fists. If he said something as he exited Johnny’s home, Johnny did not catch it and if Raiden did, he was not sharing.

Johnny locked the door behind him and then leaned heavily against it. “You… mean that, Raiden? Partners?”

“It was perhaps a bit forward of me,” Raiden admitted, shrugging, great shoulders rising and falling. Johnny shook his head.

“Nah, I think it was just right. It’s what he needed to hear. You put the fear of… well you in ‘im.”

Raiden nodded. “I did.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Johnny Cage.”

#cc#cw#prevented timeline#faraday cage#johnny cage#raiden#cassie cage#jacqui briggs#kung jin#sub-zero#scorpion#thermodynamic equilibrium#subscorp #honor among thieves #erronjin #jacqueda mention! #johnny x raiden #literally I only know faraday cage for this one like is there another ship name? idgaf this one's gr8

Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

Saya yakin Anda pasti sudah sama mengetahui mengenai web site yang bernama Gamehouse.com.  Ya, Gamehouse.com adalah salah satu situs yang menyajikan bermacam permainan atau yang biasa disebut Game. Di sana Anda dapat menemukan ratusan game yang bagus dan seru, namun juga tidak terlalu rumit, sehingga cocok untuk kalangan keluarga. Di sana juga Anda dapat mendownload semua game atau dapat juga Anda download hanya beberapa game saja yang mungkin anda suka. 


Namun meskipun semua game di sana dapat Anda download, sayangnya game-game dari  situs ini hanya versi trial dan hanya bisa dimainkan untuk waktu 1 jam saja, setelahnya anda harus membeli serial numbernya. SebelumAnda terlanjur membeli serial number game-game tersebut, maka ada baiknya Anda memanfatkan saja yang sudah tersedia secara gratis tanpa harus membeli. Di bawah ini adalah daftar serial number game house lengkap dari A-Z yang ada di Gamehouse.comtermasuk game-game terbarunya, sehingga Anda bisa memiliki versi full versionnya, sebagai berikut:


0-9
7 Wonders

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code:  DQX9WE69MLMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: 7Wonders

Licence Code: CDJEQRHMVMMVDDS

Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: WDX78FWEDFJDBCD

7 Wonders II

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: QRJNBCXS97MAJADA

10 Talismans

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: T8G8VFSMGPMAJAD


A

Abundante!

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: QXVVV9CYFEMAJAD

Acropolis

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: MKMABNHFPGMAJAD

Academy of Magic

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: DEWWCNRDDSMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: AcademyofMagic

Licence Code: BYXCLMLF9SFBCNA

Adventure Ball

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: QFVTAMFWLYMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AdventureBall

Licence Code: BNJP6DEDXJFDNMN

Adventure Inlay

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: PHWLGNBQMAMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: AdventureInlay

Licence Cod : DD76BGJWQRMDVAB

Adventure Inlay – Safari Edition

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: YMCCXKEPEEMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AdventurInlaySafari

Licence Code: RVDCWHTSWYJAMNJ

Air Strike 3D

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: DYKEGHX8YBMAJAD

Alice Greenfingers

Licence Name : Pikachu

Licence Code : BNDY7NSVQEMAJAD

Alien Sky

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: PJBAY7ATDQMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: AlienSky

Licence Code: WLH66PW9N9FSJJJ

Aloha Solitaire

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: JJDWWFKYQ6MAJAD

Aloha Tripeaks

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: E86ECNEWGWMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AlohaTriPeaks

Licence Code: X8RYRBG8CVFACNF

Amazing Adventures the Lost Tomb

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: 8YQESPYPYVMAJAD

Ancient Tri Jong

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: J7LVSECGVTMAJAD

Ancient Tripeaks

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: EAM7C6YNC7MAJAD

Or

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: 9MSFJX8Q8MMNFNA

Ancient Tripeaks 2

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: ASYPPJ9ANTMAJAD

Around the World in 80 Days
Licence Name: Asu Shrestha
Licence Code: DSSM9LTXSTFMNSM
Astrobatics

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: LFRR6NBGJ8MNFNA

Or

Licence Name: Astrobatics

Licence Code: DLJPJPNPKSFMAMJ

Atlantis Quest

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: VWLDEY9KCEMAJAD

Atomaders

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: J87GTW6WNPMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Atomaders

Licence Code: KMQDXQSHRPFMDMV

Aqua Park

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: SFAR67M8NJMAJAD

Azkend

Licence Name: Gamehousez

Licence Code: PHLPMBDACFFJSSM

Aztec Ball

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: LFPYDWPQGMMAJAD


B

Babel Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: 789WWXKPADMAJAD

BabySitting Mania

Licence Name: Gamehousez

Licence Code: W8CGS9CVPBFJSSM

Bejeweled 2

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: Q69N8SYAVSMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Bejeweled2

Licence Code: P8W7GKHRWSFDFVN

Belle‘s Beauty Boutique

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: LL7XTH7MDAMAJAD

Bewitched

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: EVG9DHQXNVMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: Bewitched

Licence Code: XKGQCATH6WFSVJM

Big City Adventure Sydney

Licence Name: Snape39

Licence Code: 8RLMRNFPV6SBBVD
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: TJF8J-RWNKP-SMNSC

Big City Adventure San Francisco

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: MP6BBV9VFPMAJAD

Big Island Blends

Licence Name: John Kosinsky

Licence Code: KL8QC-FNAER-MDAMV

Big Kahuna Reef

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: VH7CJSLNENMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: BigKahunaReef

Licence Code: JS9EAT7P78FSVAC

Big Kahuna Words

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: HKG7ST9NLTMAJAD

Blood Tiles

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: F6LFGYMX7CMAJAD 
Bonnie’s Bookstore Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: A8JQXGSWWGMAJAD

Bookworm Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: CPBJ7MAT9DMAJAD

Bookworm Adventures Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: S9R7QLNBPVMAJAD
Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny

Licence Code: AFJVEKRQGTJDBCD

Bounce Out Blitz!

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: 6EXPWQHFJTMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: BounceOutBlitz

Licence Code: HPDMGTTMDDMFMMB

Bricks of Atlantis

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: RBNXXEMJWYMAJAD

Build-a-lot

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: ESFHQDVBQMMAJAD
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: SCFHJ-WGNBR-SMNSC

Build-a-lot 2 town on the year!

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: KPYDV-9ACAB-SMNSC

Bunny Bounce Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: FGW99H6HGYMAJAD

Burger Island

Licence Name: Alan Barker

Licence Code: NYBSY-KTMMG-FSSAN

Burger Rush

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: SXKHTH7YSPMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: BurgerRush

Licence Code: HRNCEK9DMVFJMJV

Burger Shop

Licence Name: BurgerShop

Licence Code: CA7GTTLBTDFJMJB
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: 9VGVN-Q9EVN-SMNSC


C

Cafe Mahjong

Licence Name: Jed Stephen

Licence Code: FLN69-SFEYH-MCCCS

Cake Mania

Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BNRWPRGYGVMAJAD

Cake Mania 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: JYCTHTQ9QJMAJAD

Cannon Blast!
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BE8PTJKNVTMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: 8SRGRCEMDQFDMBC

Captain Bubble Beard ‘s Treasure
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: DJCM9CMPELMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: LVTDNH7KEMJDBCD

Caramba Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: VQSANFJWQ8MAJAD

Caribbean MahJong
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: TSGLN7RCHJMAJAD

Casino Island To Go
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: GFFQJX68Q7MNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: 8CLLHWG7P8JDBCD
Cate West: The Vanishing
Licence Name: Jirix
Licence Code: JP7LN-HKHQW-SMNSC

Chainz
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: MTJHEEAEWWMNFNA

Chainz 2 Relinked
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: QP6LBPTV6QMNFNA

Chameleon Gems
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: HJCNBKAGB7MAJAD 
Charm Solitaire
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: QQG89H7CXSMNFNA

Charm Tale
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: SQYBLXPFF9MNFNA

Charma
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: PJA8HM69BRMAJAD

Chicktionary
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BW6K7D88KGMAJAD

Chocolatier
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: GWF7R8NLXCMAJAD

Chocolatier 2
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: 9QM8C7WF6HFJSSM

Chocolatier 2 – Secret Ingredients
Licence Name: Super771
Licence Code: KLXVN6EHJSSVNAV

Chuzzle Deluxe
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XKMT8ABWHDMNFNA

Collapse! Crunch
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: AAKTMDFTTBMNFNA

Combo Chaos!
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XM6QWYA97AMAJAD

Cosmic Bugs
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: AWRBHSRKLCMNFNA

Cosmic Stacker
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licenec Code: Y9QQBH9NQEMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: P68VCSDKQTJDBCD

Cradle of Rome
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: E6XR6DXHEKMAJAD

Cradle of Persia
License name: Pikachu
License code: J6TFT6AHQ6MAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: TPFMQHLDSJFJSSM

Crystal Path
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XKGVCRM7GBMNFNA

Cubis Gold 2
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RLVDQ8P6LPMNFNA


D

Da Vinci ‘s Secret
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: WA8BHWMSYLMAJAD

Delicious Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: TV9CKRTKNBMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: EGMPGWDWW6JDBCD

Delicious 2 deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: P7SQYDLGDBMAJAD

Diamond Detective
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: AL7ES9FSAYMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: LJEEYY9ED8JDBCD

Digby’s Donuts
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: EVLQHY9NXVMNFNA

Diner Dash
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: KV8AJ6DLXYMNFNA

Diner Dash 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CLHTVHTECJMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: PPLMPJP6S9JDBCD

Diner Dash Flo on The Go
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: NJJH9TP9JEMAJAD

Diner Dash Hometown Hero
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XMFKT7PKTYMAJAD

Dream Chronicles
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XDAH6TT8NPMAJAD


E

Emerald Tale
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CFB6MTYDLWMAJAD


F

Fab Fashion
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 6H76XCRJ87MAJAD 
Fairy Godmother Tycoon
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: N6JQ9VBNQLMAJAD

Fairy Treasure
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: KQFRW8MCK9MAJAD

Family Feud
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: HYHHTGQ898MAJAD 
Farm Frenzy
Licence Name: Jirix
Licence: A6ALJ-JABPY-SMNSC

Or
Licence Name: Super771
Licence Code : HQBFMGRYGMSVNAV

Fashion Boutique v1.0.0.164
Licence Name : FashionBoutique
Licence Code : AP9HSKBKDXVVABN

Fashion Craze
Licence Name: mini gamespc
Registration Keys: 0000JJ-PA838P-MQV8TN-TB9GW1-8BRTE6

Fashion Solitaire
Licence Name: FashionSolitaire
Licence Code: 6WCJ8RYCPMFDNDF 
Feeding Frenzy
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 786V7PNR8VMNFNA

Feeding Frenzy 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FG9JQWCWA8MAJAD
Or
Licence Name: fondazione
Licence Code : THWJJ8JJS6FVVDA

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: DJHPLGAQWHJDBCD

Fiber Twig
Licence Name: Jeff Heath
Licence Code: GHGAR-MJGYE-FFVBN

Five Card Deluxe
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 9AKJV7PBYQMNFNA

Flip or Flop Home Edition
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: YA9JVBFJNMMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: BWGSYD7WVAJDBCD

Flip Words
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RSJLVAXYM7MNFNA

Flower Shop: Big City Break
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: JVKV7LDQ8JMAJAD

Flying Leo
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: VSSNQ6PEQPMNFNA

Fortune Tiles Gold
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XHGRYWHW6JMNFNA

Fresco Wizard
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: Q9YQ7NATMDMNFNA
Froggy Castle 2 Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 9Y8CBTAM6LMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: SGS9XSGTEJJDBCD
Funkiball Adventure
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RKBVE8KQPAMNFNA


G

G.H.O.S.T Hunters: The Haunting of Majesty Manor
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 6SRD89GKKKMAJAD

Gamehouse Sudoku
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FM7JADDQ7LMAJAD

Garden Dreams
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CKFFPDCJEJMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: L96BSRCPHCJDBCD

Garden Defense
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: MRW7S96FBBFJSSM

Gearz
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: L7QRWHPTDHMNFNA 
Gem Shop
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: Q7AAASAND6MNFNA

Gemsweeper
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: E6L6QCW8PKMAJAD

Glyph
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FHSC6WGFAXMAJAD

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Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

The Story of My Life. Parts I & II by Helen Keller, 1880-1968; Part III from the letters and reports of Anne Mansfield Sullivan, ca.1867-1936; Edited by John Albert Macy. New York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1905.

PART I
THE STORY OF MY LIFE

THE STORY OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER I

IT is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life. I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.

The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on the subject of their education–rather a singular coincidence; though it is true that there is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.

My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase supplies for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of the letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of these trips.

My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides, Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to Robert E. Lee.

My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army, and my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger. Her grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E. Goodhue, and lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, for many years. Their son, Charles Adams, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and moved to Helena, Arkansas. When the Civil War broke out, he fought on the side of the South and became a brigadier-general. He married Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the same family of Everetts as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war was over the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.

I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds and bees.

one-story house with multiple chimneys and portico
Photograph by Collins
"IVY GREEN," THE KELLER HOMESTEAD
(The small house on the right is where Helen Keller was born.)

The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from our little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.

Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell, would find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden! Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses–they were loveliest of all. Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heart-satisfying roses as the climbing roses of my southern home. They used to hang in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning, washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.

The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always does. There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me. The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named, every one was emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of Mildred Campbell, an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined to take any further part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem by giving it as her wish that I should be called after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church my father lost the name on the way, very naturally, since it was one in which he had declined to have a part. When the minister asked him for it, he just remembered that it had been decided to call me after my grandmother, and he gave her name as Helen Adams.

I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of an eager, self-asserting disposition. Everything that I saw other people do I insisted upon imitating. At six months I could pipe out "How d'ye," and one day I attracted every one's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite plainly. Even after my illness I remembered one of the words I had learned in these early months. It was the word "water," and I continued to make some sound for that word after all other speech was lost. I ceased making the sound "wah-wah" only when I learned to spell the word.

They tell me I walked the day I was a year old. My mother had just taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down and cried for her to take me up in her arms.

These happy days did not last long. One brief spring, musical with the song of robin and mocking-bird, one summer rich in fruit and roses, one autumn of gold and crimson sped by and left their gifts at the feet of an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February, came the illness which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a new-born baby. They called it acute congestion of the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one morning, however, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no one, not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.

I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to soothe me in my waking hours of fret and pain, and the agony and bewilderment with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and turned my eyes, so dry and hot, to the wall, away from the once-loved light, which came to me dim and yet more dim each day. But, except for these fleetings memories, if, indeed, they be memories, it all seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually I got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me and forgot that it had ever been different, until she came–my teacher–who was to set my spirit free. But during the first nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."

CHAPTER II

I CANNOT recall what happened during the first months after my illness. I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to her dress as she went about her household duties. My hands felt every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned to know many things. Soon I felt the need of some communication with others and began to make crude signs. A shake of the head meant "No" and a nod, "Yes," a pull meant "Come" and a push, "Go." Was it bread that I wanted? Then I would imitate the acts of cutting the slices and buttering them. If I wanted my mother to make ice-cream for dinner I made the sign for working the freezer and shivered, indicating cold. My mother, moreover, succeeded in making me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wished me to bring her something, and I would run upstairs or anywhere else she indicated. Indeed, I owe to her loving wisdom all that was bright and good in my long night.

I understood a good deal of what was going on about me. At five I learned to fold and put away the clean clothes when they were brought in from the laundry, and I distinguished my own from the rest. I knew by the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out, and I invariably begged to go with them. I was always sent for when there was company, and when the guests took their leave, I waved my hand to them, I think with a vague remembrance of the meaning of the gesture. One day some gentlemen called on my mother, and I felt the shutting of the front door and other sounds that indicated their arrival. On a sudden thought I ran upstairs before any one could stop me, to put on my idea of a company dress. Standing before the mirror, as I had seen others do, I anointed mine head with oil and covered my face thickly with powder. Then I pinned a veil over my head so that it covered my face and fell in folds down to my shoulders, and tied an enormous bustle round my small waist, so that it dangled behind, almost meeting the hem of my skirt. Thus attired I went down to help entertain the company.

I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other people; but I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that my mother and my friends did not use signs as I did when they wanted anything done, but talked with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two persons who were conversing and touched their lips. I could not understand, and was vexed. I moved my lips and gesticulated frantically without result. This made me so angry at times that I kicked and screamed until I was exhausted.

I think I knew when I was naughty, for I knew that it hurt Ella, my nurse, to kick her, and when my fit of temper was over I had a feeling akin to regret. But I cannot remember any instance in which this feeling prevented me from repeating the naughtiness when I failed to get what I wanted.

In those days a little coloured girl, Martha Washington, the child of our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were my constant companions. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished. It pleased me to domineer over her, and she generally submitted to my tyranny rather than risk a hand-to-hand encounter. I was strong, active, indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always had my own way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, kneading dough balls, helping make ice-cream, grinding coffee, quarreling over the cake-bowl, and feeding the hens and turkeys that swarmed about the kitchen steps. Many of them were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it. Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook the turkey.

The guinea-fowl likes to hide her nest in out-of-the-way places, and it was one of my greatest delights to hunt for the eggs in the long grass. I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to go egg-hunting, but I would double my hands and put them on the ground, which meant something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were fortunate enough to find a nest I never allowed her to carry the eggs home, making her understand by emphatic signs that she might fall and break them.

The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me. The milkers would let me keep my hands on the cows while they milked, and I often got well switched by the cow for my curiosity.

The making ready for Christmas was always a delight to me. Of course I did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were sadly in the way, but that did not interfere with our pleasure in the least. They allowed us to grind the spices, pick over the raisins and lick the stirring spoons. I hung my stocking because the others did; I cannot remember, however, that the ceremony interested me especially, nor did my curiosity cause me to wake before daylight to look for my gifts.

Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two little children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July afternoon. One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, the other two or three years older. The younger child was blind–that was I–and the other was Martha Washington. We were busy cutting out paper dolls; but we soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our shoestrings and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were within reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn about is fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.

Belle, our dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to sleep by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard to teach her my sign language, but she was dull and inattentive. She sometimes started and quivered with excitement, then she became perfectly rigid, as dogs do when they point a bird. I did not then know why Belle acted in this way; but I knew she was not doing as I wished. This vexed me and the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch herself lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to the opposite side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and disappointed, went off in search of Martha.

Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory, isolated, but clear and distinct, making the sense of that silent, aimless, dayless life all the more intense.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it out to dry before the fire which was flickering on the sitting-room hearth. The apron did not dry quickly enough to suit me, so I drew nearer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The fire leaped into life; the flames encircled me so that in a moment my clothes were blazing. I made a terrified noise that brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire. Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.

About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of the house. She kept pounding on the door, while I sat outside on the porch steps and laughed with glee as I felt the jar of the pounding. This most naughty prank of mine convinced my parents that I must be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity to lock her in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother made me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid the key under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to tell where the key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and take Miss Sullivan out through the window–much to my delight. Months after I produced the key.

When I was about five years old we moved from the little vine-covered house to a large new one. The family consisted of my father and mother, two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a little sister, Mildred. My earliest distinct recollection of my father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he was doing. I imitated this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking they might help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my father edited one of them.

My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home, seldom leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his family he loved his dogs and gun. His hospitality was great, almost to a fault, and he seldom came home without bringing a guest. His special pride was the big garden where, it was said, he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county; and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever pleased me.

He was a famous story-teller; after I had acquired language he used to spell clumsily into my hand his cleverest anecdotes, and nothing pleased him more than to have me repeat them at an opportune moment.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He had had a short illness, there had been a brief time of acute suffering, then all was over. This was my first great sorrow–my first personal experience with death.

How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it almost seems indelicate to speak of her.

For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I knew that I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the thought filled me with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap constantly, where I used to sit, and seemed to take up all her care and time. One day something happened which seemed to me to be adding insult to injury.

At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I afterward named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my outbursts of temper and of affection, so that she became much the worse for wear. I had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened and shut their eyes; yet I never loved one of them as I loved poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I often spent an hour or more rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle with the most jealous care; but once I discovered my little sister sleeping peacefully in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of one to whom as yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon the cradle and overturned it, and the baby might have been killed had my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we walk in the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the tender affections that grow out of endearing words and actions and companionship. But afterward, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew into each other's hearts, so that we were content to go hand-in-hand wherever caprice led us, although she could not understand my finger language, nor I her childish prattle.

CHAPTER III

MEANWHILE the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less adequate, and my failures to make myself understood were invariably followed by outbursts of passion. I felt as if invisible hands were holding me, and I made frantic efforts to free myself. I struggled–not that struggling helped matters, but the spirit of resistance was strong within me; I generally broke down in tears and physical exhaustion. If my mother happened to be near I crept into her arms, too miserable even to remember the cause of the tempest. After awhile the need of some means of communication became so urgent that these outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.

My parents were deeply grieved and perplexed. We lived a long way from any school for the blind or the deaf, and it seemed unlikely that any one would come to such an out-of-the-way place as Tuscumbia to teach a child who was both deaf and blind. Indeed, my friends and relatives sometimes doubted whether I could be taught. My mother's only ray of hope came from Dickens's "American Notes." She had read his account of Laura Bridgman, and remembered vaguely that she was deaf and blind, yet had been educated. But she also remembered with a hopeless pang that Dr. Howe, who had discovered the way to teach the deaf and blind, had been dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and if they had not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in Alabama to receive the benefit of them?

When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent oculist in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that had seemed hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to Baltimore to see if anything could be done for my eyes.

The journey, which I remember well, was very pleasant. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father made holes in these so that I could string them, and for a long time they kept me happy and contented. The conductor, too, was kind. Often when he went his rounds I clung to his coat tails while he collected and punched the tickets. His punch, with which he let me play, was a delightful toy. Curled up in a corner of the seat I amused myself for hours making funny little holes in bits of cardboard.

My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical, shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears or eyes–nothing that even the imagination of a child could convert into a face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects put together. I pointed this out to everybody with provoking persistency, but no one seemed equal to the task of providing the doll with eyes. A bright idea, however, shot into my mind, and the problem was solved. I tumbled off the seat and searched under it until I found my aunt's cape, which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two beads off and indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on doll. She raised my hand to her eyes in a questioning way, and I nodded energetically. The beads were sewed in the right place and I could not contain myself for joy; but immediately I lost all interest in the doll. During the whole trip I did not have one fit of temper, there were so many things to keep my mind and fingers busy.

When we arrived in Baltimore, Dr. Chisholm received us kindly: but he could do nothing. He said, however, that I could be educated, and advised my father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, of Washington, who would be able to give him information about schools and teachers of deaf or blind children. Acting on the doctor's advice, we went immediately to Washington to see Dr. Bell, my father with a sad heart and many misgivings, I wholly unconscious of his anguish, finding pleasure in the excitement of moving from place to place. Child as I was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr. Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my education. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that a teacher had been found. This was in the summer of 1886. But Miss Sullivan did not arrive until the following March.

Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love and light and vision."

CHAPTER IV

THE most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.

I felt approaching footsteps. I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all things else, to love me.

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pin, hat, cup and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment of tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.

profile view of child with ringlets
Photograph by Deane, 1887
HELEN KELLER AT THE AGE OF SEVEN

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten–a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away. 1

I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.

I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them–words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of the eventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

CHAPTER V

I RECALL many incidents of the summer of 1887 that followed my soul's sudden awakening. I did nothing but explore with my hands and learn the name of every object that I touched; and the more I handled things and learned their names and uses, the more joyous and confident grew my sense of kinship with the rest of the world.

When the time of daisies and buttercups came Miss Sullivan took me by the hand across the fields, where men were preparing the earth for the seed, to the banks of the Tennessee River, and there, sitting on the warm grass, I had my first lessons in the beneficence of nature. I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter. As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers."

But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it.

Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree.

There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson–that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws."

After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree. The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house. "What is it?" I asked, and the next minute I recognized the odour of the mimosa blossoms. I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful, so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams.

CHAPTER VI

I HAD now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.

At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain.

I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, "love." This was before I knew many words. I had found a few early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen."

"What is love?" I asked.

She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it.

I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"

"No," said my teacher.

Again I thought. The warm sun was shining on us.

"Is this not love?" I asked, pointing in the direction from which the heat came. "Is this not love?"

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love.

A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups–two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think."

In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea.

For a long time I was still–I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour.

Again, I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"

"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out," she replied. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play."

The beautiful truth burst upon my mind–I felt that there were invisible lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others.

From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to keep up my end of the dialogue.

This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time.

The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says.

child in white dress on upholstered sofa with dog
Photograph by Deane, 1877
HELEN KELLER AND JUMBO

CHAPTER VII

THE next important step in my education was learning to read.

As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence out of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.

One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time. Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences.

From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later.

For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.

I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught.

We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods–the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. "The loveliness of things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, or buzz, or sing, or bloom, had a part in my education–noisy- throated frogs, katydids and crickets held in my hand until, forgetting their embarrassment, they trilled their reedy note, little downy chickens and wild-flowers, the dogwood blossoms, meadow-violets and budding fruit trees. I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth–ah me! how well I remember the spicy, clovery smell of his breath!

Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without.

Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!

Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumble-down lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole.

Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kindergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates.

In this same leisurely manner I studied zoölogy and botany.

Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils–tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age. For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof.

Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." After I had learned a great many interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the sea–how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the chalk-hills of many a land–my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus," and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is symbolical of the development of the mind. Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.

Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.

Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers. One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song.

Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.

Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks.

My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her–there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.

CHAPTER VIII

THE first Christmas after Miss Sullivan came to Tuscumbia was a great event. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set of lessons could have done. Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached.

On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered around the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children. In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning.

That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas!" I found surprises, not in the stocking only, but on the table, on all the chairs, at the door, on the very window-sill; indeed, I could hardly walk without stumbling on a bit of Christmas wrapped up in tissue paper. But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed.

Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing.

One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again.

CHAPTER IX

THE next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, in May, 1888. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston. How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and woods, and the crowds of laughing negroes at the stations, who waved to the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls through the car. On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes. Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep.

As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt–the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath. This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully.

When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here.

We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little blind children. It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind. I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship.

One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by. I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation.

While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.

The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.

How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful."

Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "The City of Kind Hearts."

CHAPTER X

JUST before the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, it was arranged that my teacher and I should spend our vacation at Brewster, on Cape Cod, with our dear friend, Mrs. Hopkins. I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea.

My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland, and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized.

No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water. I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grab some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. It was fearful! The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element–life, air, warmth, and love. At last, however, the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water?"

After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite covered me. I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea!

I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day, Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the chilly water. It was a great horseshoe crab–the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure. But the next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea.

CHAPTER XI

IN the Autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects which crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I had met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous symphony leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose.

I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood–an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places, the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day.

Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each 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, and 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 roundabout 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 upon 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 mêlée. 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 though 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. 2 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 on 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 thought 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 me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face, and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has never heard–to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone of love, no song of bird, no strain of music ever pierces the stillness–can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones, trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight I felt when at my call Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.

But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time. I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius, untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends; in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds in a thousand ways. Even now, she calls my attention every day to mispronounced words.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In reading my teacher's lips, I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished, spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I could not be despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.

Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet, which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. I place my hand on the hand of the speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter any more than you see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell rapidly–about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere, spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.

When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey, talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood the whole family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaah's prophecy had been fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE winter of 1892 was darkened by one cloud in my childhood's bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, anxiety, and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institute for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts connected with this episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate. 3

I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have been read to me and which I must have unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate. Now, if words and images came to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.

When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.

The question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."

Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King" and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King" called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories we so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was–a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King;" but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.

At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news.

I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that ringed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the gaiety of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.

The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.

Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave little girl and they were proud of me.

As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept. I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and all of the bitterness of those sad days.

Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a short time before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was probably among them.

The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.

When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost Fairies" probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else. But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.

In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present time. Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time, when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to make sure that I had not read them in a book. Had it not been for the persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given up trying to write altogether.

I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer"–an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.

This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at writing. In a composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions, with variations, from sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr. Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and animated language.

Those early compositions were mental gymnastics. I was learning, as all young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation, to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it. The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging through every byway of the mind.

I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind. Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends–pretty bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not willing to acknowledge defeat.

"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost King" trammel my efforts.

So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.

Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says, thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the others did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote with those who were favourable to me.

But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he evidently retracted his favourable judgment, why I do not know. Nor did I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too excited to notice anything, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.

I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me, without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.

CHAPTER XV

THE summer and winter following the "Frost King" incident I spent with my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything had budded and blossomed. I was happy. "The Frost King" was forgotten.

When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn, and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour at the end of the garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a sketch of my life–a year after I had written "The Frost King."

I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to the "Frost King"; and often when an idea flashed out in the course of conversation I would spell softly to her, "I am not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in every way she could think of; but the terrible experience I had passed through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write for the Youth's Companion a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed.

I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who knew that if I persevered, I should find my mental foothold again and get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the "Frost King" episode, I had lived the unconscious life of a little child; now my thoughts were turned inward, and I beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and with a truer knowledge of life.

The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly interrupted and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible for me to give a connected account of them.

We went to Niagara in March, 1893. It is difficult to describe my emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.

It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking: "What does this beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up the beach or hear their roar. What do they mean to you?" In the most evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or goodness.

During the summer of 1893, Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I recall with unmixed delight those days when a thousand childish fancies became beautiful realities. Every day in imagination I made a trip around the world, and I saw many wonders from the uttermost parts of the earth–marvels of invention, treasures of industry and skill and all the activities of human life actually passed under my finger tips.

I liked to visit the Midway Plaisance. It seemed like the "Arabian Nights," it was crammed so full of novelty and interest. Here was the India of my books in the curious bazaar with its Shivas and elephant-gods; there was the land of the Pyramids concentrated in a model Cairo with its mosques and its long processions of camels; yonder were the lagoons of Venice, where we sailed every evening when the city and the fountains were illuminated. I also went on board a Viking ship which lay a short distance from the little craft. I had been on a man-of-war before, in Boston, and it interested me to see, on this Viking ship, how the seaman was once all in all–how he sailed and took storm and calm alike with undaunted heart, and gave chase to whosoever reechoed his cry, "We are of the sea!" and fought with brains and sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrust into the background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is to-day. So it always is–"man only is interesting to man."

At a little distance from this ship there was a model of the Santa Maria, which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and the desk with an hourglass on it. This small instrument impressed me most because it made me think how weary the heroic navigator must have felt as he saw the sand dropping grain by grain while desperate men were plotting against his life.

Mr. Higinbotham, President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch the exhibits, and with an eagerness as insatiable as that with which Pizarro seized the treasures of Peru, I took in the glories of the Fair with my fingers. It was a sort of tangible kaleidoscope, this white city of the West. Everything fascinated me, especially the French bronzes. They were so lifelike, I thought they were angel visions which the artist had caught and bound in earthly forms.

At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit, I learned much about the process of mining diamonds. Whenever it was possible, I touched the machinery while it was in motion, so as to get a clearer idea how the stones were weighed, cut, and polished. I searched in the washings for a diamond and found it myself–the only true diamond, they said, that was ever found in the United States.

Dr. Bell went everywhere with us and in his own delightful way described to me the objects of greatest interest. In the electrical building we examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs, and other inventions, and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires that mock space and outrun time, and, like Prometheus, to draw fire from the sky. We also visited the anthropological department, and I was much interested in the relics of ancient Mexico, in the rude stone implements that are so often the only record of an age–the simple monuments of nature's unlettered children (so I thought as I fingered them) that seem bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in dust away–and in the Egyptian mummies, which I shrank from touching. From these relics I learned more about the progress of man than I have heard or read since.

woman in long skirt holding hand of bearded man in suit
Photograph by Marshall, 1902
MISS KELLER AND DR. ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL

All these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary, and in the three weeks I spent at the Fair I took a long leap from the little child's interest in fairy tales and toys to the appreciation of the real and the earnest in the workaday world.

CHAPTER XVI

BEFORE October, 1893, I had studied various subjects by myself in a more or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the United States. I had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already knew some French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short exercises, using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without aid, to master the French pronunciation, as I found all the letters and sounds described in the book. Of course this was tasking slender powers for great ends; but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure La Fontaine's, "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" and passages from "Athalie."

I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favourite poets, which I had committed to memory; she corrected my pronunciation and helped me to phrase and inflect. It was not, however, until October, 1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit to the World's Fair, that I began to have lessons in special subjects at fixed hours.

Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, was a good Latin scholar; it was arranged that I should study under him. I remember him as man of rare, sweet nature and of wide experience. He taught me Latin grammar principally; but he often helped me in arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. Mr. Irons also read with me Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I had read many books before, but never from a critical point of view. I learned for the first time to know an author, to recognize his style as I recognize the clasp of a friend's hand.

At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analyzing every word I came across–noun, genitive, singular, feminine–when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might just as well describe my pet in order to know it–order, vertebrate; division, quadruped; class, mammalia; genus, felinus; species, cat; individual, Tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject, I became more interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused myself by reading Latin passages, picking up words I understood and trying to make sense. I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with–ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at my lessons, spelling into my hand whatever Mr. Irons said, and looking up new words for me. I was just beginning to read Caesar's "Gallic War" when I went to my home in Alabama.

CHAPTER XVII

IN the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. There it was arranged that I should go to the Wright-Humason School for the Deaf in New York City. I went there in October, 1894, accompanied by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen especially for the purpose of obtaining the highest advantages in vocal culture and training in lip-reading. In addition to my work in these subjects, I studied, during the two years I was in the school, arithmetic, physical geography, French and German.

Miss Reamy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet, and after I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in German whenever we had a chance, and in a few months I could understand almost everything she said. Before the end of the first year I read "Wilhelm Tell" with the greatest delight. Indeed, I think I made more progress in German than in any of my other studies. I found French much more difficult. I studied it with Madame Olivier, a French lady who did not know the manual alphabet, and who was obliged to give her instruction orally. I could not read her lips easily; so my progress was much slower than in German. I managed, however, to read "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" again. It was very amusing but I did not like it nearly so well as "Wilhelm Tell."

My progress in lip-reading and speech was not what my teachers and I had hoped and expected it would be. It was my ambition to speak like other people, and my teachers believed that this could be accomplished; but, although we worked hard and faithfully, yet we did not quite reach our goal. I suppose we aimed too high, and disappointment was therefore inevitable. I still regarded arithmetic as a system of pitfalls. I hung about the dangerous frontier of "guess," avoiding with infinite trouble to myself and others the broad valley of reason. When I was not guessing, I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties more than was right or necessary.

But although these disappointments caused me great depression at times, I pursued my other studies with unflagging interest, especially physical geography. It was a joy to learn the secrets of nature: how–in the picturesque language of the Old Testament–the winds are made to blow from the four corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the ends of the earth, how rivers are cut out among the rocks, and mountains overturned by the roots, and in what ways man may overcome many forces mightier than himself. The two years in New York were happy ones, and I look back to them with genuine pleasure.

I remember especially the walks we all took together every day in Central Park, the only part of the city that was congenial to me. I never lost a jot of my delight in this great park. I loved to have it described every time I entered it; for it was beautiful in all its aspects, and these aspects were so many that it was beautiful in a different way each day of the nine months I spent in New York.

In the spring we made excursions to various places of interest. We sailed on the Hudson River and wandered about on its green banks, of which Bryant loved to sing. I liked the simple, wild grandeur of the palisades. Among the places I visited were West Point, Tarrytown, the home of Washington Irving, where I walked through "Sleepy Hollow."

The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were always planning how they might give the pupils every advantage that those who hear enjoy–how they might make much of few tendencies and passive memories in the cases of the little ones–and lead them out of the cramping circumstances in which their lives were set.

Before I left New York, these bright days were darkened by the greatest sorrow that I have ever borne, except the death of my father. Mr. John P. Spaulding, of Boston, died in February, 1896. Only those who knew and loved him best can understand what his friendship meant to me. He, who made every one happy in a beautiful, unobtrusive way, was most kind and tender to Miss Sullivan and me. So long as we felt his loving presence and knew that he took a watchful interest in our work, fraught with so many difficulties, we could not be discouraged. His going away left a vacancy in our lives that has never been filled.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be prepared for Radcliffe.

When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley and surprised my friends by the announcement, "Some day I shall go to college–but I shall go to Harvard!" When asked why I would not go to Wellesley, I replied that there were only girls there. The thought of going to college took root in my heart and became an earnest desire, which impelled me to enter into competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face of the strong opposition of many true and wise friends. When I left New York the idea had become a fixed purpose; and it was decided that I should go to Cambridge. This was the nearest approach I could get to Harvard and to the fulfillment of my childish declaration.

At the Cambridge School the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given.

Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but normal pupils, and my only means of conversing with them was reading their lips. My studies for the first year were English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional themes. Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of preparing for college; but I had been well drilled in English by Miss Sullivan, and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books prescribed by the college. I had had, moreover, a good start in French, and received six months' instruction in Latin; but German was the subject with which I was most familiar.

In spite, however, of these advantages, there were serious drawbacks to my progress. Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all that the books required, and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia were willing to hasten the work. For a while, indeed, I had to copy my Latin in braille, so that I could recite with the other girls. My instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes. I could not make notes in class or write exercises; but I wrote all my compositions and translations at home on my typewriter.

Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said. In study hours she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books I did not have in raised print. The tedium of that work is hard to conceive. Frau Gröte, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to give me instruction. No one realized more fully than dear Frau Gröte how slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelled out her instructions to me in special lessons twice a week, to give Miss Sullivan a little rest. But, though everybody was kind and ready to help us, there was only one hand that could turn drudgery into pleasure.

That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar, and read three chapters of Caesar's "Gallic War." In German I read, partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's assistance, Schiller's "Lied von der Glocke" and "Taucher," Heine's "Harzreise," Freytag's "Aus dem Staat Friedrichs des Grossen," Riehl's "Fluch Der Schönheit," Lessing's "Minna von Barnhelm," and Goethe's "Aus meinem Leben." I took the greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great's magnificent achievements and the account of Goethe's life. I was sorry to finish "Die Harzreise," so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished, imaginative age–descriptions such as can be given only by those to whom nature is "a feeling, a love and an appetite."

Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature. We read together, "As You Like It," Burke's "Speech on Conciliation with America," and Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson." Mr. Gilman's broad views of history and literature and his cleaver explanations made my work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read notes mechanically with the necessarily brief explanations given in the classes.

Burke's speech was more instructive than any other book on a political subject that I had ever read. My mind stirred with the stirring times, and the characters round which the life of two contending nations centered seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while Burke's masterly speech rolled on in mighty surges of eloquence, how it was that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation. Then I entered into the melancholy details of the relation in which the great statesman stood to his party and to the representatives of the people. I thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom should have fallen among the tares of ignorance and corruption.

In a different way Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson" was interesting. My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in Grub Street, and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body and soul, always had a kind word, and lent a helping hand to the poor and despised. I rejoiced over all his successes, I shut my eyes to his faults, and wondered, not that he had them, but that they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul. But in spite of Macaulay's brilliancy and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times, and his frequent sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the Demosthenes of Great Britain.

At the Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age. I lived with several others in one of the pleasant house connected with the school, the house where Mr. Howells used to live, and we all had the advantage of home life. I joined them in many of their games, even blind man's buff and frolics in the snow; I took long walks with them; we discussed our studies and read aloud the things that interested us. Some of the girls learned to speak to me, so that Miss Sullivan did not have to repeat their conversation.

At Christmas, my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me, and Mr. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school. So Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge, and for six happy months we were hardly ever apart. It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together.

I took my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July in 1897. The subjects I offered were Elementary and Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all. I passed in everything, and received "honours" in German and English.

Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my examinations will not be amiss here. The student was required to pass in sixteen hours–twelve hours being called elementary and four advanced. He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted. The examination papers were given out at nine o'clock at Harvard and brought to Radcliffe by a special messenger. Each candidate was known, not by his name, but by a number. I was No. 233, but, as I had to use a typewriter, my identity could not be concealed.

It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by myself, because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls. Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual alphabet. A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption.

The first day I had German. Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper through first, then sentence by sentence, while I repeated the words aloud, to make sure that I understood him perfectly. The papers were difficult, and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the typewriter. Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written, and I made such changes as I thought necessary, and he inserted them. I wish to say here, that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations. At Radcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written, and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up. In that, case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few minutes allowed, and make notes of these corrections at the end of my paper. If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the finals, there are two reasons. In the finals, no one read my work over to me, and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school; for at the beginning of the year I had passed examinations in English, History, French and German, which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard papers.

Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with a certificate that I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.

woman sitting at small desk in room with bookshelves
Photograph by Marshall, 1902
MISS KELLER AT WORK IN HER STUDY

All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. None of them was so difficult as the first. I remember that the day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and informed me I had passed satisfactorily in German. This encouraged me greatly, and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light heart and a steady hand.

CHAPTER XIX

WHEN I began my second year at the Gilman school, I was full of hope and determination to succeed. But during the first few weeks I was confronted with unforeseen difficulties. Mr. Gilman had agreed that that year I should study mathematics principally. I had physics, algebra, geometry, astronomy, Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, many of the books I needed had not been embossed in time for me to begin with the classes, and I lacked important apparatus for some of my studies. The classes I was in were very large, and it was impossible for the teachers to give me special instruction. Miss Sullivan was obliged to read all the books to me, and interpret for the instructors, and for the first time in eleven years it seemed as if her dear hand would not be equal to the task.

It was necessary for me to write algebra and geometry in class and solve problems in physics, and this I could not do until we bought a braille writer, by means of which I could put down the steps and processes of my work. I could not follow with my eyes the geometrical figures drawn on the blackboard, and my only means of getting a clear idea of them was to make them on a cushion with straight and curved wires, which had bent and pointed ends. I had to carry in my mind, as Mr. Keith says in his report, the lettering of the figures, the hypothesis and conclusion, the construction and the process of the proof. In a word, every study had its obstacles. Sometimes I lost all courage and betrayed my feelings in a way I am ashamed to remember, especially as the signs of my trouble were afterward used against Miss Sullivan, the only person of all the kind friends I had there, who could make the crooked straight and the rough places smooth.

Little by little, however, my difficulties began to disappear. The embossed books and other apparatus arrived, and I threw myself into the work with renewed confidence. Algebra and geometry were the only studies that continued to defy my efforts to comprehend them. As I have said before, I had no aptitude for mathematics; the different points were not explained to me as fully as I wished. The geometrical diagrams were particularly vexing because I could not see the relation of the different parts to one another, even on the cushion. It was not until Mr. Keith taught me that I had a clear idea of mathematics.

I was beginning to overcome these difficulties when an event occurred which changed everything.

Just before the books came, Mr. Gilman had begun to remonstrate with Miss Sullivan on the ground that I was working too hard, and in spite of my earnest protestations, he reduced the number of my recitations. At the beginning we had agreed that I should, if necessary, take five years to prepare for college, but at the end of the first year the success of my examinations showed Miss Sullivan, Miss Harbaugh (Mr. Gilman's head teacher), and one other, that I could without too much effort complete my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman at first agreed to this; but when my tasks had become somewhat perplexing, he insisted that I was overworked, and that I should remain at his school three years longer. I did not like his plan, for I wished to enter college with my class.

On the seventeenth of November I was not very well, and did not go to school. Although Miss Sullivan knew that my indisposition was not serious, yet Mr. Gilman, on hearing of it, declared that I was breaking down and made changes in my studies which would have rendered it impossible for me to take my final examinations with my class. In the end the difference of opinion between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan resulted in my mother's withdrawing my sister Mildred and me from the Cambridge school.

After some delay it was arranged that I should continue my studies under a tutor, Mr. Merton S. Keith, of Cambridge. Miss Sullivan and I spent the rest of the winter with our friends, the Chamberlins in Wrentham, twenty-five miles from Boston.

From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came out to Wrentham twice a week, and taught me algebra, geometry, Greek and Latin. Miss Sullivan interpreted his instruction.

In October, 1898, we returned to Boston. For eight months Mr. Keith gave me lessons five times a week, in periods of about an hour. He explained each time what I did not understand in the previous lesson, assigned new work, and took home with him the Greek exercises which I had written during the week on my typewriter, corrected them fully, and returned them to me.

In this way my preparation for college went on without interruption. I found it much easier and pleasanter to be taught by myself than to receive instruction in class. There was no hurry, no confusion. My tutor had plenty of time to explain what I did not understand, so I got on faster and did better work than I ever did in school. I still found more difficulty in mastering problems in mathematics than I did in any other of my studies. I wish algebra and geometry had been half as easy as the languages and literature. But even mathematics Mr. Keith made interesting; he succeeded in whittling problems small enough to get through my brain. He kept my mind alert and eager, and trained it to reason clearly, and to seek conclusions calmly and logically, instead of jumping wildly into space and arriving nowhere. He was always gentle and forbearing, no matter how dull I might be, and, believe me, my stupidity would often have exhausted the patience of Job.

On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my final examinations for Radcliffe College. The first day I had Elementary Greek and Advanced Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and Advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read the examination papers to me; so Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was employed to copy the papers for me in American braille. Mr. Vining was a stranger to me, and could not communicate with me, except by writing braille. The proctor was also a stranger, and did not at tempt to communicate with me in any way.

The braille worked well enough in the languages, but when it came to geometry and algebra, difficulties arose. 4 I was sorely perplexed, and felt discouraged wasting much precious time, especially in algebra. It is true that I was familiar with all literary braille in common use in this country–English, American, and New York Point; but the various signs and symbols in geometry and algebra in the three systems are very different, and I had used only the English braille in my algebra.

Two days before the examinations, Mr. Vining sent me a braille copy of one of the old Harvard papers in algebra. To my dismay I found that it was in the American notation. I sat down immediately and wrote to Mr. Vining, asking him to explain the signs. I received another paper and a table of signs by return mail, and I set to work to learn the notation. But on the night before the algebra examination, while I was struggling over some very complicated examples, I could not tell the combinations of bracket, brace and radical. Both Mr. Keith and I were distressed and full of forebodings for the morrow; but we went over to the college a little before the examination began, and had Mr. Vining explain more fully the American symbols.

In geometry my chief difficulty was that I had always been accustomed to read the propositions in line print, or to have them spelled into my hand; and somehow, although the propositions were right before me, I found the braille confusing, and could not fix clearly in my mind what I was reading. But when I took up algebra I had a harder time still. The signs, which I had so lately learned, and which I thought I knew, perplexed me. Besides, I could not see what I wrote on my typewriter. I had always done my work in braille or in my head. Mr. Keith had relied too much on my ability to solve problems mentally, and had not trained me to write examination papers. Consequently my work was painfully slow, and I had to read the examples over and over before I could form any idea of what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now that I read all the signs correctly. I found it very hard to keep my wits about me.

But I do not blame any one. The administrative board of Radcliffe did not realize how difficult they were making my examinations, nor did they understand the peculiar difficulties I had to surmount. But if they unintentionally placed obstacles in my way, I have the consolation of knowing that I overcame them all.

CHAPTER XX

THE struggle for admission to college was ended, and I could now enter Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college, however, it was thought best that I should study another year under Mr. Keith. It was not, therefore, until the fall of 1900 that my dream of going to college was realized.

I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest for me. I had looked forward to it for years. A potent force within me, stronger than the persuasion of my friends, stronger even than the pleadings of my heart, had impelled me to try my strength by the standards of those who see and hear. I knew that there were obstacles in the way; but I was eager to overcome them. I had taken to heart the words of the wise Roman who said, "To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome." Debarred from the great highways of knowledge, I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequented roads–that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and struggling like me.

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom. If I have since learned differently, I am not going to tell anybody.

But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college.

The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college, there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures–solitude, books and imagination–outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

My studies the first year were French, German, history, English composition and English literature. In the French course I read some of the work of Corneille, Molière, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically Milton's poems and "Aeropagitica."

I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which I work in college. In the classroom, I am of course practically alone. The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone. The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much worse off than the girl who takes notes. If the mind is occupied with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at pellmell speed, I should not think one could pay much attention to the subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented. I cannot make notes during the lectures, because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-tests, the mid-year and final examinations, on my typewriter, so that the professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When I began the study of Latin prosody, I devised and explained to my professor a system of signs indicating the different meters and quantities.

I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several shuttles, each with a different set of characters–Greek, French, or mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.

Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand. Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls. The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a few chapters, while in the world without other girls are laughing and singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, after all, every one who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E. Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they can ever know.

Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition, the Bible as English literature, the governments of America and Europe, the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting, vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland, more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old Testament, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a new growth on the ancient stem of time."

This year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially interest me, economics, Elizabethan literature, Shakespeare under Professor George L. Kittredge, and the History of Philosophy under Professor Josiah Royce. Through philosophy one enters with sympathy of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of thought, which erewhile seemed alien and without reason.

But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was. There one does not meet the great and the wise face to face; one does not even feel their living touch. They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified. We must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah, and not merely a clever imitation. Many scholars forget, it seems to me, that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. It is possible to know a flower, root and stem and all, and all the processes of growth, and yet to have no appreciation of the flower fresh bathed in heaven's dew. Again and again I ask impatiently, "Why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses?" They fly hither and thither in my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men. But when a great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind." He brings back Shakespeare, the poet.

There are, however, times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured at the greatest cost. It is impossible, I think, to read in one day four or five different books in different languages and treating of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads. When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-à-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape them, theme-goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until I wish–oh, may I be forgiven the wicked wish!–that I might smash the idols I came to worship.

But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formulæ and indigestible dates–unpalatable diets, until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea.

At last the dreaded hour arrives, and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch.

"Give a brief account of Huss and his work." Huss? Who was he and what did he do? The name looks strangely familiar. You ransack your budget of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag bag. You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top–you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the Reformation. But where is it now? You fish out all manner of odds and ends of knowledge–revolutions, schisms, massacres, systems of government; but Huss–where is he? You are amazed at all the things you know which are not on the examination paper. In desperation you seize the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you.

Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up. With a feeling of intense disgust you kick the mass of rubbish into a corner and go home, your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned.

It comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I have used figures which will turn the laugh against me. Ah, here they are–the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me, pointing to the bull in the china shop assailed by hailstones and the bugbears with pale looks, an unanalyzed species! Let them mock on. The words describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling, tumbling ideas I live in that I will wink at them for once, and put on a deliberate air to say that my ideas of college have changed.

While my days at Radcliffe were still in the future, they were encircled with a halo of romance, which they have lost; but in the transition from romantic to actual I have learned many things I should never have known had I not tried the experiment. One of them is the precious science of patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort. Such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a soundless tidal wave of deepening thought. "Knowledge is power." Rather, knowledge is happiness, because to have knowledge–broad, deep knowledge–is to know true ends from false, and lofty things from low. To know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress is to feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.

CHAPTER XXI

I HAVE thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom they bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have meant so much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back to the time when I began to read.

I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years of my education; nor did I read according to rule.

At first I had only a few books in raised print–"readers" for beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again and again the things that pleased me.

It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write, these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally, so that my friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way, until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly.

One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends in Boston, leaving me for a short time.

When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might have as long an afternoon as possible for the story. As we hastened through the long grass toward the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that my teacher insisted on picking them all off before we sat down, which seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words. At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.

Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed, and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious, because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and confused memories of earlier reading.

From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare;" "A Child's History of England" by Dickens, "The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them–I did not know whether they were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship. They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my own.

I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language, I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my mind to the exclusion of the moral.

Then, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our higher moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and restrained by reason, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge, self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and foxes.

But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel a genuine interest in the animals themselves, because they are real animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods–no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

God can dumbness keep
While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten–my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Æneid is not so great, but it is none the less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have traveled round the world many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road.

I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers. Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."

But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr. Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to having these great works weakened or falsified.

There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath. Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but if I live, my people shall live."

The story of Ruth, too–how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital! Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel age. Love like Ruth's, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.

The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are temporal, and things unseen are eternal."

I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger and Lady Macbeth's little white hand–the dreadful stain was as real to me as to the grief-stricken queen.

I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloucester's eyes are put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.

I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same time, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.

It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays–the ones I like best now–appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child: what it will hold, and what it will lose."

I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and know parts of them by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But, with all my love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used to try to remember their interpretations, but they discouraged and vexed me; so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under Professor Kittredge. I know there are many things in Shakespeare, and in the world, that I do not understand; and I am glad to see veil after veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty.

Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that I have been able to lay my hands on, from a catalogue of dry facts and dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton's "Middle Ages." The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was Swinton's "World History," which I received on my thirteenth birthday. Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of men spread from land to land and built great cities, how a few great rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and knowledge and broke ground for the mightier growths of coming ages; how civilization underwent, as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age, and rose again, like the Phoenix, among the nobler sons of the North; and how by liberty, tolerance and education the great and the wise have opened the way for the salvation of the whole world.

In my college reading I have become somewhat familiar with French and German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement, sledgehammer vigour about everything that he does. When he speaks, it is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.

Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like; but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":

All things transitory
  But as symbols are sent.
Earth's insufficiency
  Here grows to event.
The indescribable
Here it is done.
The Woman Soul leads us upward and on!

Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Molière and Racine best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Mérimée which strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset is impossible! I admire Victor Hugo–I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo and Goethe and Schiller and all great poets of all great nations are interpreters of eternal things, and my spirit reverently follows them into the regions where Beauty and Truth and Goodness are one.

I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many writers for many reasons–Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in reading his poems. I love Mark Twain–who does not? The gods, too, loved him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine of optimism–fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.

In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness. The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and heavenly charities."

CHAPTER XXII

I TRUST that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are many and varied.

More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of the country and out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I learned to row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham, Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits in the stern and manages the rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks, and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly poised. In the same manner I can also tell when I am pulling against the current. I like to contend with wind and wave. What is more exhilarating than to make your staunch little boat, obedient to your will and muscle, go skimming lightly over glistening, tilting waves, and to feel the steady, imperious surge of the water!

I also enjoy canoeing, and I suppose you will smile when I say that I especially like it on moonlight nights. I cannot, it is true, see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the heavens, making a shining path for us to follow; but I know she is there, and as I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water, I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes. Sometimes a daring little fish slips between my fingers, and often a pond-lily presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter of a cove or inlet, I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it comes from the trees which have been heated by the sun, or from the water, I can never discover. I have had the same strange sensation even in the heart of the city. I have felt it on cold, stormy days and at night. It is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.

My favourite amusement is sailing. In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova Scotia, and had opportunities such as I had not enjoyed before to make the acquaintance of the ocean. After spending a few days in Evangeline's country, about which Longfellow's beautiful poem has woven a spell of enchantment, Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax, where we remained the greater part of the summer. The harbour was our joy, our paradise. What glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin, to McNabb's Island, to York Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war. Oh, it was all so interesting, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.

One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the Northwest Arm, in which the boats from the different warships were engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and the sea was calm. When the races were over, and we turned our faces homeward, one of the party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the sea, which grew and spread and thickened until it covered the whole sky. The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers. Our little boat confronted the gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled in the billows, now she sprang upward on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with angry howl and hiss. Down came the mainsail. Tacking and jibbing, we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with impetuous fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with excitement, not fear; for we had the hearts of vikings, and we knew that our skipper was master of the situation. He had steered through many a storm with firm hand and sea-wise eye. As they passed us, the large craft and the gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sail-boat that ventured out into the storm. At last, cold, hungry and weary, we reached our pier.

Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most charming villages in New England. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King Philip's Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family, was my home. I remember with deepest gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet companionship of their children meant much to me. I joined in all their sports and rambles through the woods and frolics in the water. The prattle of the little ones and their pleasure in the stories I told them of elf and gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr. Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower, until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak, and saw the sun glint from leaf to leaf. Thus it is that

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and wingéd things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I

gave evidence of things unseen.

It seems to me that there is in each of us a capacity to comprehend the impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning. Each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this gift from past generations. This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense–a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.

I have many tree friends in Wrentham. One of them, a splendid oak, is the special pride of my heart. I take all my other friends to see this king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's Pond, and those who are wise in tree lore say it must have stood there eight hundred or a thousand years. There is a tradition that under this tree King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, gazed his last on earth and sky.

I had another tree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great oak–a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon, during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily striven and was now mightily fallen.

But I must not forget that I was going to write about last summer in particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, sunny days were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were thrust into the background. In Wrentham we caught echoes of what was happening in the world–war, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away Pacific, and learned of the struggles going on between capital and labour. We knew that beyond the border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall endure forever.

People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any difference, except possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets and in country roads. They forget that my whole body is alive to the conditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of my face, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard pavements and the monotonous clangour of machinery are all the more torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can see.

In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong and beautiful, while others are condemned to live in hideous, sunless tenements and grow ugly, withered and cringing. The children who crowd these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crouch in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men and women, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence must be–no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all, we say; but are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man, and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its gold, and return to wood and field and simple, honest living! Then would their children grow stately as noble trees, and their thoughts sweet and pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when I return to the country after a year of work in town.

What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous gladness!

Next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of my iron steed. The rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my heart sing.

Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or sail. I have had many dog friends–huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, wood-wise setters and honest, homely bull terriers. At present the lord of my affections is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree, a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends seem to understand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I am alone. I love their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their tails.

When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of other girls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky ways I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them firmly. The black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top. Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be placed to distinguish the king from the commons. The chessmen are of two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to another tells me when it is my turn.

If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the upper right-hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of the card.

If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.

woman holding dog in place on a table and leaning her head toward it
Copyright by Emily Stokes, 1902; Photograph by Emily Stokes, 1902
MISS KELLER AND "PHIZ"

Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration. Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art. As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods and heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barré's bronzes the secrets of the jungle are revealed to me.

A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow–tracks of life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation–the perpetual night in which he dwelt–

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!

In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating steps he gropes his way from camp to camp–singing of life, of love, of war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful, glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal crown, the admiration of all ages.

I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of sculpture than the eye. I should think the rhythmical flow of lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it may, I know that I can feel the heart-throbs of the ancient Greeks in their marble gods and goddesses.

Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirring events. It has been my privilege to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the romantic past. I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. In the king's face, which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of grief which I shall never forget.

I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to count him among my friends. I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting. The first time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van Winkle." I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jefferson's beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight. I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose. After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet.

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The Story of My Life. Parts I & II by Helen Keller, 1880-1968; Part III from the letters and reports of Anne Mansfield Sullivan, ca.1867-1936; Edited by John Albert Macy, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. New York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1905.

PART I
THE STORY OF MY LIFE

THE STORY OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER I

IT is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life. I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen earliest impressions, I find that fact and fancy Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen alike across the years that link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.

The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on the subject of their education–rather a singular coincidence; though it is true that there is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.

My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase supplies for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of the letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of these trips.

My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides, Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to Robert E, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Lee.

My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army, and my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger. Her grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E. Goodhue, and lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, for Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen years. Their son, Charles Adams, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and moved to Helena, Arkansas. When the Civil War broke out, he fought on the side of the South and became a brigadier-general. He married Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the same family of Everetts as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war was over the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.

I lived, up to the time of the illness that HELPSOFT crack serial keygen me of my sight and hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds and bees.

one-story house with multiple chimneys and portico
Photograph by Collins
"IVY GREEN," THE KELLER HOMESTEAD
(The small house on the right is where Helen Keller was born.)

The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from our little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.

Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell, would find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden! Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses–they were loveliest of all. Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heart-satisfying roses Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen the climbing roses of my southern home, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. They used to hang in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning, washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.

The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always does. There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me. The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named, every one was emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of Mildred Campbell, an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined to take any further part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem by giving it as her wish that I should be called after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church my father lost the name on the way, very naturally, since it was one in which he had declined to have a part. When the minister asked him for it, he just remembered that it had been decided to call me after my grandmother, and he gave her name as Helen Adams.

I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of an eager, self-asserting disposition. Everything that I saw other people do I insisted upon imitating. At six months I could pipe out "How d'ye," and one day I System Requirements Archives every one's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite plainly. Even after my illness I remembered one of the words I had learned in these early months. It was the word "water," and I continued to make some sound for that word after all other speech was lost. I ceased making the sound "wah-wah" only when I learned to spell the word.

They tell me I walked Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen day I was a year old. My mother had just taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down and cried for her to flexisign for windows 10 Archives me up in her arms.

These happy days did not last long. One brief spring, musical with the song of robin and mocking-bird, one summer rich in fruit and roses, one autumn of gold and crimson sped by and left their gifts at the feet of an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February, came the illness which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a new-born baby. They called it acute congestion of the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one morning, however, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no one, not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.

I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to soothe me in my waking hours of fret and pain, and the agony and bewilderment with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and turned my eyes, so dry and hot, to the wall, away from the once-loved light, which came to me dim and yet more dim each day. But, except for these fleetings memories, if, indeed, they be memories, it all seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually I got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me and forgot that it had ever been different, until she came–my teacher–who was to set my spirit free. But during the first nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."

CHAPTER II

I CANNOT recall what happened during Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen first months after my illness. I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to her dress as she went about her household duties. My hands felt every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned to know many things. Soon I felt the need of some communication with others and began to make crude signs. A shake of the head meant Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen and a nod, "Yes," a pull meant "Come" and a push, "Go." Was it bread that I wanted? Then I would imitate the acts of cutting the slices and buttering them. If I wanted my mother to make ice-cream for dinner I made the sign for working the freezer and shivered, indicating cold. My mother, moreover, succeeded in making me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wished me to bring her something, and I would run upstairs or anywhere else she indicated. Indeed, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, I owe to her loving wisdom all that was bright and good in my long night.

I understood a good deal of what was going on about me. At five I learned to fold and put away the clean clothes when they were brought in from the laundry, and I distinguished my own from the rest. I knew by the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out, and I invariably begged to go with them. I was always sent for when there was company, and when the guests took their leave, I waved my hand to them, I think with a vague remembrance of the meaning of the gesture. One day some gentlemen called on my mother, and I felt the shutting of the front door and other sounds that indicated their arrival. On a sudden thought I ran upstairs before any one could stop me, to put on my idea of a company dress, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Standing before the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, as I had seen others do, I anointed mine head with oil and covered my face thickly with powder. Then I pinned a veil over my head so that it covered my face and fell in folds down to my shoulders, and tied an enormous bustle round my small waist, so that it dangled behind, almost meeting the hem of my skirt. Thus attired I went down to help entertain the company.

I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other people; but I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen mother and my friends did not use signs as I did when they wanted anything done, but talked with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two persons who were conversing and touched their lips. I could not understand, and was vexed. I moved my lips and gesticulated frantically without result. This made me so angry at times that I Bandicam 4.4.0 Build 1535 Full Version crack serial keygen and screamed until I was exhausted.

I think I knew when I was naughty, for I knew that it hurt Ella, my nurse, to kick her, and when my fit of temper was over I had a feeling akin to regret. But I cannot remember any instance in which this feeling prevented me from repeating the naughtiness when I failed to get what I wanted.

In those days a little coloured girl, Martha Washington, the child of our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were my constant companions. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished. It pleased me to domineer over her, and she generally submitted to my tyranny rather than risk a hand-to-hand encounter. I was strong, active, indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always had my own way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, kneading dough balls, helping make ice-cream, grinding coffee, quarreling over the cake-bowl, and feeding the hens and turkeys that swarmed about the kitchen steps. Many of them were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it. Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook the turkey.

The guinea-fowl likes to hide her nest in out-of-the-way places, and it was one of my greatest delights to hunt for the eggs in the long grass. I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to go egg-hunting, but I would double my hands and put them on the ground, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, which meant something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were fortunate enough to find a nest I never allowed her to carry the eggs home, making her understand by emphatic signs that she might fall and break them.

The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me. The milkers would let me keep my hands on the cows while they milked, and I often got well switched by the cow for my curiosity, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

The making ready for Christmas was always a delight to me. Of course I did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were sadly in the way, but that did not interfere with our pleasure in the least. They allowed us to grind the spices, pick over the raisins and lick the stirring spoons. I hung my stocking because the others did; I cannot remember, however, that the ceremony interested me especially, nor did my curiosity cause me to wake before daylight to look for my gifts.

Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two little children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July afternoon. One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, the other two or three years older. The younger child was blind–that was I–and the other was Martha Washington. We were busy cutting out paper dolls; but we soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our shoestrings and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were within reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn about is fair play, ZBrush activation code Archives seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.

Belle, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to sleep by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard to teach her my sign language, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, but she was dull and inattentive. She sometimes started and quivered with excitement, then she became perfectly rigid, as dogs do when they point a bird. I did not then know why Belle acted in this way; but I knew she Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen not doing as I wished. This vexed me and the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch herself lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to the opposite side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and disappointed, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, went off in search of Martha.

Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory, isolated, but clear and distinct, making the sense of that silent, aimless, dayless life all the more intense.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it out to dry before the fire which was flickering on the sitting-room hearth. The apron did not dry quickly enough to suit me, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, so I drew nearer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The fire leaped into life; the flames encircled me so that in a moment my clothes were blazing. I made a terrified noise that brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire. Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.

About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of the house. She kept pounding on the door, while I sat outside on the porch steps and laughed with glee as I felt the jar of the pounding. This most naughty prank of mine convinced my parents that I must be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity to lock her in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother made me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid the key under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to tell where the key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and take Miss Sullivan out through the window–much to my delight. Months after I produced the key.

When I was about five years old we moved from the little vine-covered house to a large new one. The family consisted of my father and mother, two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a little sister, Mildred, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. My earliest distinct recollection office product key 2019 Archives my father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he was doing. I imitated this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking they might help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my father edited one of them.

My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home, seldom leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his family he loved his dogs and gun. His hospitality was great, almost to a fault, and he seldom came home without bringing a guest. Bartender download crack Archives special pride was the big garden where, it was said, he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county; and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever pleased me.

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I was in the North, enjoying the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He had had a short illness, there had been a brief time of acute suffering, then all was over. This was my first great sorrow–my first personal experience with death.

How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it almost seems indelicate to speak of her.

For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I knew that I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the thought filled me with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap constantly, where I used to sit, and seemed to take up all her care and time, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. One day something happened which seemed to me to be adding insult to injury.

At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I afterward named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my outbursts of temper and of affection, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, so that she became much the worse for wear. I had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened and shut their eyes; yet I never loved one of them as I loved poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I often spent an hour or more rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle with the most jealous care; but once I discovered my little sister sleeping peacefully in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of one to whom as yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon the cradle Driver Booster key Archives overturned it, and the baby might have been killed had my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we walk in the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the tender affections that grow out of endearing words and actions and companionship. But afterward, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew into each other's hearts, so that we were content to go hand-in-hand wherever caprice led us, although she could not understand my finger language, nor I her childish prattle.

CHAPTER III

MEANWHILE the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less adequate, and my failures to make myself understood were invariably followed by outbursts of passion. I felt as if invisible hands were holding me, and I made frantic efforts to free myself. I struggled–not that struggling helped matters, but the spirit of resistance was strong within me; I generally broke down in tears and physical exhaustion. If my mother happened to be near I crept into her arms, too miserable even to remember the cause of the tempest. After awhile the need of some means of communication became so urgent that these outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.

My parents were deeply grieved and perplexed. We lived a long way from any school for the blind or the deaf, and it seemed unlikely that any one would come to such an out-of-the-way place as Tuscumbia to teach a child who was both deaf and blind. Indeed, my friends and relatives sometimes doubted whether I could be taught. My mother's only ray of hope came from Dickens's "American Notes." She had read his account of Laura Bridgman, and remembered vaguely that she was deaf and blind, yet had been educated. But she also remembered with a hopeless pang that Dr. Howe, who had discovered the way to teach the deaf and blind, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, had been dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and if they had not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in Alabama to receive the benefit of them?

When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent oculist in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that had seemed hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to Baltimore to see if anything could be done for my eyes.

The journey, which I remember well, was very pleasant. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. My father made holes in these so that I could string them, and for a long time they kept me happy and contented. The conductor, too, was kind. Often when he went his rounds I clung to his coat tails while he collected and punched the tickets. His punch, with which he let me play, was a delightful toy. Curled up in a corner of the seat I amused myself for hours making funny little holes in bits of cardboard.

My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical, shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears or eyes–nothing that even the imagination of a child could convert into a face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects put together. I pointed this out to everybody with provoking persistency, but no one seemed equal to the task of providing the doll with eyes. A bright idea, however, shot into my mind, and the problem was solved. I tumbled off the seat and searched under it until I found my aunt's cape, which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two beads off and indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on doll. She raised my hand to her eyes in a questioning way, and I nodded energetically. The beads were sewed in the right place and I could not contain myself for joy; but immediately I lost all interest in the doll. During the whole trip I did not have one fit of temper, there were so many things to keep my mind and fingers busy.

When we arrived in Baltimore, Dr. Chisholm received us kindly: but he could do nothing. He said, however, that I could be educated, and advised my father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, of Washington, who would be able to give him information about schools and teachers of deaf or blind children. Acting on the doctor's advice, we went immediately to Washington to see Dr. Bell, my father with a sad heart and many misgivings, I wholly unconscious of his anguish, finding pleasure in the excitement of moving from place to place. Child as I was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr. Bell to so many hearts, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, as his wonderful achievements enlist their admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be Battlefield 2 ANY crack serial keygen door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my education, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that a teacher had been found. This was in the R-Studio 8.14 Crack Archives of 1886. But Miss Sullivan did not arrive until the following March, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love and light and vision."

CHAPTER IV

THE most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen sounding-line, and had no way of knowing Clean master for pc pro 6 serial key near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.

I felt approaching footsteps. I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and, more than all things else, to love me.

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room Ambient Design ArtRage v6.1.2 With Crack [Newest] gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, among them pin, hat, cup and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment of tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that Hasleo Data Recovery 5.8 + Crack [Latest Version] Free Download 2021 cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.

profile view of child with ringlets
Photograph by Deane, 1887
HELEN KELLER AT THE AGE OF SEVEN

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten–a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, it is true, but barriers that could in time be GTA V KEY STEAM crack serial keygen away. 1

I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.

I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them–words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of the eventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

CHAPTER V

I RECALL many incidents of the summer of 1887 that followed my soul's sudden awakening, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I did nothing but explore with my hands and learn the name of every object that I touched; and the more I handled things and learned their names and uses, the more joyous and confident grew my sense of kinship with the rest of the world.

When the time of daisies and buttercups came Miss Sullivan took me by the hand across the fields, where men were preparing the earth for the seed, to the banks of the Tennessee River, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and there, sitting on the warm grass, I had my first lessons in the beneficence of nature. I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter. As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers."

But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long NBA 2K20 Cpy Archives. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it.

Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree.

There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson–that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws."

After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree. The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house. "What is it?" I asked, and the next minute I recognized the odour of the mimosa blossoms. I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful, so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams.

CHAPTER VI

I HAD now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance Category: Advanced Painting Tool by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.

At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain.

I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, Alap InEffects 1.0.2 for Adobe InDesign CS2 crack serial keygen This was before I knew many words. I had found a few early violets in the garden and 4 Card Video Keno 2.0 crack serial keygen them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen."

"What is love?" I asked.

She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it.

I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"

"No," said my teacher.

Again I thought. The warm sun was shining on us.

"Is this not love?" I asked, pointing in the direction from which the heat came. "Is this not love?"

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love.

A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups–two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had made many mistakes, TeraByte Drive Image Backup and Restore Suite Crack 3.35 Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and Yowindow crack serial keygen with decided emphasis, "Think."

In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea.

For a long time I was still–I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour.

Again, I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"

"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out," she replied. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play."

The beautiful truth burst upon my mind–I felt that there were invisible lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others.

From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen up my end of the dialogue.

This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time.

The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says.

Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen in white dress on upholstered sofa with dog">
Photograph by Deane, 1877
HELEN KELLER AND JUMBO

CHAPTER VII

THE next important step in my education was learning to read.

As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence out of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.

One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences.

From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later.

For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen memories.

I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught.

We read and studied out of doors, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods–the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. "The loveliness of things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, or buzz, or sing, or bloom, had a part in my education–noisy- throated frogs, katydids and crickets held in my hand until, forgetting their embarrassment, they trilled their reedy note, little downy chickens and wild-flowers, the dogwood blossoms, meadow-violets and budding fruit trees. I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth–ah me! how well I remember the spicy, clovery smell of his breath!

Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without.

Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!

Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumble-down lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole.

Arithmetic seems to have been the @Air 3.0 crack serial keygen study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kindergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates.

In this same leisurely manner I studied zoölogy and botany.

Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils–tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age. For a long time FontCreator Professional Edition 12.0 Full Crack x86 & x64 strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof.

Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." After I had learned a great many interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the sea–how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the chalk-hills of many a land–my teacher read me "The 3DMark2001 SE Pro 1.0 crack serial keygen Nautilus," and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is symbolical of the development of the mind. Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.

Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed Need for Speed Heat multiplayer Archives of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.

Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers. One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song.

Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.

Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks.

My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her–there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.

CHAPTER VIII

THE first Christmas after Miss Sullivan came to Tuscumbia was a great event. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set of lessons could have done, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached.

On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered around the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children. In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen own gifts; but when I was wtfast key 2020 Archives for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning.

That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas!" I found surprises, not in the stocking only, but on the table, on all the chairs, at the door, on the very window-sill; indeed, I could hardly walk without stumbling on a bit of Christmas wrapped up in tissue paper. But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing.

One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again.

CHAPTER IX

THE next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, in May, 1888. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and woods, and the crowds of laughing negroes at the stations, who waved to the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls through the car. On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes. Sometimes, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep.

As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt–the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully.

When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here.

We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little 3D tool Archives - Page 2 of 2 children. It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind. I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship.

One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by. I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation.

While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought nck dongle crack download Archives on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.

The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.

How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the Converter | Pirate PC - Part 5 and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful."

Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "The City of Kind Hearts."

CHAPTER X

JUST before the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, it was arranged that my teacher and I should spend our vacation at Brewster, on Cape Cod, with our dear friend, Mrs. Hopkins. I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea.

My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland, and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized.

No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water. I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grab some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. It was fearful! The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element–life, air, warmth, and love. At last, however, the sea, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water?"

After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite covered me. I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea!

I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day, Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the chilly water. It was a great horseshoe crab–the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure. But Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea.

CHAPTER XI

IN the Autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled ReviverSoft Driver Reviver 5.39.2.14 Full Crack wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen was as full of motion as those little insects which crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I had met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous symphony leaped up Mirillis Action 4.0.3 keygen Archives meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose.

I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood–an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places, the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day.

Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each 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 Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen 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 Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport. They told stories of their wonderful HD Tune Pro TORRENT Archives with fowl, fish, and quadruped–how many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had caught, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, 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 OmniGraffle Mac Torrent Archives 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, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, 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, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, 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, and with no road to follow except the paths made by cows and horses, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Frequently we came upon impassable thickets which forced us to take a roundabout 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, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, "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 upon 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 Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen be dashed to the chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. 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 mêlée. 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 Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen 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 though 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. 2 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, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, 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 on 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 thought 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 Quite imposing plus crack serial keygen, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had scarcely finished telling me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face, and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has never heard–to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone of love, no song of bird, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, no strain of music ever pierces the stillness–can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones, trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight Download Game PC Virtua Tennis 1 Full Crack felt when at my call Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.

But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time. I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius, untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends; in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds in a thousand ways. Even now, she calls my attention every day to mispronounced words.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In reading my teacher's lips, I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished, spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I could not Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.

Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet, which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. I place my hand on the hand of the speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter any more than Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell rapidly–about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere, spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen writing.

When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey, talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood the adobe photoshop cs2 family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaah's prophecy had been fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE winter of 1892 was darkened by one cloud in my childhood's bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, anxiety, and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institute for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts connected with this episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate. 3

I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have been read to me and which I must have unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate. Now, if words and images came to Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.

When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen beautiful passages, and my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.

The question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."

Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King" and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King" called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories we so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was–a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King;" but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.

At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news.

I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that ringed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the gaiety of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.

The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.

Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave little girl and they were proud of me.

As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept. I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and all of the bitterness of those Aiseesoft FoneLab for Android Crack 3.1.32 Full Patch Free Download 2021 days.

Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out that Mrs, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen time before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was probably among them.

The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.

When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost Fairies" probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else. But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.

In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present time. Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time, when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to make sure that I had not read them in a book, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Had it not been for the persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given up trying to write altogether.

I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer"–an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.

This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at writing, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. In softube modular crack mac Archives composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece and Italy, I borrowed Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen glowing descriptions, with variations, from sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr. Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and animated language.

Those early compositions were mental gymnastics, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I was learning, as all young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation, to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it. The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging through every byway of the mind.

I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind. Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends–pretty bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not willing to acknowledge defeat.

"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost King" trammel my efforts.

So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.

Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says, thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote with those who were favourable to me.

But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Then he evidently retracted his favourable judgment, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, why I do not know. Nor did I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of the members of the "court" who did not speak to me, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. I was too excited to notice anything, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.

I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me, without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.

CHAPTER XV

THE summer and winter following the "Frost King" incident I spent with my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything had budded and blossomed. I was happy. "The Frost King" was forgotten.

When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn, and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour at the end of the garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, I began to write a sketch of my life–a year after I had written "The Frost King."

I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to the "Frost King"; and often when an idea flashed out in the course of conversation I would spell softly to her, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, "I am not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in every way she could think of; but the terrible experience I had passed through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write for the Youth's Companion a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed.

I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who knew that if I persevered, I should find my mental foothold again and get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the "Frost King" episode, I had lived the unconscious life of a little child; now my thoughts were turned inward, and I beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and with a truer knowledge of life.

The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly interrupted and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible for me to give a connected account of them.

We went to Niagara in March, 1893. It is difficult to describe my emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.

It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking: "What does this beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up the beach or hear their roar. What do they mean to you?" In the most evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or goodness.

During the summer of 1893, Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I recall with unmixed delight those days when a thousand childish fancies became beautiful realities. Every day in imagination I made a trip around the world, and I saw many Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen from the uttermost parts of the earth–marvels of invention, treasures of industry and skill and all the activities of human life actually passed under my finger tips.

I liked to visit the Midway Plaisance. It seemed like the "Arabian Nights," it was crammed so full of novelty and interest. Here was the India of my books in the curious bazaar with its Shivas and elephant-gods; there was the land of the Pyramids concentrated in a model Cairo with its mosques and its long processions of camels; yonder were the lagoons of Venice, where we sailed every evening when the city and the fountains were illuminated. I also went on board a Viking ship which lay a short distance from the little craft. I had been on a man-of-war before, in Boston, and it interested me to see, on this Viking ship, how the seaman was once all in all–how he sailed and took storm and calm alike with undaunted heart, and gave chase to whosoever reechoed his cry, "We are of the sea!" and fought with brains and sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrust into the background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is to-day. So it always is–"man only is interesting to man."

At a little distance from this ship there was a model of the Santa Maria, which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and the desk with an hourglass on it. This small instrument impressed me most because it made me think how weary the heroic navigator must have felt as he saw the sand dropping grain by grain while desperate men were plotting against his life.

Mr. Higinbotham, President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch the exhibits, and with an eagerness as insatiable as that with which Pizarro seized the treasures of Peru, I took in the glories of the Fair with Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen fingers. It was a sort of tangible kaleidoscope, this white city of the West. Everything fascinated me, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, especially the French bronzes, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. They were so lifelike, I thought they were angel visions which the artist had caught and bound in earthly forms.

At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit, I learned much about the process of mining diamonds. Whenever it was possible, I touched the machinery while it was in motion, so as to get a clearer idea how the stones were weighed, cut, and polished. I searched in the washings for a diamond and found it myself–the only true diamond, they said, that was ever found in the United States.

Dr. Bell went everywhere with us and in his own delightful way described to me the objects of greatest interest. In the electrical building we examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs, and other inventions, and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires that mock space and outrun time, and, like Prometheus, to draw fire from the sky. We also visited the anthropological department, and I was much interested in the relics Wise care 365 4.28 crack serial keygen ancient Mexico, in the rude stone implements that are so often the only record of an age–the simple monuments of nature's unlettered children (so I thought as I fingered them) that seem bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in dust away–and in the Egyptian mummies, which I shrank from touching. From these relics I learned more about the progress of Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen than I have heard or read since.

woman in long skirt holding hand of bearded man in suit
Photograph by Marshall, 1902
MISS KELLER AND DR. ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL

All these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary, and in the three weeks I spent at the Fair I took a long leap from the little child's interest in fairy tales and toys to the appreciation of the real and the earnest in the workaday world.

CHAPTER XVI

BEFORE October, 1893, I had studied various subjects by myself in a more or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the United States. I had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already knew some French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short exercises, using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without aid, to master the French pronunciation, as I found all the letters and sounds described in the book. Of course this was tasking slender powers for great ends; but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure La Fontaine's, "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" and passages from "Athalie."

I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favourite poets, which I had committed to memory; she corrected my pronunciation and helped me to phrase and inflect. It was not, however, until October, 1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit to the World's Fair, that I began to have lessons in special subjects at fixed hours.

Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, was a good Latin scholar; it was arranged that I should study under him. I remember him as man of rare, sweet nature and of wide experience. He taught me Latin grammar principally; but he often helped me in arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. Mr, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Irons also read with me Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I had read many books before, but never from a critical point of view. I learned for the first time to know an author, to recognize his style as I recognize the clasp of a friend's hand.

At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analyzing every word I came across–noun, genitive, singular, feminine–when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might just as well describe my pet in order to know it–order, vertebrate; division, quadruped; class, mammalia; genus, felinus; species, cat; individual, Tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject, I became more interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused myself by reading Latin passages, picking up words I understood and trying to make sense. I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with–ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at my lessons, spelling into my hand whatever Mr. Irons said, and looking up new words for me. I was just beginning to read Caesar's "Gallic War" when I went to my home in Alabama.

CHAPTER XVII

IN the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. There it was arranged that I should go to the Wright-Humason School for the Deaf in New York City. I went there in October, 1894, accompanied by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen especially for the purpose of obtaining the highest advantages in vocal culture and training in lip-reading. In addition to my work in these subjects, I studied, during the two years I was in the school, arithmetic, physical geography, French and German.

Miss Reamy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet, and after I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in German whenever we had a chance, and in a few months I could understand almost everything she said. Before the end of the first year I read "Wilhelm Tell" with the greatest delight. Indeed, I think I made more progress in German than in any of my other studies. I found French much more difficult. I studied it with Madame Olivier, a French lady who did not know the manual alphabet, and who was obliged to give her instruction orally. I could not read her lips easily; so my progress was much slower than in German. I managed, however, to read "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" again. It was very amusing but I did not like it nearly so well as "Wilhelm Tell."

My progress in lip-reading and speech was not what my teachers and I had hoped and expected it would be, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. It was my ambition to speak like other people, and my teachers believed that this could be accomplished; but, although we worked hard and faithfully, yet we did not quite reach our goal. I suppose we aimed too high, and disappointment was therefore inevitable. I still regarded arithmetic as a system of pitfalls. I hung about the dangerous frontier of "guess," avoiding with infinite trouble to myself and others the broad valley of reason. When I was not guessing, I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties more than was right or necessary.

But although these disappointments caused me great depression at times, I pursued my other studies with unflagging interest, especially physical geography. It was a joy to learn the secrets of nature: how–in the picturesque language of the Old Testament–the winds are made to blow from the four corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the ends of the earth, how rivers are cut out among the rocks, and mountains overturned by the roots, and in what ways man may overcome many forces mightier than himself. The two years in New York were happy ones, and I look back to them with genuine pleasure.

I remember especially the walks we all took together every day in Central Park, the only part of the city that was congenial to me. I never lost a jot of my delight in this great park. I loved to have it described every time I entered it; for it was beautiful in all its aspects, and these aspects were so many that it was beautiful in a different way each day of the nine months I spent in New York.

In the spring we made excursions to various places of interest. We sailed on the Hudson River and wandered about on its green banks, of which Bryant loved to sing. I liked the simple, wild grandeur of the palisades. Among the places I visited were West Point, Tarrytown, the home of Washington Irving, where I walked through "Sleepy Hollow."

The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were always planning how they might give the pupils every advantage that those who hear enjoy–how they might make much of few tendencies and passive memories in the cases of the little ones–and lead them out of the cramping circumstances in which their lives were set.

Before I left New York, these bright days were darkened by the greatest sorrow that I have ever borne, except the death of my father. Mr. John P. Spaulding, of Boston, died in February, 1896. Only those who knew and loved him best can understand what his friendship meant to me. He, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, who made every one happy in a beautiful, unobtrusive way, was most kind and tender to Miss Sullivan and me. So long as we felt his loving presence and knew that he took a watchful interest in our work, fraught with so many difficulties, we could not be discouraged. His going away left a vacancy in our lives that has never been filled.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be prepared for Radcliffe.

When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley and surprised my friends by the announcement, "Some day I shall go to college–but I shall go to Harvard!" When asked why I would not go to Wellesley, I replied that there were only girls there. The thought of going to college took root in my heart and became an earnest desire, which impelled me to enter into competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face of the strong opposition of many true and wise friends. When I left New York the idea had become a fixed purpose; and it was decided that I should go to Cambridge. This was the nearest approach I could get to Harvard and to the fulfillment Gallery Vault – Hide Pictures Pro Crack 3.19.6 APK Latest Download my childish declaration.

At the Cambridge School the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given.

Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but normal pupils, and my only means of conversing with them was reading their lips. My studies for the first year were English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional themes. Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of preparing for college; but I had been well drilled in English by Miss Sullivan, and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books prescribed by the college. I had had, moreover, a good start in French, and received six months' instruction in Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen but German was the subject with which I was most familiar.

In spite, however, of these advantages, there were serious drawbacks to my progress. Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all that the Mastercam X9 Crack + Activation Code (Torrent) Free Download required, and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia were willing to hasten the work. For a while, indeed, I had to copy my Latin in braille, so that I could recite with the other girls. My instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes. I could not make notes in class or write exercises; but I wrote all my compositions and translations at home on my typewriter.

Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said. In study hours she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books I did not have in raised print. The tedium of that work is hard to conceive. Frau Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to give me instruction. No one realized more fully than dear Frau Gröte how slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelled out her instructions to me in special lessons twice a week, to give Miss Sullivan a little rest. But, though everybody was kind and ready to help us, there was only one hand that could turn drudgery into pleasure.

That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar, and read three chapters of Caesar's "Gallic War." In German I read, partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's assistance, Schiller's "Lied von der Glocke" and "Taucher," Heine's "Harzreise," Freytag's "Aus dem Staat Friedrichs des Grossen," Riehl's "Fluch Der Schönheit," Lessing's "Minna von Barnhelm," and Goethe's "Aus meinem Leben." I took the greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great's magnificent achievements and the account of Goethe's life. I was sorry to finish "Die Harzreise," so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished, imaginative age–descriptions such as can be given only by those to whom nature is "a feeling, a love and an appetite."

Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature. We read together, "As You Like It," Burke's "Speech on Conciliation with America," and Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson." Mr. Gilman's broad views of history and literature and his cleaver explanations made my work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read notes mechanically with the necessarily brief explanations given in the classes.

Burke's speech was more instructive than any other book on a political subject that I had ever read. My mind stirred with the stirring times, and the characters round which the life of two contending nations centered seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while Burke's masterly speech rolled on in mighty surges of eloquence, how it Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation. Then I entered into the melancholy details of the relation in which the great statesman stood to his party and Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen the representatives of the people. I thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom should have fallen among the tares of ignorance and corruption.

In a different way Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson" was interesting. My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in Grub Street, and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body and soul, always had a kind word, and lent a helping hand to the poor and despised. I rejoiced over all his successes, I shut my eyes to his faults, and wondered, not that he had them, but that they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul. But in spite of Macaulay's brilliancy and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times, and his frequent sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the Demosthenes of Great Britain, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

At the Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age. I lived with several others in one of the pleasant house connected with the school, the house where Mr. Howells used to live, and we all had the advantage of home life. I joined them in many of their games, even blind man's buff and frolics in the snow; I took long walks with them; we discussed our studies and read aloud the things that interested us. Some of the girls learned to speak to me, so that Miss Sullivan did not have to repeat their conversation.

At Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me, and Mr, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. So Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge, and for six happy months we were hardly ever apart. It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together.

I took my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July in 1897. The subjects I offered were Elementary and Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all. I passed in everything, and received "honours" in German and English.

Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my examinations will not be amiss here. The student was required to pass in sixteen hours–twelve hours being called elementary and four advanced, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted. The examination papers were given out at nine o'clock at Harvard and brought to Radcliffe by a special messenger. Each candidate was known, not by his name, but by a number. I was No. 233, but, as I had to use a typewriter, my identity could not be concealed.

It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by myself, because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls. Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual alphabet. Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption.

The first day I had German. Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper through first, then sentence by sentence, while I repeated the words aloud, to make sure that I understood him perfectly. The papers were difficult, and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the typewriter. Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written, and I made such changes as I thought necessary, and he inserted them. I wish to say here, that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations. At Radcliffe no one Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen the papers to me after they are written, and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up. In that, case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few minutes allowed, and make notes of these corrections at the end of my paper. If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the finals, there are two reasons. In the finals, no one read my work over to me, and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school; for at the beginning of the year I had passed examinations in English, History, French and German, which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard papers.

Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with a certificate that I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.

woman sitting at small desk in room with bookshelves
Photograph by Marshall, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, 1902
MISS KELLER AT WORK IN HER STUDY

All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. None Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen them was so difficult as the first. I remember that the day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and informed me I had passed satisfactorily in German. This encouraged me greatly, and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen and a steady hand.

CHAPTER XIX

WHEN I began my second year at the Gilman school, I was full of hope and determination to succeed. But during the first few weeks I was confronted with unforeseen difficulties. Mr. Gilman had agreed that that year I should study mathematics principally. I had physics, algebra, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, geometry, astronomy, Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, many of the books I needed had not been embossed in time for me to begin with the classes, and I lacked important apparatus for some of my studies. The classes I was in were very large, and it was impossible for the teachers to give me special instruction. Miss Sullivan was obliged to read all the books to me, and interpret for the instructors, and for the first time in eleven years it seemed as if her dear hand would not be equal to the task, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

It was necessary for me to write algebra and geometry in class and solve problems in physics, and this I could not do until we bought a braille writer, by means of which I could put down the steps and processes of my work. I could not follow with my eyes the geometrical figures drawn on Download Coreldraw x7 Gratuito ~ Monte Download blackboard, and my only means of getting a clear idea of them was to make them on a cushion with straight and curved wires, which had bent and pointed ends. I had to carry in my mind, as Mr. Keith says in his report, the lettering of the figures, the hypothesis and conclusion, the construction and the process of the proof. In a word, every study had its obstacles. Sometimes I lost all courage and betrayed my feelings in a way I am ashamed to remember, especially as the signs of my trouble were afterward used against Miss Sullivan, the only person of all the kind friends I had there, who could make the crooked straight and the rough places smooth.

Little by little, however, my difficulties began to disappear. The embossed books and other apparatus arrived, and I threw myself into the work with renewed confidence. Algebra and geometry were the only studies that continued to defy my efforts to comprehend them. As I have said before, I had no aptitude for mathematics; the different points were not explained to me as fully as I wished. The geometrical diagrams were particularly vexing because I could not see the relation of the different parts to one another, even on the cushion. It was not until Mr. Keith taught me that I had a clear idea of mathematics.

I was beginning to overcome these difficulties when an event occurred which changed everything.

Just before the books came, Mr. Gilman had begun to remonstrate with Miss Sullivan on the ground that I was working too hard, and in spite of my earnest protestations, he reduced the number of my Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. At the beginning we had agreed that I should, if necessary, take five years to prepare for college, but at the end of the first year the success of my examinations showed Miss Sullivan, Miss Harbaugh (Mr. Gilman's head teacher), and one other, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, that I could without too much effort complete my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman at first agreed to this; but when my tasks had become somewhat perplexing, he insisted that I was overworked, and that I should remain at his school three years longer. I did not like his plan, for I wished to enter college with my class.

On the seventeenth of November I was not very well, and did not go to school. Although Miss Sullivan knew that my indisposition was not serious, yet Mr. Gilman, on hearing of it, declared that I was breaking down and made changes in my studies which would have rendered it impossible for me to take my final examinations with my class. In the end the difference of opinion between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan resulted in my mother's withdrawing my sister Mildred and me from the Cambridge school.

After some delay it was arranged that I should continue my studies under a tutor, Mr, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Merton S. Keith, of Cambridge, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Miss Sullivan and I spent the rest of the winter with our friends, the Chamberlins in Wrentham, twenty-five miles from Boston.

From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came out to Wrentham twice a week, and taught me algebra, geometry, Greek and Latin. Miss Sullivan interpreted his instruction.

In October, 1898, we returned to Boston. For eight months Mr. Keith gave me lessons five times a week, in periods of about an hour. He explained each time what I did not understand in the previous lesson, assigned new work, and took home with him the Greek exercises which I had written during the week on my typewriter, corrected them fully, and returned them to me.

In this way my preparation for college went on without interruption. I found it much easier and pleasanter to be taught by myself than to receive instruction in class, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. There was no hurry, no confusion. My tutor had plenty of time to explain what I did not understand, so I got on faster and did better work than I ever did in school. I still found more difficulty in mastering problems in mathematics than I did in any other of my studies. I wish algebra and geometry had been half as easy as the languages and literature. But even mathematics Mr. Keith made interesting; he succeeded in whittling problems small enough to get through my brain. He kept my mind alert and eager, and trained it to reason clearly, and to seek conclusions calmly and logically, instead of jumping wildly into space and arriving nowhere. He was always gentle and forbearing, no matter how dull I might be, and, believe me, my stupidity would often have exhausted the patience of Job.

On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my final examinations for Radcliffe College. The first day I had Elementary Greek and Advanced Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and Advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read the examination papers to me; so Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was employed to copy the papers for me in American braille. Mr. Vining was a stranger to me, and could not communicate with me, except by writing Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. The proctor was also a stranger, and did not at tempt to communicate with me in any way.

The braille worked well enough in the languages, but when it came to geometry and algebra, difficulties arose. 4 I was sorely perplexed, and felt discouraged wasting much precious time, especially in algebra. It is true that I was familiar with all literary braille in common use in this country–English, American, and New York Point; but the various signs and symbols in geometry and algebra in the three systems are very different, and I had used only the English braille in my algebra.

Two days before the examinations, Mr. Vining sent me a braille copy of one of the old Harvard papers in algebra. To my dismay I found that it was in the American notation. I sat down immediately and wrote to Mr. Vining, asking him to explain the signs. I received another paper and a table of signs by return mail, and I set to work to learn the notation. But on the night before the algebra examination, while I was struggling over some very complicated examples, I could not tell the combinations of bracket, brace and radical. Both Mr. Keith and I were distressed and full of forebodings for the morrow; but we went over to the college a little before the examination began, and had Mr. Vining explain more fully the American symbols.

In geometry my chief difficulty was that I had always been accustomed to read the propositions in line print, or to have them spelled into my hand; and somehow, although AMazing TD PC full crack - Free Download - Repack - Hiu Games propositions were right before me, I found the braille confusing, and could not fix clearly in my mind what I was reading. But when I took up algebra I had a harder time still. The signs, which I had so lately learned, and which I thought I knew, perplexed me. Besides, I could not see what I wrote on my typewriter. I had always done my work in braille or in my head. Mr. Keith had relied too much on my ability to solve problems mentally, and had not trained me to write examination papers. Consequently my work was painfully slow, and I had to read the examples over and over before I could form any idea of what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now that I read all the signs correctly. I found it very hard to keep my wits about me.

But I do not blame any one. The administrative board of Radcliffe did not realize how difficult they were making my examinations, nor did they understand the peculiar difficulties I had to surmount. But if they unintentionally placed obstacles in my way, I have the consolation of knowing that I overcame them all.

CHAPTER XX

THE struggle for admission to college was ended, and I could now enter Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college, however, it was thought best that I should study another year under Mr. Keith. It was not, therefore, until the fall of 1900 that my dream of going to college was realized.

I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest for me. I had looked forward to it for years. A potent force within me, stronger than the persuasion of my friends, stronger even than the pleadings of my heart, had impelled me to try my strength by the standards of those who see and hear. I knew that there were obstacles in the way; but I was eager to overcome them. I had taken to heart the words of the wise Roman who said, "To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome." Debarred from the great highways of knowledge, I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequented roads–that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and struggling like me.

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom. If I have since learned differently, I am not going to tell anybody.

But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college.

The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college, there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures–solitude, books and imagination–outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

My studies the first year were French, German, history, English composition and English literature. In the French course I read some of the work of Corneille, Molière, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically Milton's poems and "Aeropagitica."

I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which I work in college. In the classroom, I am of course practically alone. The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone. The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much worse off than the girl who takes notes. If the mind is Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at pellmell speed, I should not think one could pay much attention to the subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented. I cannot make notes during the lectures, because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-tests, the mid-year and final examinations, on my typewriter, so that the professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When I began the study of Latin prosody, I devised and explained to my professor a system of signs indicating the different meters and quantities.

I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several shuttles, each with a different set of characters–Greek, French, or mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.

Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand. Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls. The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a few chapters, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, while in the world without other girls are laughing and singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, after all, every one who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. E. Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they can ever know.

Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition, the Bible as English literature, the governments Alien Skin Exposure X6 Bundle 6.0.7.210 Crack Full Version Download America and Europe, the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting, vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland, more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old Testament, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a new growth on the ancient stem of time."

This year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially interest me, economics, Elizabethan literature, Shakespeare under Professor George L, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Kittredge, and the History of Philosophy under Professor Josiah Royce. Through philosophy one enters with sympathy of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of thought, which erewhile seemed alien and without reason.

But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was. There one does not meet the great and the wise face to face; one does not even feel their living touch. They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified. We must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah, and not merely a clever imitation. Many scholars forget, it seems to me, that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. It is possible to know a flower, root and stem and all, and all the processes of growth, and yet to have no appreciation of the flower fresh bathed in heaven's dew. Again and again I ask impatiently, "Why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses?" They fly hither and thither in my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men. But when a great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind." He brings back Shakespeare, the poet.

There are, however, times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured at the greatest cost. It is impossible, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, I think, to read in one day four or five different books in Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen languages and treating of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads. When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-à-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape them, theme-goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until I wish–oh, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, may I be forgiven the wicked wish!–that I might smash the idols I came to worship.

But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formulæ and indigestible dates–unpalatable diets, until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea.

At last the dreaded hour arrives, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch.

"Give a brief account of Huss and his work." Huss? Who was he and what did he do? The name looks strangely familiar. You ransack your budget of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag bag. You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top–you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the Reformation. But where is it now? You fish out all manner of odds and ends of knowledge–revolutions, schisms, massacres, systems of government; but Huss–where is he? You are amazed at all the things you know which are not on the examination paper. In desperation you seize the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you.

Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up. With Honestech VHS to DVD 2.5 SE crack serial keygen feeling of intense disgust you kick the mass of rubbish into a corner and go home, your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned.

It comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I have used figures which will turn the laugh against me. Ah, here they are–the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me, pointing to the bull in the china shop assailed by hailstones and the bugbears with pale looks, an unanalyzed species! Let them mock on. The words describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling, tumbling ideas I live in that I will wink at them for once, and put on a deliberate air to say that my ideas of college have changed.

While my days at Radcliffe were still in the future, they were encircled with a halo of romance, which they have lost; but in the transition from romantic to actual I have learned many things I should never have known had I not tried the experiment. One of them is the precious science of patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort. Such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a soundless tidal wave of deepening thought. "Knowledge is power." Rather, knowledge is happiness, because to have knowledge–broad, deep knowledge–is to know true ends from false, and lofty things from low. To know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress is to feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.

CHAPTER XXI

I HAVE thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have introducción simplify3d Archives so much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back to the time when I began to read.

I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years of my education; nor did I read according to rule.

At first I had only a few books in raised print–"readers" for beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again and again the things that pleased me.

It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, whether I understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write, these words and sentences would Bandicam 5.3.1.1880 Crack With Serial Key [Latest 2021] Free Download out quite naturally, so that my friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way, until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly.

One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends in Boston, leaving me for a short time.

When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might have as long an afternoon Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen possible for the story. As we hastened through the long grass How to activate Windows 11 without product key for free 2021 (180 days) the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that my teacher insisted on picking them all off before we sat down, which seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words. At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.

Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed, and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious, because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and confused memories of earlier reading.

From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare;" "A Child's History of England" by Dickens, "The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them–I did not know whether they were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship. They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my own.

I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language, I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my mind to the exclusion of the moral.

Arquivos Playstation, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our higher moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and restrained by reason, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen judge, self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and foxes.

But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel a genuine interest in the animals themselves, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, because they are real animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods–no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

God can dumbness keep
While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. Adobe Master Collection CC 2021 Crack License key [Update] My physical limitations are forgotten–my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Æneid is not so great, but it is none the less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have traveled round the world many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road.

I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen to read me a story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers. Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."

But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr. Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to having these great works weakened or falsified.

There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath. Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but if I live, my people shall live."

The story of Ruth, too–how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital! Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel age. Love like Ruth's, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.

The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are temporal, and things unseen are eternal."

I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger and Lady Macbeth's little white hand–the dreadful stain was as real to me as to the grief-stricken queen.

I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloucester's eyes Number generator Archives - Kali Software Crack put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.

I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same time, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them Synthesia 10.7.5567 Crack is Here ! [2021] | Tested to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.

It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays–the ones I like best now–appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child: what it will hold, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and what it will lose."

I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and know parts of them by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But, with all my love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used to try to remember their interpretations, but they discouraged and vexed me; so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under Professor Kittredge. I know there are many things in Shakespeare, and in the world, that I do not understand; and I am glad to see veil after veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty.

Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that I have been able to lay my hands on, from a catalogue of dry facts and dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton's "Middle Ages." The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was Swinton's "World History," which I received on my thirteenth birthday. Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of men spread from land to land and built great cities, how a few great rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and knowledge and broke ground for the mightier growths of coming ages; how Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen underwent, as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age, and rose again, like the Phoenix, among the nobler sons of the North; and how by liberty, tolerance and education the great and the wise have opened the way for the salvation of the whole world.

In my college reading I have become Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen familiar with French and German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement, sledgehammer vigour about everything that he does. When he speaks, it is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.

Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like; but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":

All things transitory
  But as symbols are sent.
Earth's insufficiency
  Here grows to event.
The indescribable
Here it is done.
The Woman Soul leads us upward and on!

Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Molière and Racine best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Mérimée which strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset is impossible! I admire Victor Hugo–I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo and Goethe and Schiller and all great poets of all great nations are interpreters of eternal things, and my spirit reverently follows them into the regions where Beauty and Truth and Goodness are one.

I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many writers for many reasons–Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in reading his poems. I love Mark Twain–who does not? The gods, too, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine of optimism–fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen splash of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.

In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness. The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and heavenly charities."

CHAPTER XXII

I TRUST that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are many and varied.

More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of the country and out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I learned to row and swim, and during the summer, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, when I am at Wrentham, Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits in the stern and manages the rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks, and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly poised. In the same manner I can also tell when I am pulling against the current. I like to contend with wind and wave. What is more exhilarating than to make your staunch little boat, obedient to your will and muscle, go skimming lightly over glistening, tilting waves, and to feel the steady, imperious surge of the water!

I also enjoy canoeing, and I suppose you will smile when I say that I especially like it on moonlight nights. I cannot, it is true, see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the heavens, making a shining path for us to follow; but I know she is there, and as I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water, I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes. Sometimes a daring little fish slips between Adoba photoshope cs6 crack serial keygen fingers, and often a pond-lily presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter of a cove or inlet, I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it comes from the trees which have been heated by the sun, or from the water, I can never discover. I have had the same strange sensation even in the heart of the city. I have felt it on cold, stormy days and at night. It is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.

My favourite amusement is sailing. In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova Scotia, and had opportunities EaseUS Partition Master 13.8 Crack And Activation Code as I had not enjoyed before to Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen the acquaintance of the ocean. After spending a few days in Evangeline's country, about which Longfellow's beautiful poem has woven a spell of enchantment, Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax, where we remained the greater part of the summer, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. The harbour was our joy, our paradise. What glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin, to McNabb's Island, to York Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Oh, it was all so interesting, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.

One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the Northwest Sweet home 3d sketchup Archives, in which the boats from the different warships were engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and the sea was calm. When the races were over, and we turned our faces homeward, one of the party noticed a black Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen drifting in from the sea, which grew and spread and thickened until it covered the whole sky. The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers. Our little boat confronted the gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled in the billows, now she sprang upward on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with angry howl and hiss. Down came the mainsail. Tacking and jibbing, we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with impetuous fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with excitement, not fear; for we had the hearts of vikings, and we knew that our skipper was master of the situation. He had steered through many a storm with firm hand and sea-wise eye. As they passed us, the large craft and the gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sail-boat that ventured out into the storm. At last, cold, hungry and weary, we reached our pier.

Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most charming villages in New England. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King Philip's Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family, was my home. I remember with deepest gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet companionship of their children meant much to me. I joined in all their sports and rambles through the woods and frolics in the water. The prattle of the little ones and their pleasure in the stories I told them of elf and gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr. Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower, until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak, and saw the sun glint from leaf to leaf. Thus it is that

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and wingéd things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I

gave evidence of things unseen, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen.

It seems to me that there is in each Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen us a capacity to comprehend the impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning. Each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this gift from past generations. This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense–a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.

I have many tree friends in Wrentham. One of them, a splendid oak, is the special pride of my heart. I take all my other friends to see this king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's Pond, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and those who are wise in tree lore say it must have stood there eight hundred or a thousand years. There is a tradition that under this tree King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, gazed his last on earth and sky.

I had another tree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great oak–a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon, during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily striven and was now mightily fallen.

But I must not forget that I was going to write about last summer in particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen days were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were thrust into the background. In Wrentham we caught echoes of what was happening in the world–war, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away Pacific, and learned of the struggles going on between capital and labour. We knew that beyond the border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall endure forever.

People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any Grids for Instagram 7.1.6 Crack 2021 + License Key Free Download, except possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets and in country roads. They forget that my whole body is alive to the conditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of my Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard pavements and the monotonous clangour of machinery are all the more torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can see.

In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong and beautiful, while others are condemned to live in hideous, sunless tenements and grow ugly, withered and cringing. The children who crowd these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crouch in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men and women, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence must be–no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all, we say; but are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man, and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its gold, and return to wood and field and simple, honest living! Then would their children grow stately as noble trees, and their thoughts sweet and pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when I return to the country after a year of work in town.

What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen roll and climb in Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen gladness!

Next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of my iron steed. The Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen rush through the air gives me a delicious sense of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my heart sing.

Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or sail. I have had many dog friends–huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, wood-wise setters and honest, homely bull terriers. At present the lord of my affections is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree, a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends Windows 7 Enterprise 32/64bit crack serial keygen to understand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I am alone. I Abelssoft AntiRansomware 2021 21.92.136 with Crack Full [Latest] Download their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their tails.

When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of other girls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky ways I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them firmly. The black checkers FastStone Capture 9.7 License Key & Crack {2021} Free Download flat and the white ones curved on top. Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be placed to distinguish the king from the commons. The chessmen are of two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to another tells me when it is my turn.

If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the upper right-hand corner with Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen symbols which indicate the value of the card.

If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.

woman holding dog in place on a table and leaning her head toward it
Copyright by Emily Stokes, 1902; Photograph by Emily Stokes, 1902
MISS KELLER AND "PHIZ"

Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration. Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight can feel action, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art. As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barré's bronzes the secrets of the jungle are revealed to me.

A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow–tracks of life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation–the perpetual night in which he dwelt–

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!

In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating steps he gropes his way from camp to camp–singing of life, of love, of war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful, glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal crown, the admiration of all ages.

I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of sculpture than the eye. I should think the rhythmical flow of lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it may, I know that I can feel the heart-throbs of the ancient Greeks in their marble gods and goddesses.

Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirring events. It has been my privilege to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the romantic past. I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of Miss FL Studio 20.8.4.2567 Crack + Reg Key Free Torrent Download Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. In the king's face, which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of grief which I shall never forget.

I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to count him among my friends. I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting. The first time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van Winkle." I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jefferson's beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight. I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose. After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet.

Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

Categories 
  Simulation   

Lemonade Tycoon 2 is the sequel to Lemonade Tycoon. This game contains more features, improved graphics, and is set in New York City, unlike its predecessor. Also, this version allowed the player to have more than one stand and the ability to have stands in more than one location at once. 

Lemonade Tycoon 2 revolves around selling lemonade for a profit. The player can buy upgrades to make customers happier and make lemonade faster. 

 Lemonade Tycoon has 19 locations where a stand can be located, which include The Bronx, Brooklyn, Greenwich Village, Central Park, Times Square, Statue of Liberty, and Grand Central Station.

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Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

#lemonade code Tumblr posts

this is an old one that was like half started so I just hammered out something that felt about right. I'm not 100% happy with this one either, but as usual the concept IS there. It happens Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen before Faraday Cage and And We Danced, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, if memory serves. Done me best to line shit up and make it make sense with. mixed results

Faraday Cage--thermodynamic equilibrium present, as well as honor among thieves and jacqueda mentions; as usual, Cassie is a free agent

F slur used once but in reverse hays code (the gays code, if you will) fashion, there is retribution

[[MORE]]

“Nothing’s better than a backyard barbecue in Beverly Hills,” said Cassie Cage, lifting her glass of lemonade to salute the weather. The sun shone high overhead, the palm trees swayed in the gentle ocean breeze, and her father was at the grill, stacking the coals.

“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,” confirmed Jacqueline Briggs—Jacqui to her friends—lifting her own glass and settling back on a folding chair.

“Where’s Takeda?” Johnny asked from the grill, satisfied in the pile he had created and now dousing it with lighter fluid.

“Classified, Mr. Cage, you know that,” said Jacqui, a mock serious expression on her face. “But I think I’ve convinced Dad to come, so keep your eyes peeled.”

Cassie dropped into a folding chair nearby and placed her glass in the cupholder on the armrest. She wondered who would be able to make it; their invitation had been an open one. She expected Earthrealm guests only, this time, but one never knew.

“Cassie, hey, mind lettin’ us in? Got our hands full,” came a call from over the fence. She hopped up, recognizing the voice immediately as Kung Jin, a friend from SF, now on liaison duty in Outworld—well, he was, but evidently he had acquired some vacation time. We? She wondered. Who’s he with? She pictured, for a moment, the colossal Kotal, one of the triarchs of outworld and all-around badass with thighs like tree trunks. His thighs were only concerning to her because she was sure that, if he was here, they would be exposed. The people of Earthrealm did not dress that way and the questions raised by his arrival might’ve been more than she was equipped or willing to handle.

Then again, she reminded herself, this is Beverly Hills.

She tugged the gate open, already pleased that she did not see a massive head and shoulders hovering over the fence line. Instead, Jin stood there, arms piled with dishes full of food, two folding chairs slung on his back. Behind him, carrying a large cooler, was a man Cassie did not recognize immediately. It was not until she met his eyes, dark gray things that were sharp, perceptive, and just a little unnerving, the eyes of a hired gun, that she made the connection.

“Erron, Jin, c’mon in—uh, yeah, that table there for salads; that one for drinks, unless you’re keepin’ ‘em nearby.” She could not have hoped to explain her initial desire to refer to the cowboy as Mr. Black, save for his age; she was sure he and her father were just about equivalent in years.

“Outworld hooch,” grunted Erron, “I ain’t sharin’.”

“Unless someone asks,” Jin corrected, “and then you’re sharing.”

Erron’s shoulders sagged a little and he moved almost reluctantly over to the drink table. On his journey thereto, he found himself stepping around a large, round pad which looked to be made of rubber, though he only had time to wonder at it a moment. His load was getting heavy.

The table had an empty bowl thereupon, with a large dipping ladle nearby and stacks of cups. Cassie had yet to mix the punch as the party was not scheduled to start until quarter to four, or thereabouts. It was only two-thirty, though she appreciated the early Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen Cassie whispered to Jin as he set his dishes down upon the salads and sides table, “you ah… really got him—”

“Whipped?” Jin’s voice was low, conspiratorial, and mischievous. “I’m kidding—he’s just… out of his element. I’m not sure we’ve ever… gone anywhere together; thought this was a good opportunity.” Erron Black’s element was high noon at the OK Corral, as far as Cassie was concerned, or at least the dust and grit of Outworld. Earthrealmer he might have been, but he had integrated well with the rough-and-tumble ways of those oh, so savage lands.

“It is,” she assured him, “and we’re glad you came. He’s good for you, I think.”

“He is.” The glowing look on Jin’s face told Cassie all she needed to know about that and she asked no more. They watched Erron slide the cooler off to one side, setting out a couple of bottles that did not need to be kept cold, and then observed as he placed the cooler—an Earthrealm purchase, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, obviously—thoughtfully underneath the table and out of the sun.

Cassie returned to Jacqui, who was leaning forward and squinting behind her sunglasses. “Is’sat?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

Both women looked at each other, tried to hold back their laughter, and failed miserably. Johnny had by that point come out from behind the grill, content to watch the coals heat. He grabbed a beer from a nearby cooler on the way and moved a folding chair so he could both speak with his guests and watch those coals. Coal heat, he had found over the years, was of vital importance.

He, too, had noticed Erron Black walking in with Jin, had some desire to speak with the latter, curious about the goings-on in Outworld, and all at once decided against it, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, returning momentarily for another beer and offering the cowboy the other drink. Erron took it, regarded the bottle, Johnny, and the house.

“Nice place y’got here, Cage,” he grunted, accepting one of the two folding chairs from Jin, who had already set his up near his old SF squad.

“Thanks. Lotta blood, sweat, and tears went into it… not mine; I got stunt guys for that.” Johnny chuckled and settled into his chair. Erron opened his with one swift jerk of his powerful arm and, taking only a moment to decide, set it down near Johnny Cage, rather than Jin, Jacqui, and Cassie. They had plenty to catch up on and Erron wasn’t in a gossiping mood.

Johnny, evidently, also was not and the two men sat in silence, watching the few clouds in the sky, the grill, and the perspiration of their beers. Erron wished desperately for his hat, but Jin told him no one in California unironically wore cowboy hats unless they wanted to be mistaken for a trick. Erron had scoffed, but ultimately had obeyed.

He did not much care how he looked, but did not want Jin to look or feel he looked foolish. Kid’s growin’ on me, he thought, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, not without fondness. It had, he decided, been too long since he had been back to Earthrealm for any amount of time without engaging in kombat.

When Jin flopped into his chair near Jacqui and Cassie, the three began engaging in small talk. That lasted all of two minutes, which, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, Cassie decided, was a new record between them.

“So spill,” she said, voice low, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. “How’d you hook up with Showdown at the Outworld Corral over there?”

Jin blushed, but only with excitement. He was not bashful. Outworld had driven the shyness out of him… and PC Auto Shutdown Key 7.1 [Latest Version] Free Download 2021 Kahn’s kind words. ‘In Outworld, there is little room for Earthrealm prejudices; I suggest you leave those behind and seize happiness where you can.’ He had drawn Jade close when he said this. Jin caught his meaning.

“Kotal Kahn was throwing this party, right? To celebrate an independent Edenia… he made Erron a member of his council, too!” Jin was elated, both for the success of Edenian negotiation and for Erron Black, a man with formerly dubious morals and a checkered past. To have come so far as this was nothing short of miraculous. “He still talks about koin, but… I really think he believes in it.”

Jacqui and Cassie both detected the depth of feeling and nodded, smiling a little between themselves and nodding, each in turn. Kotal Kahn was a magnanimous ruler. With Edenia being set up as an independent state and Kitana upon that throne, they, the Shokan people, and Kotal himself, were beginning a serious endeavor to form a council of Outworld peoples, to Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen fairly govern their territories. Kotal, Kitana, and Sheeva, Goro’s fiery successor, had even set up a triarchy, all styling themselves with royal titles, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, Kahnum, and Queen, respectively. They held sovereignty over their own lands, but came together on matters of state which affected all the realm.

But now was not the time for solemn contemplations. They were at a party, catching up and gossipping. Maybe all the gory details wouldn’t be shared, but there would be enough implications to last them the whole afternoon and well into the evening.

“Oh my god,” Jacqui said after a moment, chuckling behind her hand and leaning forward, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. All three of their heads were pressed close together now. “A party hook-up? And he’s still here? Damn, what is your secret?”

“Between us girls,” Jin whispered, snickering, “I don’t remember a ton of it.”

Cassie roller her eyes. “If you don’t wanna tell us, Jin…”

“No no, really, Outworld booze hits different; trust me. But… okay, here’s the thing, when the sun came up, you’re right, he was still there.” There was real emotion choking Jin’s voice, but he swallowed it down. Jacqui Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen him, meeting Cassie’s gaze for a moment before reaching out and patting Jin’s shoulder.

“Well, you did something right ‘cause now he’s at Cassie’s dad’s barbecue and they honestly look like they’re talking about grill shit, so…”

“Hey, speaking of dads… Jacqui—”

“No, don’t do that,” warned Jin, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, red to the ears now, hands up, shaking his head, his ponytail tossing itself this way and that.

“Do what?” Cassie leaned back. “Call Erron a dad? ‘Cause he definitely could be.”

“Or a ‘daddy’,” Jacqui ventured, mischief sparkling in dark eyes, glad for the distraction from the question that was most certainly coming: where was Jax. “There any of that goin’ on?”

Jin’s eyes were wide. “N-no! No. Uh-uh… Listen, guys, I have… plenty of kinks, but that, I promise you, is not one of them.”

“Ain’t whatcha said last night,” came a twangy purr from somewhere behind the trio. Evidently, Erron had gotten up to grab more drinks for himself and his fellow “dad” and had overheard. That, or they were not so quiet as they thought.

Could Kung Jin go any Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen than he already was? Cassie and Jacqui had begun to wonder how many shades of that color existed. They burst into laughter with Jin covering his face.

“Sorry kid,” grunted the cowboy, patting Jin on the back as he passed with his other hand wrapped around two more beers, from their stash, this time, “couldn’t resist. Girls, give’m a break.”

Both girls immediately stopped laughing and nodded, eyes wide. “Yessir,” they both responded in unison. Maybe it was the downright fatherly tone he had used, or Jin’s face-in-hands distress, but they both leaned forward and pried his fingers from his face, laughing once more and reassuring him that Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen were not, in any way, judging him.

“Honestly,” Cassie said, “I’m just glad you’re happy. You too, Jacqui. You guys’ve found something good; I can see that from here.”

“What about you?” Jin asked after a moment. Cassie shook her head.

“Don’t need it… not yet. I think I’ll know when I do.”

“And your dad?” Jacqui’s voice dipped low once more and the three of them peered over at the two men clinking their beers together and chatting. Cassie shook her head.

“I dunno… he’s doing better, but sometimes you can just sorta… see it in his face; he’s missing a huge part of himself… I know he misses mom, but it’s something deeper. He’s… he needs someone.” Dad’s one of those people who doesn’t do too well on their own. This last remained unspoken.

Johnny engaged Erron in conversation easily. He was a gregarious man by nature, so any form of socializing was absolutely within the scope of things he could and did do regularly when he had the opportunity. Retiring from SF had been his first step to regaining some semblance of whatever passed as normalcy in his life, and thence, diving back into his film career.

“There’s a real call for guys my age these days… Shifting demographics, or whatever; my agent says I’m in the prime of my life for this shit. Feels good, y’know, to be out of my err… Ninja Mime era.”

“Not bad films, though,” grunted Erron, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, inclining his head. “I mean… script leaves somethin’ to be desired, but first time I saw one, I knew you were the real deal.”

“Thanks, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, Black, that means a shitload comin’ from you,” said Johnny, smiling genuinely and tipping his beer toward the other man, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. “To second chances?”

“I’ll drink to it.”

They tapped their beers together and drank deeply, relishing the cool carbonation in the heat of a California afternoon. The liquid was refreshing and perfumed, a dark porter, just like they both seemed to enjoy. In truth, Erron would take any offered Earthrealm beer. Carbonation was not simple to achieve in Outworld and hops were all but unattainable. He had been promised that Edenia had been fertile and lush and that, under Kitana’s rule, their territory could be again, but that was a ways off.

Johnny shifted minutely at the sound of the gate being tapped on politely. He opened one eye to look at Cassie, who met his gaze and shrugged. Everyone was here, weren’t they? The Earthrealmers they had expected, anyway. They had sent out other invitations, so to speak, but they hadn’t thought.

“I got it,” said Jin, standing and stretching, handing the drink he had recently acquired to Jacqui and heading over to the gate. Tugging the latch, he opened the way for two familiar faces, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, if not dressed familiarly.

“Grandmaster.s?” Jin stammered, saluting both and bowing deeply. Sub-Zero grinned, standing a little way behind Scorpion, who stared with his usual intensity at Jin before grasping the boy’s shoulder, squeezing it, and entering Johnny Cage’s back yard.

“You are surprised to see us,” Sub-Zero said, not without amusement.

“If we expected you, you’d be shitty ninjas,” Cassie observed, lifting her glass in greeting. Sub-Zero could not help a smile, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. His stern face glowed with mirth and, despite the California heat and sun, he seemed to be doing just fine. Outworld Kryomancers were of tough stock, evidently, and he was the baddest bitch of them all, as far as she was aware.

“Ah, Cass, I think it’s just ninja,” Jacqui observed, taking a sip from her glass and watching Jin assist Grandmaster Hanzo Hasashi, with what they had brought. He swiftly rearranged the table to better accommodate the dishes which were being brought.

“Nothin’ just about THOSE ninja,” Johnny supplied. He’d stood and was fussing with the coals, Erron gesturing and quietly coaching him, which he did not seem to appreciate and soon the two fell into earnest discussion about grilling.

“They aren’t ninja anyway,” said Jin, hoisting the cooler on top of one of the long tables and pulling out a few salads and side dishes. These, he then arranged in the most pleasing way he could manage. He reflected that it was all food in the end, so there really was no downside. They all looked fantastic and were clearly homemade and he made brief, sharp eye contact with Cassie, as if to say “would you take a look at THIS”.

The idea of either Sub-Zero or Scorpion cooking, baking, or preparing any kind of food brought a hysterical bubble of laughter to Cassie’s lips and she swiftly drowned it with drink. Laughing at ninja was a good way to get shanked. Ninja shanked. Shuriken…ed? Come to think of it, she had never seen Scorpion or Sub-Zero use that particular weapon—only ice-axes and that crazy spear on a chain. She swallowed at the thought of that and was relieved all at once that he was on THEIR side.

“Sweets on that table,” she called, gesturing to a smaller apparatus that had been set up, but held no food yet. She’d made some fairly attractive cupcakes (in all actually, she’d had them made and picked them up that morning) and was going to set them out when there were more people.

“You guys need chairs?” Jacqui stood, offering to grab them from inside the house. She was Cassie’s best friend and Cassie’s dad’s casa counted as hers, which meant it counted as Jacqui’s. Sub-Zero shook his head and gestured.

“We have brought our own.” He set out a sturdy-looking folding chair, a little closer to Erron Black and Johnny than to what Cassie was starting to think of as the “kids table” with not a small amount of humor; she’d begun to see crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and swore there was some gray in her hair, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, though that was probably a trick of the light.

Holding the back of the seat, the Kryomancer awaited 3dMark 2.8.6446 serial key Archives rear-end and then, without missing a beat, built an icy chair next to it. The thing was solid and weeping condensation, but would hold as long as he remained in the area. Scorpion leaned over and whispered something to him that Jacqui thought looked like a scolding word and Sub-Zero chuckled, affectionately touching the man’s arm.

“Makes sense,” Jin observed, taking his seat. “He’s a Kryomancer, y’know, and this kinda heat is rough. He’s tough, but he’s not the Grandmaster because he’s stupid.”

“This has got to be the weirdest barbecue—are we expecting any Outworlders? ‘Cause I swear,” Jacqui said, leaning back, “if the Kahn Squad comes through that gate, I might need y’all to catch my ass before I hit the ground.”

They laughed heartily at this thought, but then all eyes were on the gate, just in case.

“So,” Cassie said, by way of making more conversation, “Jin… what’s going Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen in Outworld right now… that whole Triarchy thing has gotta be weird for ‘em, right?”

“It is,” Jin admitted, nodding. “I’m surprised we got time off, even for this.” He gestured between himself and Erron. “Things between the Tarkatan and Shokan aren’t great.”

“They’re like, eternal rivals, right?” Jacqui had boned up on Outworld history in the time she and Takeda Takahashi had been seeing each other, to better understand the history of his clan, even if he was not a native.

“The bitterest… Hatfield and McCoy on ‘roids.” Jin’s words were humorous, but his expression was grave. “The Shokan claim it is the fault of the Tarkatans that their ancestral home, the subterranean lands, were taken by the Kytinn.”

“Those fucked up bug… things,” said Cassie, the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen on her face being mimicked perfectly in her voice, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. She made a “yuck” sound and shuddered. She hated bugs, especially bugs that walked on two legs and affected the stance of a sensual humanoid female. It was the sensual part that was most unsettling.

She attributed it to pheromones, but it had been hard to look away. She shuddered again.

“Fucking nasty.”

Everyone agreed.

Jacqui sighed then and plopped her chin in one hand. She clicked her tongue and pursed her lips, grimacing. “I really wish Takeda could be here,” she said after a moment. Jin laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Wherever he is,” said the Shaolin archer, “I’m pretty sure he’d rather be here, too.”

“I just miss him so much when he’s not around,” she lamented. “It’s embarrassing, y’know? Needing to be near someone like that—knowing that you can feel whole and shit, but not being able to because duty or obligation or… whatever-it-is takes you away. I knew what I was signing up for, but it’s never easy.”

Her gaze drifted toward the pair of elder warriors seated side-by-side and zeroed in on Scorpion, who was leaning forward in his chair to participate in some discussion going on between Johnny and Erron, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. She looked like she might be ready to launch herself toward Grandmaster Hasashi and give the man a piece of her mind, but she restrained herself, understanding that whatever it was, it needed to be done. A man who had so often lost everything was not likely to waste resources, especially not valuable ones like Takeda.

Cassie admired her friend’s strength, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, always had, and she lifted a glass to it. “To Jacqui’s balls of steel,” she suggested, “and saintly patience.”

“Here-here,” echoed Jin and Jacqui with smiles, both amused and melancholy. Jin missed Takeda as well. The two had been good friends, perhaps more on and off, and they were still very close. Whatever mission was given to him, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, no one had any doubt he’d complete it with finesse. All the same, they were still allowed to worry and to miss him.

“I think the grandmaster really digs your man, Jacqui,” Cassie suggested. “I mean… Takeda’s his right hand, practically his son, y’know?”

Jacqui nodded, leaning closer to the others to speak in low tones once more. “I think he’s tapped for next GM,” she said with confidence. “And frankly, he deserves it.”

“And Grandmaster Hasashi deserves to pull his laurels out of whatever cedar chest he keeps ‘em in and plant his ass on those things,” added Jin. “I think those guys’ve done enough, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Cassie said, “but say that to their faces. God, imagine if I’d said that to my mom… Christ…” She sat back and allowed herself a laugh. There would have been no way in hell Sonya Blade would have been convinced to retire short of a completely uncontrollable disaster. The fact that she’d met her end that way, still in her prime, still kicking ass and killing bad guys didn’t make her loss sting less, but it did give Cassie and her father a measure of peace. Sonya was the epitome of “she died doing what she loved” and they could both respect that for her.

“She’d have crucified you,” Jacqui agreed, nodding, “and then hired Pale Goth Homeboy to resurrect you so she could do it again.”

Jin’s drink nearly came out his nose when Jacqui supplied this absolute wreck of a nickname for the sorcerer Quan-Chi, a man who had fancied himself the Elder God Shinnok’s right hand but whom they suspected was more of a tool of little interest to the being—perhaps a groupie. Cassie barked a laugh at Jin’s malfunction and Jacqui’s brows and shoulders rose.

“Well, am I wrong?”

Shaking his head, Jin fished about for a napkin, which Cassie provided. As she did so, her father approached, ivt bluesoleil 10 the grill for a moment to speak to the “kids table”. Old guys like Johnny saw anyone under 40 as a kid, even if these were soldiers in their thirties.

“Jin, I got those black bean burgers you recommended when you were here last time,” he said, “hope that’s okay.”

“Oh—OH yeah, that’s great! Man… I can’t wait; I haven’t had a good burger since I left Earthrealm. Thanks for inviting us.”

Johnny flashed a thumbs-up before asking if anyone else needed drinks. Cassie assured him she had it well under control. “Hey, dad,” she said after a moment, “are the Shaolin Rowdy Boys gunna be here?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “I contacted ‘em, but Lao said they had something going on—wasn’t specific an’ I didn’t push; figured it’s some kinda Wu-Shi mysticism or somethin’.” He looked to Jin for confirmation of the presence of such “mysticism” and Jin nodded.

“Transcending to other planes via deep meditation, most likely,” he said. The other two looked at him, then at Johnny, whose brows had risen. When Jin snorted a laugh, Jacqui and Cassie laughed as well and Johnny smiled, shaking his head and waving them off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what that means,” he said, moving back to the gaggle of older men near the grill. Johnny’s mannerisms were casual and the look on his face gave nothing away, but his mind had flown to the temple of light and his two Shaolin companions. He had not seen them in a while and had a feeling something was amiss, but wasn’t quite rude enough to ask—not anymore anyway.

He returned to tending the food when a muffled crack of thunder split the peaceful afternoon and a bolt of blue-white lightning descended in a flash onto the wide, thick, rubber pad at one corner of Johnny’s yard. Johnny did not realize how his face lit up at the presence of the thunder god, but both Erron Black and Grandmaster Kuai Liang were watching him. Their eyes met presently and a look passed between them of bewildered amusement.

“Thought I felt my hairs standing up,” Cassie said as she stood to greet the deity whom she was beginning to regard as a second father.

“I apologize for my lateness, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, Cassandra Cage,” said Raiden, who was dressed, as ever, to the nines in godly attire. The only real difference was a distinct lack of the leather-like cowl he usually wore. His hair tumbled freely over his shoulders in loose ringlets and gentle curls. It swayed and bounced as he moved.

Cassie had visions of him in white sweats, a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt, and some kind of simple, but well-made bathrobe for ultimate comfort, but for some reason could not quite bring the vision to fruition. One day, she vowed. Humorous thoughts aside, the woman had only ever known him in this and his dreadful armor. Cassie preferred this.

“Lord Raiden,” said both grandmasters almost simultaneously, standing and offering deep bows. IntelliJ IDEA 2021.2 Crack + Activation Code Download [ Latest] would be no obeisance, as he was not a subject of worship, but there was respect. He inclined his head to them and they returned to their seats. Erron tipped his hat, trying his best not to stare at the exposed hair; he’d never thought about what might be under that cowl and was surprised by what there was.

“One of these days,” Cassie said, meeting Raiden halfway across the lawn and fearlessly offering him her arm, which he took. She pressed close to keep from being electrocuted, “I’m going to get you in bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt—shades an’ all; it’ll be great. You’ll look like The Dude. Hair’s a good start, though.”

“I admire your enthusiasm,” said the deity honestly as she guided him to what she now decided was the dad zone. She felt almost as if she was dropping a child off at daycare or something—dadcare, perhaps. She ran the idea by her father.

“Payin’ someone to watch your dad, y’know, while you go out shopping with the girls or whatever… they’ve got football on and sippy cups with beer in ‘em,” she said. Her father grinned wide and nodded.

“Couches for naptime,” he suggested. She shot him finger guns as she receded and left him to get a chair for their divine guest. Returning to her posse, Cassie commenced to whispering, under no impression Raiden could not hear her, but not caring. She knew he was above those things, physically and metaphorically.

“Dad’s really happy,” she said, “y’know, that he showed.”

“He seems to be, yeah,” Jacqui agreed. “And honestly, your dad deserves it. He’s… I mean we’ve all been through a lot.” She found herself wondering if Johnny Cage thought of Raiden the way she thought of Takeda and her heart ached a little. Jin shook his head.

“You know he would land a god, wouldn’t he? I mean isn’t that just like Mr. Cage?” They still all referred to Johnny this way. It was how they’d come to know him, or had grown up around him and even though they were all adults, well into their thirties, he was always going to be Mr. Cage. Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen wondered with some humor if Raiden would also be Mr. Cage.

“Eugh don’t make me think about it,” Cassie warned. “Listen, I’m happy he’s happy, but as far as I’m concerned, even mom and dad only ever had sex once and maybe not even that.”

“What, like immaculate conception?” Jacqui supplied with a snorting giggle.

“I hope so,” responded Cassie, pulling a face, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. Jacqui and Jin were both happy and relieved to hear Cassie speaking so fondly of her departed mother and with no animosity toward her father’s … did one call it a crush? Could one crush on a deity? A quick glance in the direction of the dad zone would have told anyone with eyes all they needed to know.

“Mind watchin’ this for me a sec?” Johnny asked Erron as he moved away from the grill to grab a plate. The tables were all set up and everything was ready to go, except that he had forgotten a serving plate, which was typical. There was always something. “Raidude,” he added just inside the door, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, “can I take your hat?”

“You may.” He pulled the broad thing from his head and Johnny was thrilled to see that it was one that he had given Raiden. He disappeared inside with the Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen thing and left the hatless deity to sit under the porch awning with their mortal friends.

Black was more than happy to take a gander at the meat as it finished sizzling and he took up a Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen behind the grill as Johnny retreated into his house. He adjusted his own hat as he moved out from under the shade and wondered if gods could feel such heat as the sun was pouring down upon them. Raiden watched him go and then turned toward the others.

“Your clans, Grandmasters, how do they fare? I regret being unable to—”

Sub-Zero held up a hand and shook his head. “We understand, Lord Raiden, that the boundaries of Earthrealm are being tested on all sides, even now, without Shao Kahn. If war is not brewing, it is a strange day.” He spared a glance toward the younger warriors with their heads once more together, whispering and laughing and clinking glasses. “But the future is in good hands.”

“Let us talk of something other than the defense of this realm,” Scorpion suggested, to the general surprise of the other three gathered about. “What?” He grunted. “Is it so strange that I might desire peace, even if only a little?”

“Uh… yeah, kinda,” Erron said, pushing the brim on his hat upward to meet Scorpion’s eyes. “Y’all had a smackdown brawl for yer weddin’, I mean… fergive my pointin’ it out, but you ain’t much of a… relaxer.”

This prompted Sub-Zero to chuckle, Scorpion to scowl, and Raiden to utter a low chuckle that echoed like thunder rolling in over the ocean. His eldritch eyes glowed with that mirth and the lines on his fine-boned face seemed to alleviate somewhat, making him appear much younger. Finally, Grandmaster Hasashi relented and he laughed as well while his husband took one of his hands and pressed smiling lips to knuckles which had only recently healed from bloody bruises. It was their way, after all.

“Cassandra Cage,” Raiden called—actually, he spoke the words, but his voice tended to carry. She sat up immediately and turned.

“What’s up, Raidad?” The name made Jacqui slap a hand over her mouth and Jin once more nearly spit his drink. She ignored them.

“I do not have a… scrunchie… for my hair,” he said. “I think Fujin has a collection at Sky Temple, but I…” He seemed almost embarrassed by his oversight. He would have asked Scorpion but the thrifty man likely only had the one that was already securing his voluminous, dark hair.

Cassie inspected her wrist, then made a dive for Jacqui’s purse, which sat near her chair. Purse digging was well within the limits of their friendship and Jacqui made no move to stop her. She might have had a few left from some other hair-based endeavor, or some that Cassie herself had left. She didn’t have nearly the volume of hair Raiden did, but she also knew he rarely put it all up.

“I got one,” said Jin, lifting one from his own stash. It was plain, black, and thick, but if it held his hair, it would work. He lifted it one one thumb and, being the expert marksman he was, shot it like a well-aimed rubber band toward Raiden. He had accounted for distance, wind direction, and arc, even compensating for the presence of the awning, and it landed neatly in the deity’s open palm.

“Thank you, Kung Jin; your tribute is greatly appreciated.” Was that humor? Had Raiden just made a joke? Jin looked to Cassie, whose blue eyes—they were so like her father’s—were wide with sudden surprise before narrowing with mirth. She barked a laugh and then sat back and began to guffaw. It really had not been that funny, but his delivery and the source was a combination with which she could not hope to compete.

One corner of Raiden’s thin-lipped mouth curled up for a moment before he turned to the task at hand. He pulled some of his hair up behind his head and began to roll it gently into a small bun before binding it with Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen tough, black hair tie. It was a simple thing and he appreciated this, simple and strong. There was no need for embellishment when it came to this sort of thing. Ornamentation only got in the way.

“I gotta take these off pretty quick,” said Erron with a minute glance toward the slider door which led inside. “Someone mind checkin’ on our fine host?”

Just as he spoke these words, raised voices could be heard coming through the glass and screen of the slider door. They were muffled and unintelligible, but there were distinctly two, both male and both agitated. Raiden stood and, without a word, pulled the slider door open, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, ducking inside.

“.voice down, dad! I’ve got fucking guests for chrissake!” Were the only words that were heard before the glass slid shut behind the deity and the people outside were left wondering. Cassie had gotten up from her seat and made her way toward the patio. Scorpion shifted in his seat and fixed her with an intense gaze (as if he had any other).

“Your grandfather, I think,” he said.

“Oh shit,” she grunted, shoulders slumping, color draining from her face, save for high on her cheeks, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. A spark of rage lit behind her eyes and the grandmaster actually stood to restrain her with a hand upon her upper arm, shaking his head. She met his eyes hotly and opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it. This was something Johnny would be embarrassed to deal with in his daughter’s presence, she was sure.

“A man has his honor,” said Black without looking Nudity Genre - PC Games - Hiu Games, “but we could use a servin’ plate.”

“I’ve ah… shit I think I left an extra one under the potato salad,” said Cassie, gathering her thoughts slowly and moving off to grab it, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. They would carry on, by god. She grabbed the buns on her way and returned with both them and a large platter. If the Cage family had a motto, there was no doubt in her mind that Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen would be “the show must go on”.

Raiden entered Johnny Cage’s spacious home and tracked the sound of raised voices to one of the guest rooms near the front of the house. He listened to the conversation, to gather a bit of what was going on, and then allowed his innate ability to divine the history of a situation to take over. This man was indeed Jonathan Carlton’s father, a man of little moral fortitude and plenty of gall, to come here at all, much less begging for money and a place to stay.

“Come on Jonathan, give your old man a friggin’ break will ya? I’m on the upswing. I’ve got a coupla girls lined up—I’ll get ‘em jobs in no time. I know what’s in now. I just need a little help gettin’ back on my feet.”

“Don’t call me that, dad; that’s not my name now and—”

“Too proud to keep the name I gave ya, huh? Yeah, well, you’re just like that cunt I married. Jeezis kid, I saw that stunt you pulled. They let you host the Oscars and you do that? I know it’s trendy now, boy, but let me tell you something, a Carlton never sucks a cock Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen what he’s got, you hear? What about that gorgeous broad you were married to, huh? Cassandra’s mom? What about her? You cant just get pussy and then prance around like some kinda faggot; that ain’t how shit works.”

“Dad what the fuck?” Johnny’s tone was sharp, his voice rising. He was livid. Raiden didn’t much like the tension he felt in the air. The electricity crackled around his body, mimicking how Johnny felt. He didn’t want to step in too early, wanted to allow Johnny the chance to deal with this on his own. Erron Black had been right, a man did have his honor. But there was no need to suffer fools alone.

“No goddamn son of mine—”

“Did you mishear him, Gordon Carlton?” Raiden’s frame filled the doorway, and though he stood easily and comfortably, he was still more than a little intimidating. Johnny’s head snapped up and his eyes were instantly on Raiden, the look on his face half grateful and half embarrassed.

“Fuck’s this, huh?” Johnny’s father gestured to Raiden, eyes never leaving his son. “You into exotic dick, now? Ain’t enough you gotta disgrace our name, then you get some strange from—fuck, where’re you from, Norway?”

Raiden regarded him coolly. It was certainly not the strangest question he had ever been asked and he knew from experience that men like Gordon Carlton were not interested in any answer he might give. He was only snapping at Johnny to make a point. It was a point poorly made, but he was clinging hard to it.

Noting his features, the thunder god decided that the man had possibly once been handsome. He and Johnny had the same eyes, but his hair, which was missing in that tonsured way of old men, still held traces of the red it had been. He wasn’t overweight, but his shape had hardly held whatever good looks it might once have had.

“You prolly got a library of freaks out back, don’tcha? You gunna expose my fuckin’ granddaughter to this shit?”

Johnny bristled. “The moral high ground, dad, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen, really? Holy shit you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He was beside himself with indignation, righteous or otherwise, and looked like he wanted to pound his father with his bare fists until the man was pulp. Raiden crossed big arms over his chest.

“It is clear you are not welcome here, Gordon Carlton. Johnny Cage has been more than polite.” The implication was, naturally, that Raiden would not be.

“So you got your… fetish gear on in front o’ god an’ everyone,” snarled Johnny’s father, sweat glistening on his upper lip, veins standing out on neck and head. “And you’re gunna sit here and tell me I can’t be in my own son’s house? No way. No fuckin’ way. You gunna let him talk to me that way?”

“He is not your son,” Raiden said simply. “You are Gordon Carlton and he is Johnny Cage.” Of course he knew even humans in the same family had different names, but the point was made. Carlton’s face went sheet white and then beat red, and then purple. “If you had a son, I video editor free Archives pity him. But I do not pity this man.”

Johnny moved quickly between his father and Raiden. “Dad, just leave, okay? Leave and I’ll pretend this shit never happened. I dunno if you’re drunk or high, but you’ve gotta get your shit together and you can’t do it here.” He knew he owed the man no explanation, but something about saying it aloud was therapeutic. “I’m not giving you any money, either, so don’t start that. Just go. I don’t want Cassie to see you this way.” In truth, he did not want Cassie to see the man ever. Continued estrangement Windows 10 Permanent Activator Ultimate 2.5 Full a better way, for everyone.

“I’ve built something valuable here,” Johnny continued, trying to make his father understand and knowing at some level that he never would, that the man did not want to understand. He wanted what he felt he was owed and for whatever sick status quo that had crawled into his mind to be maintained. “I’ve got a life, dad, a real one—this isn’t some tinsel town bullshit show, okay? This isn’t temporary. This… it’s me and I wish I could say I’m sorry you don’t get it, but that’s… it’s on you.”

His father blanched, as if unable to believe his son would dare speak to him that way. Never mind that Johnny was in his late fifties. That was irrelevant. Never mind that he had made it on his own, without his leech of a father. He whirled on Raiden.

“Your kind fucking did this to my kid. I fucking raised him to be a—a… well fuck, somethin’ better’n a goddamn f—”

“I advise holding your tongue,” said Raiden mildly, but with enough force that Gordon Carlton’s mouth stopped moving mid-stride. “If Johnny Cage chooses to identify himself with that word, it is his decision. You have no claim over it and it is rude to use in polite company which this was until you arrived. Take your leave, mortal.”

His eyes flashed, then, in a way that could not be mistaken for any special effect or strange set of contact lenses. The electricity dancing over his upper body was visible now, arcing this way and that, snapping at anything that might ground it. He hadn’t singed anything, but he could and this display made that very clear.

“What the fuck is this shit—” Gordon Carlton’s gaze locked with Raiden’s the way a deer’s will lock with headlights on a highway. He could not look away. There was awe on his face, and a strange rapture that almost brought back the good looks of his youth. But the mouth soon twisted and the brows knitted as he stormed forward, moving to shove past Raiden.

Raiden stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder and looked down at him. “You have trespassed in my realm, foolish mortal. Do not make a habit of this. Johnny Cage may forgive you, but I will not—I do not, Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen. This ground is sacred and you profane it with your filth.

“You gave up your family long ago and now you are alone. That is your burden to bear, not his. You created these circumstances, as every mortal has the ability to do. Johnny Cage has created his own circumstances and is now reaping the benefits of his life’s work.

“This home is not yours. It is the fruit of his labor and as he has invited me into it and his life, I have claimed it as my own.” Raiden explained these things as if speaking to a particularly dull child, slowly and with a firm voice, so that he would be understood. “Cassandra Cage is not your granddaughter, but she is my daughter and I will protect her from your ilk. Likewise, Johnny Cage is no son of yours—in that, you were correct. He is, however, a man beloved of me and I am not a being someone like you will ever possess the power to cross.”

When he released Johnny’s father’s arm, it was with a finality that promised extreme prejudice if ever that touch was to be felt again. Gordon Carlton seemed to have shrunken and he shuffled toward the door, his jaw working, hands knotted into hard fists. If he said something as he exited Johnny’s home, Johnny did not catch it and if Raiden did, he was not sharing.

Johnny locked the door behind him and then leaned heavily Dr.Fone torrent Archives it. “You… mean that, Raiden? Partners?”

“It was perhaps a bit forward of me,” Raiden admitted, shrugging, great shoulders rising and falling. Johnny shook his head.

“Nah, I think it was just right. It’s what he needed to hear. You put the fear of… well you in ‘im.”

Raiden nodded. “I did.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Johnny Cage.”

#cc#cw#prevented timeline#faraday cage#johnny cage#raiden#cassie cage#jacqui briggs#kung jin#sub-zero#scorpion#thermodynamic equilibrium#subscorp #honor among thieves #erronjin #jacqueda mention! #johnny x raiden #literally I only know faraday cage for this one like is there another ship name? idgaf this one's gr8

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Would: Lemonade Tycoon 2 - New York crack serial keygen

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this is an old one that was like half started so I just hammered out something that felt about right... I'm not 100% happy with this one either, but as usual the concept IS there. It happens sometime before Faraday Cage and And We Danced, if memory serves. Done me best to line shit up and make it make sense with... mixed results

Faraday Cage--thermodynamic equilibrium present, as well as honor among thieves and jacqueda mentions; as usual, Cassie is a free agent

F slur used once but in reverse hays code (the gays code, if you will) fashion, there is retribution

[[MORE]]

“Nothing’s better than a backyard barbecue in Beverly Hills,” said Cassie Cage, lifting her glass of lemonade to salute the weather. The sun shone high overhead, the palm trees swayed in the gentle ocean breeze, and her father was at the grill, stacking the coals.

“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,” confirmed Jacqueline Briggs—Jacqui to her friends—lifting her own glass and settling back on a folding chair.

“Where’s Takeda?” Johnny asked from the grill, satisfied in the pile he had created and now dousing it with lighter fluid.

“Classified, Mr. Cage, you know that,” said Jacqui, a mock serious expression on her face. “But I think I’ve convinced Dad to come, so keep your eyes peeled.”

Cassie dropped into a folding chair nearby and placed her glass in the cupholder on the armrest. She wondered who would be able to make it; their invitation had been an open one. She expected Earthrealm guests only, this time, but one never knew.

“Cassie, hey, mind lettin’ us in? Got our hands full,” came a call from over the fence. She hopped up, recognizing the voice immediately as Kung Jin, a friend from SF, now on liaison duty in Outworld—well, he was, but evidently he had acquired some vacation time. We? She wondered. Who’s he with? She pictured, for a moment, the colossal Kotal, one of the triarchs of outworld and all-around badass with thighs like tree trunks. His thighs were only concerning to her because she was sure that, if he was here, they would be exposed. The people of Earthrealm did not dress that way and the questions raised by his arrival might’ve been more than she was equipped or willing to handle.

Then again, she reminded herself, this is Beverly Hills.

She tugged the gate open, already pleased that she did not see a massive head and shoulders hovering over the fence line. Instead, Jin stood there, arms piled with dishes full of food, two folding chairs slung on his back. Behind him, carrying a large cooler, was a man Cassie did not recognize immediately. It was not until she met his eyes, dark gray things that were sharp, perceptive, and just a little unnerving, the eyes of a hired gun, that she made the connection.

“Erron, Jin, c’mon in—uh, yeah, that table there for salads; that one for drinks, unless you’re keepin’ ‘em nearby.” She could not have hoped to explain her initial desire to refer to the cowboy as Mr. Black, save for his age; she was sure he and her father were just about equivalent in years.

“Outworld hooch,” grunted Erron, “I ain’t sharin’.”

“Unless someone asks,” Jin corrected, “and then you’re sharing.”

Erron’s shoulders sagged a little and he moved almost reluctantly over to the drink table. On his journey thereto, he found himself stepping around a large, round pad which looked to be made of rubber, though he only had time to wonder at it a moment. His load was getting heavy.

The table had an empty bowl thereupon, with a large dipping ladle nearby and stacks of cups. Cassie had yet to mix the punch as the party was not scheduled to start until quarter to four, or thereabouts. It was only two-thirty, though she appreciated the early arrivals.

“Wow,” Cassie whispered to Jin as he set his dishes down upon the salads and sides table, “you ah… really got him—”

“Whipped?” Jin’s voice was low, conspiratorial, and mischievous. “I’m kidding—he’s just… out of his element. I’m not sure we’ve ever… gone anywhere together; thought this was a good opportunity.” Erron Black’s element was high noon at the OK Corral, as far as Cassie was concerned, or at least the dust and grit of Outworld. Earthrealmer he might have been, but he had integrated well with the rough-and-tumble ways of those oh, so savage lands.

“It is,” she assured him, “and we’re glad you came. He’s good for you, I think.”

“He is.” The glowing look on Jin’s face told Cassie all she needed to know about that and she asked no more. They watched Erron slide the cooler off to one side, setting out a couple of bottles that did not need to be kept cold, and then observed as he placed the cooler—an Earthrealm purchase, obviously—thoughtfully underneath the table and out of the sun.

Cassie returned to Jacqui, who was leaning forward and squinting behind her sunglasses. “Is’sat?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

Both women looked at each other, tried to hold back their laughter, and failed miserably. Johnny had by that point come out from behind the grill, content to watch the coals heat. He grabbed a beer from a nearby cooler on the way and moved a folding chair so he could both speak with his guests and watch those coals. Coal heat, he had found over the years, was of vital importance.

He, too, had noticed Erron Black walking in with Jin, had some desire to speak with the latter, curious about the goings-on in Outworld, and all at once decided against it, returning momentarily for another beer and offering the cowboy the other drink. Erron took it, regarded the bottle, Johnny, and the house.

“Nice place y’got here, Cage,” he grunted, accepting one of the two folding chairs from Jin, who had already set his up near his old SF squad.

“Thanks. Lotta blood, sweat, and tears went into it… not mine; I got stunt guys for that.” Johnny chuckled and settled into his chair. Erron opened his with one swift jerk of his powerful arm and, taking only a moment to decide, set it down near Johnny Cage, rather than Jin, Jacqui, and Cassie. They had plenty to catch up on and Erron wasn’t in a gossiping mood.

Johnny, evidently, also was not and the two men sat in silence, watching the few clouds in the sky, the grill, and the perspiration of their beers. Erron wished desperately for his hat, but Jin told him no one in California unironically wore cowboy hats unless they wanted to be mistaken for a trick. Erron had scoffed, but ultimately had obeyed.

He did not much care how he looked, but did not want Jin to look or feel he looked foolish. Kid’s growin’ on me, he thought, not without fondness. It had, he decided, been too long since he had been back to Earthrealm for any amount of time without engaging in kombat.

When Jin flopped into his chair near Jacqui and Cassie, the three began engaging in small talk. That lasted all of two minutes, which, Cassie decided, was a new record between them.

“So spill,” she said, voice low. “How’d you hook up with Showdown at the Outworld Corral over there?”

Jin blushed, but only with excitement. He was not bashful. Outworld had driven the shyness out of him… and Kotal Kahn’s kind words. ‘In Outworld, there is little room for Earthrealm prejudices; I suggest you leave those behind and seize happiness where you can.’ He had drawn Jade close when he said this. Jin caught his meaning.

“Kotal Kahn was throwing this party, right? To celebrate an independent Edenia… he made Erron a member of his council, too!” Jin was elated, both for the success of Edenian negotiation and for Erron Black, a man with formerly dubious morals and a checkered past. To have come so far as this was nothing short of miraculous. “He still talks about koin, but… I really think he believes in it.”

Jacqui and Cassie both detected the depth of feeling and nodded, smiling a little between themselves and nodding, each in turn. Kotal Kahn was a magnanimous ruler. With Edenia being set up as an independent state and Kitana upon that throne, they, the Shokan people, and Kotal himself, were beginning a serious endeavor to form a council of Outworld peoples, to more fairly govern their territories. Kotal, Kitana, and Sheeva, Goro’s fiery successor, had even set up a triarchy, all styling themselves with royal titles, Kahn, Kahnum, and Queen, respectively. They held sovereignty over their own lands, but came together on matters of state which affected all the realm.

But now was not the time for solemn contemplations. They were at a party, catching up and gossipping. Maybe all the gory details wouldn’t be shared, but there would be enough implications to last them the whole afternoon and well into the evening.

“Oh my god,” Jacqui said after a moment, chuckling behind her hand and leaning forward. All three of their heads were pressed close together now. “A party hook-up? And he’s still here? Damn, what is your secret?”

“Between us girls,” Jin whispered, snickering, “I don’t remember a ton of it.”

Cassie roller her eyes. “If you don’t wanna tell us, Jin…”

“No no, really, Outworld booze hits different; trust me. But… okay, here’s the thing, when the sun came up, you’re right, he was still there.” There was real emotion choking Jin’s voice, but he swallowed it down. Jacqui watched him, meeting Cassie’s gaze for a moment before reaching out and patting Jin’s shoulder.

“Well, you did something right ‘cause now he’s at Cassie’s dad’s barbecue and they honestly look like they’re talking about grill shit, so…”

“Hey, speaking of dads… Jacqui—”

“No, don’t do that,” warned Jin, red to the ears now, hands up, shaking his head, his ponytail tossing itself this way and that.

“Do what?” Cassie leaned back. “Call Erron a dad? ‘Cause he definitely could be.”

“Or a ‘daddy’,” Jacqui ventured, mischief sparkling in dark eyes, glad for the distraction from the question that was most certainly coming: where was Jax. “There any of that goin’ on?”

Jin’s eyes were wide. “N-no! No. Uh-uh… Listen, guys, I have… plenty of kinks, but that, I promise you, is not one of them.”

“Ain’t whatcha said last night,” came a twangy purr from somewhere behind the trio. Evidently, Erron had gotten up to grab more drinks for himself and his fellow “dad” and had overheard. That, or they were not so quiet as they thought.

Could Kung Jin go any redder than he already was? Cassie and Jacqui had begun to wonder how many shades of that color existed. They burst into laughter with Jin covering his face.

“Sorry kid,” grunted the cowboy, patting Jin on the back as he passed with his other hand wrapped around two more beers, from their stash, this time, “couldn’t resist. Girls, give’m a break.”

Both girls immediately stopped laughing and nodded, eyes wide. “Yessir,” they both responded in unison. Maybe it was the downright fatherly tone he had used, or Jin’s face-in-hands distress, but they both leaned forward and pried his fingers from his face, laughing once more and reassuring him that they were not, in any way, judging him.

“Honestly,” Cassie said, “I’m just glad you’re happy. You too, Jacqui. You guys’ve found something good; I can see that from here.”

“What about you?” Jin asked after a moment. Cassie shook her head.

“Don’t need it… not yet. I think I’ll know when I do.”

“And your dad?” Jacqui’s voice dipped low once more and the three of them peered over at the two men clinking their beers together and chatting. Cassie shook her head.

“I dunno… he’s doing better, but sometimes you can just sorta… see it in his face; he’s missing a huge part of himself… I know he misses mom, but it’s something deeper. He’s… he needs someone.” Dad’s one of those people who doesn’t do too well on their own. This last remained unspoken.

Johnny engaged Erron in conversation easily. He was a gregarious man by nature, so any form of socializing was absolutely within the scope of things he could and did do regularly when he had the opportunity. Retiring from SF had been his first step to regaining some semblance of whatever passed as normalcy in his life, and thence, diving back into his film career.

“There’s a real call for guys my age these days… Shifting demographics, or whatever; my agent says I’m in the prime of my life for this shit. Feels good, y’know, to be out of my err… Ninja Mime era.”

“Not bad films, though,” grunted Erron, inclining his head. “I mean… script leaves somethin’ to be desired, but first time I saw one, I knew you were the real deal.”

“Thanks, Black, that means a shitload comin’ from you,” said Johnny, smiling genuinely and tipping his beer toward the other man. “To second chances?”

“I’ll drink to it.”

They tapped their beers together and drank deeply, relishing the cool carbonation in the heat of a California afternoon. The liquid was refreshing and perfumed, a dark porter, just like they both seemed to enjoy. In truth, Erron would take any offered Earthrealm beer. Carbonation was not simple to achieve in Outworld and hops were all but unattainable. He had been promised that Edenia had been fertile and lush and that, under Kitana’s rule, their territory could be again, but that was a ways off.

Johnny shifted minutely at the sound of the gate being tapped on politely. He opened one eye to look at Cassie, who met his gaze and shrugged. Everyone was here, weren’t they? The Earthrealmers they had expected, anyway. They had sent out other invitations, so to speak, but they hadn’t thought...

“I got it,” said Jin, standing and stretching, handing the drink he had recently acquired to Jacqui and heading over to the gate. Tugging the latch, he opened the way for two familiar faces, if not dressed familiarly.

“Grandmaster...s?” Jin stammered, saluting both and bowing deeply. Sub-Zero grinned, standing a little way behind Scorpion, who stared with his usual intensity at Jin before grasping the boy’s shoulder, squeezing it, and entering Johnny Cage’s back yard.

“You are surprised to see us,” Sub-Zero said, not without amusement.

“If we expected you, you’d be shitty ninjas,” Cassie observed, lifting her glass in greeting. Sub-Zero could not help a smile. His stern face glowed with mirth and, despite the California heat and sun, he seemed to be doing just fine. Outworld Kryomancers were of tough stock, evidently, and he was the baddest bitch of them all, as far as she was aware.

“Ah, Cass, I think it’s just ninja,” Jacqui observed, taking a sip from her glass and watching Jin assist Grandmaster Hanzo Hasashi, with what they had brought. He swiftly rearranged the table to better accommodate the dishes which were being brought.

“Nothin’ just about THOSE ninja,” Johnny supplied. He’d stood and was fussing with the coals, Erron gesturing and quietly coaching him, which he did not seem to appreciate and soon the two fell into earnest discussion about grilling.

“They aren’t ninja anyway,” said Jin, hoisting the cooler on top of one of the long tables and pulling out a few salads and side dishes. These, he then arranged in the most pleasing way he could manage. He reflected that it was all food in the end, so there really was no downside. They all looked fantastic and were clearly homemade and he made brief, sharp eye contact with Cassie, as if to say “would you take a look at THIS”.

The idea of either Sub-Zero or Scorpion cooking, baking, or preparing any kind of food brought a hysterical bubble of laughter to Cassie’s lips and she swiftly drowned it with drink. Laughing at ninja was a good way to get shanked. Ninja shanked. Shuriken…ed? Come to think of it, she had never seen Scorpion or Sub-Zero use that particular weapon—only ice-axes and that crazy spear on a chain. She swallowed at the thought of that and was relieved all at once that he was on THEIR side.

“Sweets on that table,” she called, gesturing to a smaller apparatus that had been set up, but held no food yet. She’d made some fairly attractive cupcakes (in all actually, she’d had them made and picked them up that morning) and was going to set them out when there were more people.

“You guys need chairs?” Jacqui stood, offering to grab them from inside the house. She was Cassie’s best friend and Cassie’s dad’s casa counted as hers, which meant it counted as Jacqui’s. Sub-Zero shook his head and gestured.

“We have brought our own.” He set out a sturdy-looking folding chair, a little closer to Erron Black and Johnny than to what Cassie was starting to think of as the “kids table” with not a small amount of humor; she’d begun to see crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and swore there was some gray in her hair, though that was probably a trick of the light.

Holding the back of the seat, the Kryomancer awaited Scorpion’s rear-end and then, without missing a beat, built an icy chair next to it. The thing was solid and weeping condensation, but would hold as long as he remained in the area. Scorpion leaned over and whispered something to him that Jacqui thought looked like a scolding word and Sub-Zero chuckled, affectionately touching the man’s arm.

“Makes sense,” Jin observed, taking his seat. “He’s a Kryomancer, y’know, and this kinda heat is rough. He’s tough, but he’s not the Grandmaster because he’s stupid.”

“This has got to be the weirdest barbecue—are we expecting any Outworlders? ‘Cause I swear,” Jacqui said, leaning back, “if the Kahn Squad comes through that gate, I might need y’all to catch my ass before I hit the ground.”

They laughed heartily at this thought, but then all eyes were on the gate, just in case.

“So,” Cassie said, by way of making more conversation, “Jin… what’s going on in Outworld right now… that whole Triarchy thing has gotta be weird for ‘em, right?”

“It is,” Jin admitted, nodding. “I’m surprised we got time off, even for this.” He gestured between himself and Erron. “Things between the Tarkatan and Shokan aren’t great.”

“They’re like, eternal rivals, right?” Jacqui had boned up on Outworld history in the time she and Takeda Takahashi had been seeing each other, to better understand the history of his clan, even if he was not a native.

“The bitterest… Hatfield and McCoy on ‘roids.” Jin’s words were humorous, but his expression was grave. “The Shokan claim it is the fault of the Tarkatans that their ancestral home, the subterranean lands, were taken by the Kytinn.”

“Those fucked up bug… things,” said Cassie, the grimace on her face being mimicked perfectly in her voice. She made a “yuck” sound and shuddered. She hated bugs, especially bugs that walked on two legs and affected the stance of a sensual humanoid female. It was the sensual part that was most unsettling.

She attributed it to pheromones, but it had been hard to look away. She shuddered again.

“Fucking nasty.”

Everyone agreed.

Jacqui sighed then and plopped her chin in one hand. She clicked her tongue and pursed her lips, grimacing. “I really wish Takeda could be here,” she said after a moment. Jin laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Wherever he is,” said the Shaolin archer, “I’m pretty sure he’d rather be here, too.”

“I just miss him so much when he’s not around,” she lamented. “It’s embarrassing, y’know? Needing to be near someone like that—knowing that you can feel whole and shit, but not being able to because duty or obligation or… whatever-it-is takes you away. I knew what I was signing up for, but it’s never easy.”

Her gaze drifted toward the pair of elder warriors seated side-by-side and zeroed in on Scorpion, who was leaning forward in his chair to participate in some discussion going on between Johnny and Erron. She looked like she might be ready to launch herself toward Grandmaster Hasashi and give the man a piece of her mind, but she restrained herself, understanding that whatever it was, it needed to be done. A man who had so often lost everything was not likely to waste resources, especially not valuable ones like Takeda.

Cassie admired her friend’s strength, always had, and she lifted a glass to it. “To Jacqui’s balls of steel,” she suggested, “and saintly patience.”

“Here-here,” echoed Jin and Jacqui with smiles, both amused and melancholy. Jin missed Takeda as well. The two had been good friends, perhaps more on and off, and they were still very close. Whatever mission was given to him, no one had any doubt he’d complete it with finesse. All the same, they were still allowed to worry and to miss him.

“I think the grandmaster really digs your man, Jacqui,” Cassie suggested. “I mean… Takeda’s his right hand, practically his son, y’know?”

Jacqui nodded, leaning closer to the others to speak in low tones once more. “I think he’s tapped for next GM,” she said with confidence. “And frankly, he deserves it.”

“And Grandmaster Hasashi deserves to pull his laurels out of whatever cedar chest he keeps ‘em in and plant his ass on those things,” added Jin. “I think those guys’ve done enough, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Cassie said, “but say that to their faces. God, imagine if I’d said that to my mom… Christ…” She sat back and allowed herself a laugh. There would have been no way in hell Sonya Blade would have been convinced to retire short of a completely uncontrollable disaster. The fact that she’d met her end that way, still in her prime, still kicking ass and killing bad guys didn’t make her loss sting less, but it did give Cassie and her father a measure of peace. Sonya was the epitome of “she died doing what she loved” and they could both respect that for her.

“She’d have crucified you,” Jacqui agreed, nodding, “and then hired Pale Goth Homeboy to resurrect you so she could do it again.”

Jin’s drink nearly came out his nose when Jacqui supplied this absolute wreck of a nickname for the sorcerer Quan-Chi, a man who had fancied himself the Elder God Shinnok’s right hand but whom they suspected was more of a tool of little interest to the being—perhaps a groupie. Cassie barked a laugh at Jin’s malfunction and Jacqui’s brows and shoulders rose.

“Well, am I wrong?”

Shaking his head, Jin fished about for a napkin, which Cassie provided. As she did so, her father approached, leaving the grill for a moment to speak to the “kids table”. Old guys like Johnny saw anyone under 40 as a kid, even if these were soldiers in their thirties.

“Jin, I got those black bean burgers you recommended when you were here last time,” he said, “hope that’s okay.”

“Oh—OH yeah, that’s great! Man… I can’t wait; I haven’t had a good burger since I left Earthrealm. Thanks for inviting us.”

Johnny flashed a thumbs-up before asking if anyone else needed drinks. Cassie assured him she had it well under control. “Hey, dad,” she said after a moment, “are the Shaolin Rowdy Boys gunna be here?”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “I contacted ‘em, but Lao said they had something going on—wasn’t specific an’ I didn’t push; figured it’s some kinda Wu-Shi mysticism or somethin’.” He looked to Jin for confirmation of the presence of such “mysticism” and Jin nodded.

“Transcending to other planes via deep meditation, most likely,” he said. The other two looked at him, then at Johnny, whose brows had risen. When Jin snorted a laugh, Jacqui and Cassie laughed as well and Johnny smiled, shaking his head and waving them off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what that means,” he said, moving back to the gaggle of older men near the grill. Johnny’s mannerisms were casual and the look on his face gave nothing away, but his mind had flown to the temple of light and his two Shaolin companions. He had not seen them in a while and had a feeling something was amiss, but wasn’t quite rude enough to ask—not anymore anyway.

He returned to tending the food when a muffled crack of thunder split the peaceful afternoon and a bolt of blue-white lightning descended in a flash onto the wide, thick, rubber pad at one corner of Johnny’s yard. Johnny did not realize how his face lit up at the presence of the thunder god, but both Erron Black and Grandmaster Kuai Liang were watching him. Their eyes met presently and a look passed between them of bewildered amusement.

“Thought I felt my hairs standing up,” Cassie said as she stood to greet the deity whom she was beginning to regard as a second father.

“I apologize for my lateness, Cassandra Cage,” said Raiden, who was dressed, as ever, to the nines in godly attire. The only real difference was a distinct lack of the leather-like cowl he usually wore. His hair tumbled freely over his shoulders in loose ringlets and gentle curls. It swayed and bounced as he moved.

Cassie had visions of him in white sweats, a soft, long-sleeved t-shirt, and some kind of simple, but well-made bathrobe for ultimate comfort, but for some reason could not quite bring the vision to fruition. One day, she vowed. Humorous thoughts aside, the woman had only ever known him in this and his dreadful armor. Cassie preferred this.

“Lord Raiden,” said both grandmasters almost simultaneously, standing and offering deep bows. There would be no obeisance, as he was not a subject of worship, but there was respect. He inclined his head to them and they returned to their seats. Erron tipped his hat, trying his best not to stare at the exposed hair; he’d never thought about what might be under that cowl and was surprised by what there was.

“One of these days,” Cassie said, meeting Raiden halfway across the lawn and fearlessly offering him her arm, which he took. She pressed close to keep from being electrocuted, “I’m going to get you in bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt—shades an’ all; it’ll be great. You’ll look like The Dude. Hair’s a good start, though.”

“I admire your enthusiasm,” said the deity honestly as she guided him to what she now decided was the dad zone. She felt almost as if she was dropping a child off at daycare or something—dadcare, perhaps. She ran the idea by her father.

“Payin’ someone to watch your dad, y’know, while you go out shopping with the girls or whatever… they’ve got football on and sippy cups with beer in ‘em,” she said. Her father grinned wide and nodded.

“Couches for naptime,” he suggested. She shot him finger guns as she receded and left him to get a chair for their divine guest. Returning to her posse, Cassie commenced to whispering, under no impression Raiden could not hear her, but not caring. She knew he was above those things, physically and metaphorically.

“Dad’s really happy,” she said, “y’know, that he showed.”

“He seems to be, yeah,” Jacqui agreed. “And honestly, your dad deserves it. He’s… I mean we’ve all been through a lot.” She found herself wondering if Johnny Cage thought of Raiden the way she thought of Takeda and her heart ached a little. Jin shook his head.

“You know he would land a god, wouldn’t he? I mean isn’t that just like Mr. Cage?” They still all referred to Johnny this way. It was how they’d come to know him, or had grown up around him and even though they were all adults, well into their thirties, he was always going to be Mr. Cage. Jin wondered with some humor if Raiden would also be Mr. Cage.

“Eugh don’t make me think about it,” Cassie warned. “Listen, I’m happy he’s happy, but as far as I’m concerned, even mom and dad only ever had sex once and maybe not even that.”

“What, like immaculate conception?” Jacqui supplied with a snorting giggle.

“I hope so,” responded Cassie, pulling a face. Jacqui and Jin were both happy and relieved to hear Cassie speaking so fondly of her departed mother and with no animosity toward her father’s … did one call it a crush? Could one crush on a deity? A quick glance in the direction of the dad zone would have told anyone with eyes all they needed to know.

“Mind watchin’ this for me a sec?” Johnny asked Erron as he moved away from the grill to grab a plate. The tables were all set up and everything was ready to go, except that he had forgotten a serving plate, which was typical. There was always something. “Raidude,” he added just inside the door, “can I take your hat?”

“You may.” He pulled the broad thing from his head and Johnny was thrilled to see that it was one that he had given Raiden. He disappeared inside with the precious thing and left the hatless deity to sit under the porch awning with their mortal friends.

Black was more than happy to take a gander at the meat as it finished sizzling and he took up a position behind the grill as Johnny retreated into his house. He adjusted his own hat as he moved out from under the shade and wondered if gods could feel such heat as the sun was pouring down upon them. Raiden watched him go and then turned toward the others.

“Your clans, Grandmasters, how do they fare? I regret being unable to—”

Sub-Zero held up a hand and shook his head. “We understand, Lord Raiden, that the boundaries of Earthrealm are being tested on all sides, even now, without Shao Kahn. If war is not brewing, it is a strange day.” He spared a glance toward the younger warriors with their heads once more together, whispering and laughing and clinking glasses. “But the future is in good hands.”

“Let us talk of something other than the defense of this realm,” Scorpion suggested, to the general surprise of the other three gathered about. “What?” He grunted. “Is it so strange that I might desire peace, even if only a little?”

“Uh… yeah, kinda,” Erron said, pushing the brim on his hat upward to meet Scorpion’s eyes. “Y’all had a smackdown brawl for yer weddin’, I mean… fergive my pointin’ it out, but you ain’t much of a… relaxer.”

This prompted Sub-Zero to chuckle, Scorpion to scowl, and Raiden to utter a low chuckle that echoed like thunder rolling in over the ocean. His eldritch eyes glowed with that mirth and the lines on his fine-boned face seemed to alleviate somewhat, making him appear much younger. Finally, Grandmaster Hasashi relented and he laughed as well while his husband took one of his hands and pressed smiling lips to knuckles which had only recently healed from bloody bruises. It was their way, after all.

“Cassandra Cage,” Raiden called—actually, he spoke the words, but his voice tended to carry. She sat up immediately and turned.

“What’s up, Raidad?” The name made Jacqui slap a hand over her mouth and Jin once more nearly spit his drink. She ignored them.

“I do not have a… scrunchie… for my hair,” he said. “I think Fujin has a collection at Sky Temple, but I…” He seemed almost embarrassed by his oversight. He would have asked Scorpion but the thrifty man likely only had the one that was already securing his voluminous, dark hair.

Cassie inspected her wrist, then made a dive for Jacqui’s purse, which sat near her chair. Purse digging was well within the limits of their friendship and Jacqui made no move to stop her. She might have had a few left from some other hair-based endeavor, or some that Cassie herself had left. She didn’t have nearly the volume of hair Raiden did, but she also knew he rarely put it all up.

“I got one,” said Jin, lifting one from his own stash. It was plain, black, and thick, but if it held his hair, it would work. He lifted it one one thumb and, being the expert marksman he was, shot it like a well-aimed rubber band toward Raiden. He had accounted for distance, wind direction, and arc, even compensating for the presence of the awning, and it landed neatly in the deity’s open palm.

“Thank you, Kung Jin; your tribute is greatly appreciated.” Was that humor? Had Raiden just made a joke? Jin looked to Cassie, whose blue eyes—they were so like her father’s—were wide with sudden surprise before narrowing with mirth. She barked a laugh and then sat back and began to guffaw. It really had not been that funny, but his delivery and the source was a combination with which she could not hope to compete.

One corner of Raiden’s thin-lipped mouth curled up for a moment before he turned to the task at hand. He pulled some of his hair up behind his head and began to roll it gently into a small bun before binding it with the tough, black hair tie. It was a simple thing and he appreciated this, simple and strong. There was no need for embellishment when it came to this sort of thing. Ornamentation only got in the way.

“I gotta take these off pretty quick,” said Erron with a minute glance toward the slider door which led inside. “Someone mind checkin’ on our fine host?”

Just as he spoke these words, raised voices could be heard coming through the glass and screen of the slider door. They were muffled and unintelligible, but there were distinctly two, both male and both agitated. Raiden stood and, without a word, pulled the slider door open, ducking inside.

“...voice down, dad! I’ve got fucking guests for chrissake!” Were the only words that were heard before the glass slid shut behind the deity and the people outside were left wondering. Cassie had gotten up from her seat and made her way toward the patio. Scorpion shifted in his seat and fixed her with an intense gaze (as if he had any other).

“Your grandfather, I think,” he said.

“Oh shit,” she grunted, shoulders slumping, color draining from her face, save for high on her cheeks. A spark of rage lit behind her eyes and the grandmaster actually stood to restrain her with a hand upon her upper arm, shaking his head. She met his eyes hotly and opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it. This was something Johnny would be embarrassed to deal with in his daughter’s presence, she was sure.

“A man has his honor,” said Black without looking up, “but we could use a servin’ plate.”

“I’ve ah… shit I think I left an extra one under the potato salad,” said Cassie, gathering her thoughts slowly and moving off to grab it. They would carry on, by god. She grabbed the buns on her way and returned with both them and a large platter. If the Cage family had a motto, there was no doubt in her mind that it would be “the show must go on”.

Raiden entered Johnny Cage’s spacious home and tracked the sound of raised voices to one of the guest rooms near the front of the house. He listened to the conversation, to gather a bit of what was going on, and then allowed his innate ability to divine the history of a situation to take over. This man was indeed Jonathan Carlton’s father, a man of little moral fortitude and plenty of gall, to come here at all, much less begging for money and a place to stay.

“Come on Jonathan, give your old man a friggin’ break will ya? I’m on the upswing. I’ve got a coupla girls lined up—I’ll get ‘em jobs in no time. I know what’s in now. I just need a little help gettin’ back on my feet.”

“Don’t call me that, dad; that’s not my name now and—”

“Too proud to keep the name I gave ya, huh? Yeah, well, you’re just like that cunt I married. Jeezis kid, I saw that stunt you pulled. They let you host the Oscars and you do that? I know it’s trendy now, boy, but let me tell you something, a Carlton never sucks a cock for what he’s got, you hear? What about that gorgeous broad you were married to, huh? Cassandra’s mom? What about her? You cant just get pussy and then prance around like some kinda faggot; that ain’t how shit works.”

“Dad what the fuck?” Johnny’s tone was sharp, his voice rising. He was livid. Raiden didn’t much like the tension he felt in the air. The electricity crackled around his body, mimicking how Johnny felt. He didn’t want to step in too early, wanted to allow Johnny the chance to deal with this on his own. Erron Black had been right, a man did have his honor. But there was no need to suffer fools alone.

“No goddamn son of mine—”

“Did you mishear him, Gordon Carlton?” Raiden’s frame filled the doorway, and though he stood easily and comfortably, he was still more than a little intimidating. Johnny’s head snapped up and his eyes were instantly on Raiden, the look on his face half grateful and half embarrassed.

“Fuck’s this, huh?” Johnny’s father gestured to Raiden, eyes never leaving his son. “You into exotic dick, now? Ain’t enough you gotta disgrace our name, then you get some strange from—fuck, where’re you from, Norway?”

Raiden regarded him coolly. It was certainly not the strangest question he had ever been asked and he knew from experience that men like Gordon Carlton were not interested in any answer he might give. He was only snapping at Johnny to make a point. It was a point poorly made, but he was clinging hard to it.

Noting his features, the thunder god decided that the man had possibly once been handsome. He and Johnny had the same eyes, but his hair, which was missing in that tonsured way of old men, still held traces of the red it had been. He wasn’t overweight, but his shape had hardly held whatever good looks it might once have had.

“You prolly got a library of freaks out back, don’tcha? You gunna expose my fuckin’ granddaughter to this shit?”

Johnny bristled. “The moral high ground, dad, really? Holy shit you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He was beside himself with indignation, righteous or otherwise, and looked like he wanted to pound his father with his bare fists until the man was pulp. Raiden crossed big arms over his chest.

“It is clear you are not welcome here, Gordon Carlton. Johnny Cage has been more than polite.” The implication was, naturally, that Raiden would not be.

“So you got your… fetish gear on in front o’ god an’ everyone,” snarled Johnny’s father, sweat glistening on his upper lip, veins standing out on neck and head. “And you’re gunna sit here and tell me I can’t be in my own son’s house? No way. No fuckin’ way. You gunna let him talk to me that way?”

“He is not your son,” Raiden said simply. “You are Gordon Carlton and he is Johnny Cage.” Of course he knew even humans in the same family had different names, but the point was made. Carlton’s face went sheet white and then beat red, and then purple. “If you had a son, I would pity him. But I do not pity this man.”

Johnny moved quickly between his father and Raiden. “Dad, just leave, okay? Leave and I’ll pretend this shit never happened. I dunno if you’re drunk or high, but you’ve gotta get your shit together and you can’t do it here.” He knew he owed the man no explanation, but something about saying it aloud was therapeutic. “I’m not giving you any money, either, so don’t start that. Just go. I don’t want Cassie to see you this way.” In truth, he did not want Cassie to see the man ever. Continued estrangement was a better way, for everyone.

“I’ve built something valuable here,” Johnny continued, trying to make his father understand and knowing at some level that he never would, that the man did not want to understand. He wanted what he felt he was owed and for whatever sick status quo that had crawled into his mind to be maintained. “I’ve got a life, dad, a real one—this isn’t some tinsel town bullshit show, okay? This isn’t temporary. This… it’s me and I wish I could say I’m sorry you don’t get it, but that’s… it’s on you.”

His father blanched, as if unable to believe his son would dare speak to him that way. Never mind that Johnny was in his late fifties. That was irrelevant. Never mind that he had made it on his own, without his leech of a father. He whirled on Raiden.

“Your kind fucking did this to my kid. I fucking raised him to be a—a… well fuck, somethin’ better’n a goddamn f—”

“I advise holding your tongue,” said Raiden mildly, but with enough force that Gordon Carlton’s mouth stopped moving mid-stride. “If Johnny Cage chooses to identify himself with that word, it is his decision. You have no claim over it and it is rude to use in polite company which this was until you arrived. Take your leave, mortal.”

His eyes flashed, then, in a way that could not be mistaken for any special effect or strange set of contact lenses. The electricity dancing over his upper body was visible now, arcing this way and that, snapping at anything that might ground it. He hadn’t singed anything, but he could and this display made that very clear.

“What the fuck is this shit—” Gordon Carlton’s gaze locked with Raiden’s the way a deer’s will lock with headlights on a highway. He could not look away. There was awe on his face, and a strange rapture that almost brought back the good looks of his youth. But the mouth soon twisted and the brows knitted as he stormed forward, moving to shove past Raiden.

Raiden stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder and looked down at him. “You have trespassed in my realm, foolish mortal. Do not make a habit of this. Johnny Cage may forgive you, but I will not—I do not. This ground is sacred and you profane it with your filth.

“You gave up your family long ago and now you are alone. That is your burden to bear, not his. You created these circumstances, as every mortal has the ability to do. Johnny Cage has created his own circumstances and is now reaping the benefits of his life’s work.

“This home is not yours. It is the fruit of his labor and as he has invited me into it and his life, I have claimed it as my own.” Raiden explained these things as if speaking to a particularly dull child, slowly and with a firm voice, so that he would be understood. “Cassandra Cage is not your granddaughter, but she is my daughter and I will protect her from your ilk. Likewise, Johnny Cage is no son of yours—in that, you were correct. He is, however, a man beloved of me and I am not a being someone like you will ever possess the power to cross.”

When he released Johnny’s father’s arm, it was with a finality that promised extreme prejudice if ever that touch was to be felt again. Gordon Carlton seemed to have shrunken and he shuffled toward the door, his jaw working, hands knotted into hard fists. If he said something as he exited Johnny’s home, Johnny did not catch it and if Raiden did, he was not sharing.

Johnny locked the door behind him and then leaned heavily against it. “You… mean that, Raiden? Partners?”

“It was perhaps a bit forward of me,” Raiden admitted, shrugging, great shoulders rising and falling. Johnny shook his head.

“Nah, I think it was just right. It’s what he needed to hear. You put the fear of… well you in ‘im.”

Raiden nodded. “I did.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Johnny Cage.”

#cc#cw#prevented timeline#faraday cage#johnny cage#raiden#cassie cage#jacqui briggs#kung jin#sub-zero#scorpion#thermodynamic equilibrium#subscorp #honor among thieves #erronjin #jacqueda mention! #johnny x raiden #literally I only know faraday cage for this one like is there another ship name? idgaf this one's gr8

Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

The Story of My Life. Parts I & II by Helen Keller, 1880-1968; Part III from the letters and reports of Anne Mansfield Sullivan, ca.1867-1936; Edited by John Albert Macy. New York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1905.

PART I
THE STORY OF MY LIFE

THE STORY OF MY LIFE
CHAPTER I

IT is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life. I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important.

I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.

The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book on the subject of their education–rather a singular coincidence; though it is true that there is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.

My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase supplies for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of the letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of these trips.

My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides, Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an early Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to Robert E. Lee.

My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army, and my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years younger. Her grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E. Goodhue, and lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, for many years. Their son, Charles Adams, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and moved to Helena, Arkansas. When the Civil War broke out, he fought on the side of the South and became a brigadier-general. He married Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the same family of Everetts as Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war was over the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.

I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion. Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines, climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds and bees.

one-story house with multiple chimneys and portico
Photograph by Collins
"IVY GREEN," THE KELLER HOMESTEAD
(The small house on the right is where Helen Keller was born.)

The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from our little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.

Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell, would find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the garden! Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile petals resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses–they were loveliest of all. Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such heart-satisfying roses as the climbing roses of my southern home. They used to hang in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning, washed in the dew, they felt so soft, so pure, I could not help wondering if they did not resemble the asphodels of God's garden.

The beginning of my life was simple and much like every other little life. I came, I saw, I conquered, as the first baby in the family always does. There was the usual amount of discussion as to a name for me. The first baby in the family was not to be lightly named, every one was emphatic about that. My father suggested the name of Mildred Campbell, an ancestor whom he highly esteemed, and he declined to take any further part in the discussion. My mother solved the problem by giving it as her wish that I should be called after her mother, whose maiden name was Helen Everett. But in the excitement of carrying me to church my father lost the name on the way, very naturally, since it was one in which he had declined to have a part. When the minister asked him for it, he just remembered that it had been decided to call me after my grandmother, and he gave her name as Helen Adams.

I am told that while I was still in long dresses I showed many signs of an eager, self-asserting disposition. Everything that I saw other people do I insisted upon imitating. At six months I could pipe out "How d'ye," and one day I attracted every one's attention by saying "Tea, tea, tea" quite plainly. Even after my illness I remembered one of the words I had learned in these early months. It was the word "water," and I continued to make some sound for that word after all other speech was lost. I ceased making the sound "wah-wah" only when I learned to spell the word.

They tell me I walked the day I was a year old. My mother had just taken me out of the bath-tub and was holding me in her lap, when I was suddenly attracted by the flickering shadows of leaves that danced in the sunlight on the smooth floor. I slipped from my mother's lap and almost ran toward them. The impulse gone, I fell down and cried for her to take me up in her arms.

These happy days did not last long. One brief spring, musical with the song of robin and mocking-bird, one summer rich in fruit and roses, one autumn of gold and crimson sped by and left their gifts at the feet of an eager, delighted child. Then, in the dreary month of February, came the illness which closed my eyes and ears and plunged me into the unconsciousness of a new-born baby. They called it acute congestion of the stomach and brain. The doctor thought I could not live. Early one morning, however, the fever left me as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come. There was great rejoicing in the family that morning, but no one, not even the doctor, knew that I should never see or hear again.

I fancy I still have confused recollections of that illness. I especially remember the tenderness with which my mother tried to soothe me in my waking hours of fret and pain, and the agony and bewilderment with which I awoke after a tossing half sleep, and turned my eyes, so dry and hot, to the wall, away from the once-loved light, which came to me dim and yet more dim each day. But, except for these fleetings memories, if, indeed, they be memories, it all seems very unreal, like a nightmare. Gradually I got used to the silence and darkness that surrounded me and forgot that it had ever been different, until she came–my teacher–who was to set my spirit free. But during the first nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out. If we have once seen, "the day is ours, and what the day has shown."

CHAPTER II

I CANNOT recall what happened during the first months after my illness. I only know that I sat in my mother's lap or clung to her dress as she went about her household duties. My hands felt every object and observed every motion, and in this way I learned to know many things. Soon I felt the need of some communication with others and began to make crude signs. A shake of the head meant "No" and a nod, "Yes," a pull meant "Come" and a push, "Go." Was it bread that I wanted? Then I would imitate the acts of cutting the slices and buttering them. If I wanted my mother to make ice-cream for dinner I made the sign for working the freezer and shivered, indicating cold. My mother, moreover, succeeded in making me understand a good deal. I always knew when she wished me to bring her something, and I would run upstairs or anywhere else she indicated. Indeed, I owe to her loving wisdom all that was bright and good in my long night.

I understood a good deal of what was going on about me. At five I learned to fold and put away the clean clothes when they were brought in from the laundry, and I distinguished my own from the rest. I knew by the way my mother and aunt dressed when they were going out, and I invariably begged to go with them. I was always sent for when there was company, and when the guests took their leave, I waved my hand to them, I think with a vague remembrance of the meaning of the gesture. One day some gentlemen called on my mother, and I felt the shutting of the front door and other sounds that indicated their arrival. On a sudden thought I ran upstairs before any one could stop me, to put on my idea of a company dress. Standing before the mirror, as I had seen others do, I anointed mine head with oil and covered my face thickly with powder. Then I pinned a veil over my head so that it covered my face and fell in folds down to my shoulders, and tied an enormous bustle round my small waist, so that it dangled behind, almost meeting the hem of my skirt. Thus attired I went down to help entertain the company.

I do not remember when I first realized that I was different from other people; but I knew it before my teacher came to me. I had noticed that my mother and my friends did not use signs as I did when they wanted anything done, but talked with their mouths. Sometimes I stood between two persons who were conversing and touched their lips. I could not understand, and was vexed. I moved my lips and gesticulated frantically without result. This made me so angry at times that I kicked and screamed until I was exhausted.

I think I knew when I was naughty, for I knew that it hurt Ella, my nurse, to kick her, and when my fit of temper was over I had a feeling akin to regret. But I cannot remember any instance in which this feeling prevented me from repeating the naughtiness when I failed to get what I wanted.

In those days a little coloured girl, Martha Washington, the child of our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were my constant companions. Martha Washington understood my signs, and I seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished. It pleased me to domineer over her, and she generally submitted to my tyranny rather than risk a hand-to-hand encounter. I was strong, active, indifferent to consequences. I knew my own mind well enough and always had my own way, even if I had to fight tooth and nail for it. We spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, kneading dough balls, helping make ice-cream, grinding coffee, quarreling over the cake-bowl, and feeding the hens and turkeys that swarmed about the kitchen steps. Many of them were so tame that they would eat from my hand and let me feel them. One big gobbler snatched a tomato from me one day and ran away with it. Inspired, perhaps, by Master Gobbler's success, we carried off to the woodpile a cake which the cook had just frosted, and ate every bit of it. I was quite ill afterward, and I wonder if retribution also overtook the turkey.

The guinea-fowl likes to hide her nest in out-of-the-way places, and it was one of my greatest delights to hunt for the eggs in the long grass. I could not tell Martha Washington when I wanted to go egg-hunting, but I would double my hands and put them on the ground, which meant something round in the grass, and Martha always understood. When we were fortunate enough to find a nest I never allowed her to carry the eggs home, making her understand by emphatic signs that she might fall and break them.

The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me. The milkers would let me keep my hands on the cows while they milked, and I often got well switched by the cow for my curiosity.

The making ready for Christmas was always a delight to me. Of course I did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet. We were sadly in the way, but that did not interfere with our pleasure in the least. They allowed us to grind the spices, pick over the raisins and lick the stirring spoons. I hung my stocking because the others did; I cannot remember, however, that the ceremony interested me especially, nor did my curiosity cause me to wake before daylight to look for my gifts.

Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two little children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July afternoon. One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One child was six years old, the other two or three years older. The younger child was blind–that was I–and the other was Martha Washington. We were busy cutting out paper dolls; but we soon wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our shoestrings and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were within reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn about is fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely interference.

Belle, our dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to sleep by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard to teach her my sign language, but she was dull and inattentive. She sometimes started and quivered with excitement, then she became perfectly rigid, as dogs do when they point a bird. I did not then know why Belle acted in this way; but I knew she was not doing as I wished. This vexed me and the lesson always ended in a one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch herself lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to the opposite side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and disappointed, went off in search of Martha.

Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory, isolated, but clear and distinct, making the sense of that silent, aimless, dayless life all the more intense.

One day I happened to spill water on my apron, and I spread it out to dry before the fire which was flickering on the sitting-room hearth. The apron did not dry quickly enough to suit me, so I drew nearer and threw it right over the hot ashes. The fire leaped into life; the flames encircled me so that in a moment my clothes were blazing. I made a terrified noise that brought Viny, my old nurse, to the rescue. Throwing a blanket over me, she almost suffocated me, but she put out the fire. Except for my hands and hair I was not badly burned.

About this time I found out the use of a key. One morning I locked my mother up in the pantry, where she was obliged to remain three hours, as the servants were in a detached part of the house. She kept pounding on the door, while I sat outside on the porch steps and laughed with glee as I felt the jar of the pounding. This most naughty prank of mine convinced my parents that I must be taught as soon as possible. After my teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to me, I sought an early opportunity to lock her in her room. I went upstairs with something which my mother made me understand I was to give to Miss Sullivan; but no sooner had I given it to her than I slammed the door to, locked it, and hid the key under the wardrobe in the hall. I could not be induced to tell where the key was. My father was obliged to get a ladder and take Miss Sullivan out through the window–much to my delight. Months after I produced the key.

When I was about five years old we moved from the little vine-covered house to a large new one. The family consisted of my father and mother, two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a little sister, Mildred. My earliest distinct recollection of my father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he was doing. I imitated this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking they might help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my father edited one of them.

My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home, seldom leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his family he loved his dogs and gun. His hospitality was great, almost to a fault, and he seldom came home without bringing a guest. His special pride was the big garden where, it was said, he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county; and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to tree, from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever pleased me.

He was a famous story-teller; after I had acquired language he used to spell clumsily into my hand his cleverest anecdotes, and nothing pleased him more than to have me repeat them at an opportune moment.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the summer of 1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He had had a short illness, there had been a brief time of acute suffering, then all was over. This was my first great sorrow–my first personal experience with death.

How shall I write of my mother? She is so near to me that it almost seems indelicate to speak of her.

For a long time I regarded my little sister as an intruder. I knew that I had ceased to be my mother's only darling, and the thought filled me with jealousy. She sat in my mother's lap constantly, where I used to sit, and seemed to take up all her care and time. One day something happened which seemed to me to be adding insult to injury.

At that time I had a much-petted, much-abused doll, which I afterward named Nancy. She was, alas, the helpless victim of my outbursts of temper and of affection, so that she became much the worse for wear. I had dolls which talked, and cried, and opened and shut their eyes; yet I never loved one of them as I loved poor Nancy. She had a cradle, and I often spent an hour or more rocking her. I guarded both doll and cradle with the most jealous care; but once I discovered my little sister sleeping peacefully in the cradle. At this presumption on the part of one to whom as yet no tie of love bound me I grew angry. I rushed upon the cradle and overturned it, and the baby might have been killed had my mother not caught her as she fell. Thus it is that when we walk in the valley of twofold solitude we know little of the tender affections that grow out of endearing words and actions and companionship. But afterward, when I was restored to my human heritage, Mildred and I grew into each other's hearts, so that we were content to go hand-in-hand wherever caprice led us, although she could not understand my finger language, nor I her childish prattle.

CHAPTER III

MEANWHILE the desire to express myself grew. The few signs I used became less and less adequate, and my failures to make myself understood were invariably followed by outbursts of passion. I felt as if invisible hands were holding me, and I made frantic efforts to free myself. I struggled–not that struggling helped matters, but the spirit of resistance was strong within me; I generally broke down in tears and physical exhaustion. If my mother happened to be near I crept into her arms, too miserable even to remember the cause of the tempest. After awhile the need of some means of communication became so urgent that these outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.

My parents were deeply grieved and perplexed. We lived a long way from any school for the blind or the deaf, and it seemed unlikely that any one would come to such an out-of-the-way place as Tuscumbia to teach a child who was both deaf and blind. Indeed, my friends and relatives sometimes doubted whether I could be taught. My mother's only ray of hope came from Dickens's "American Notes." She had read his account of Laura Bridgman, and remembered vaguely that she was deaf and blind, yet had been educated. But she also remembered with a hopeless pang that Dr. Howe, who had discovered the way to teach the deaf and blind, had been dead many years. His methods had probably died with him; and if they had not, how was a little girl in a far-off town in Alabama to receive the benefit of them?

When I was about six years old, my father heard of an eminent oculist in Baltimore, who had been successful in many cases that had seemed hopeless. My parents at once determined to take me to Baltimore to see if anything could be done for my eyes.

The journey, which I remember well, was very pleasant. I made friends with many people on the train. One lady gave me a box of shells. My father made holes in these so that I could string them, and for a long time they kept me happy and contented. The conductor, too, was kind. Often when he went his rounds I clung to his coat tails while he collected and punched the tickets. His punch, with which he let me play, was a delightful toy. Curled up in a corner of the seat I amused myself for hours making funny little holes in bits of cardboard.

My aunt made me a big doll out of towels. It was the most comical, shapeless thing, this improvised doll, with no nose, mouth, ears or eyes–nothing that even the imagination of a child could convert into a face. Curiously enough, the absence of eyes struck me more than all the other defects put together. I pointed this out to everybody with provoking persistency, but no one seemed equal to the task of providing the doll with eyes. A bright idea, however, shot into my mind, and the problem was solved. I tumbled off the seat and searched under it until I found my aunt's cape, which was trimmed with large beads. I pulled two beads off and indicated to her that I wanted her to sew them on doll. She raised my hand to her eyes in a questioning way, and I nodded energetically. The beads were sewed in the right place and I could not contain myself for joy; but immediately I lost all interest in the doll. During the whole trip I did not have one fit of temper, there were so many things to keep my mind and fingers busy.

When we arrived in Baltimore, Dr. Chisholm received us kindly: but he could do nothing. He said, however, that I could be educated, and advised my father to consult Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, of Washington, who would be able to give him information about schools and teachers of deaf or blind children. Acting on the doctor's advice, we went immediately to Washington to see Dr. Bell, my father with a sad heart and many misgivings, I wholly unconscious of his anguish, finding pleasure in the excitement of moving from place to place. Child as I was, I at once felt the tenderness and sympathy which endeared Dr. Bell to so many hearts, as his wonderful achievements enlist their admiration. He held me on his knee while I examined his watch, and he made it strike for me. He understood my signs, and I knew it and loved him at once. But I did not dream that that interview would be the door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.

Dr. Bell advised my father to write to Mr. Anagnos, director of the Perkins Institution in Boston, the scene of Dr. Howe's great labours for the blind, and ask him if he had a teacher competent to begin my education. This my father did at once, and in a few weeks there came a kind letter from Mr. Anagnos with the comforting assurance that a teacher had been found. This was in the summer of 1886. But Miss Sullivan did not arrive until the following March.

Thus I came up out of Egypt and stood before Sinai, and a power divine touched my spirit and gave it sight, so that I beheld many wonders. And from the sacred mountain I heard a voice which said, "Knowledge is love and light and vision."

CHAPTER IV

THE most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrasts between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1887, three months before I was seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. "Light! give me light!" was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.

I felt approaching footsteps. I stretched out my hand as I supposed to my mother. Some one took it, and I was caught up and held close in the arms of her who had come to reveal all things to me, and, more than all things else, to love me.

The morning after my teacher came she led me into her room and gave me a doll. The little blind children at the Perkins Institution had sent it and Laura Bridgman had dressed it; but I did not know this until afterward. When I had played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word "d-o-l-l." I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in making the letters correctly I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs to my mother I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation. In the days that followed I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words, among them pin, hat, cup and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.

One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled "d-o-l-l" and tried to make me understand that "d-o-l-l" applied to both. Earlier in the day we had had a tussle over the words "m-u-g" and "w-a-t-e-r." Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that "m-u-g" is mug and that "w-a-t-e-r" is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the time, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment of tenderness. I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth, and I had a sense of satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat, and I knew I was going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought, made me hop and skip with pleasure.

profile view of child with ringlets
Photograph by Deane, 1887
HELEN KELLER AT THE AGE OF SEVEN

We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten–a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that "w-a-t-e-r" meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away. 1

I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.

I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them–words that were to make the world blossom for me, "like Aaron's rod, with flowers." It would have been difficult to find a happier child than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of the eventful day and lived over the joys it had brought me, and for the first time longed for a new day to come.

CHAPTER V

I RECALL many incidents of the summer of 1887 that followed my soul's sudden awakening. I did nothing but explore with my hands and learn the name of every object that I touched; and the more I handled things and learned their names and uses, the more joyous and confident grew my sense of kinship with the rest of the world.

When the time of daisies and buttercups came Miss Sullivan took me by the hand across the fields, where men were preparing the earth for the seed, to the banks of the Tennessee River, and there, sitting on the warm grass, I had my first lessons in the beneficence of nature. I learned how the sun and the rain make to grow out of the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, how birds build their nests and live and thrive from land to land, how the squirrel, the deer, the lion and every other creature finds food and shelter. As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand. She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers."

But about this time I had an experience which taught me that nature is not always kind. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble. The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside. Our last halt was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches. It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there. I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it.

Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth. I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree.

There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree. The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson–that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws."

After this experience it was a long time before I climbed another tree. The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house. "What is it?" I asked, and the next minute I recognized the odour of the mimosa blossoms. I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth. I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful, so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself. I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams.

CHAPTER VI

I HAD now the key to all language, and I was eager to learn to use it. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process. But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.

At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain.

I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, "love." This was before I knew many words. I had found a few early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me: but at that time I did not like to have any one kiss me except my mother. Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen."

"What is love?" I asked.

She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it.

I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers?"

"No," said my teacher.

Again I thought. The warm sun was shining on us.

"Is this not love?" I asked, pointing in the direction from which the heat came. "Is this not love?"

It seemed to me that there could be nothing more beautiful than the sun, whose warmth makes all things grow. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love.

A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups–two large beads, three small ones, and so on. I had made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think."

In a flash I knew that the word was the name of the process that was going on in my head. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea.

For a long time I was still–I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour.

Again, I asked my teacher, "Is this not love?"

"Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky before the sun came out," she replied. Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: "You cannot touch the clouds, you know; but you feel the rain and know how glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything. Without love you would not be happy or want to play."

The beautiful truth burst upon my mind–I felt that there were invisible lines stretched between my spirit and the spirits of others.

From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to keep up my end of the dialogue.

This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts. This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation. But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time.

The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says.

child in white dress on upholstered sofa with dog
Photograph by Deane, 1877
HELEN KELLER AND JUMBO

CHAPTER VII

THE next important step in my education was learning to read.

As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality. I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence out of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.

One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time. Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences.

From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek. Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later.

For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself. What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories.

I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description. She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson. She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught.

We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods–the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes. Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. "The loveliness of things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, or buzz, or sing, or bloom, had a part in my education–noisy- throated frogs, katydids and crickets held in my hand until, forgetting their embarrassment, they trilled their reedy note, little downy chickens and wild-flowers, the dogwood blossoms, meadow-violets and budding fruit trees. I felt the bursting cotton-bolls and fingered their soft fiber and fuzzy seeds; I felt the low soughing of the wind through the cornstalks, the silky rustling of the long leaves, and the indignant snort of my pony, as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth–ah me! how well I remember the spicy, clovery smell of his breath!

Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without.

Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!

Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumble-down lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange. She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole.

Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kindergarten straws I learned to add and subtract. I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates.

In this same leisurely manner I studied zoölogy and botany.

Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils–tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief. These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age. For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof.

Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." After I had learned a great many interesting things about the life and habits of the children of the sea–how in the midst of dashing waves the little polyps build the beautiful coral isles of the Pacific, and the foraminifera have made the chalk-hills of many a land–my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus," and showed me that the shell-building process of the mollusks is symbolical of the development of the mind. Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.

Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically. There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.

Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers. One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity. He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song.

Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning. She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.

Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks.

My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her–there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.

CHAPTER VIII

THE first Christmas after Miss Sullivan came to Tuscumbia was a great event. Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set of lessons could have done. Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached.

On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit. It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered around the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children. In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control. I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning.

That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms. Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas!" I found surprises, not in the stocking only, but on the table, on all the chairs, at the door, on the very window-sill; indeed, I could hardly walk without stumbling on a bit of Christmas wrapped up in tissue paper. But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed.

Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing.

One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door. At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again.

CHAPTER IX

THE next important event in my life was my visit to Boston, in May, 1888. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston. How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: the beautiful Tennessee River, the great cotton-fields, the hills and woods, and the crowds of laughing negroes at the stations, who waved to the people on the train and brought delicious candy and popcorn balls through the car. On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes. Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep.

As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt–the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them. The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath. This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully.

When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true. The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here.

We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little blind children. It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter. In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind. I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers. Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift. But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship.

One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by. I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation.

While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.

The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth. I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.

How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise! I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful."

Among the many friends I made in Boston were Mr. William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar. I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Mr. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "The City of Kind Hearts."

CHAPTER X

JUST before the Perkins Institution closed for the summer, it was arranged that my teacher and I should spend our vacation at Brewster, on Cape Cod, with our dear friend, Mrs. Hopkins. I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea.

My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland, and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar. So my little heart leaped with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized.

No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water. I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grab some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face. But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. It was fearful! The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element–life, air, warmth, and love. At last, however, the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms. Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: "Who put salt in the water?"

After I had recovered from my first experience in the water, I thought it great fun to sit on a big rock in my bathing-suit and feel wave after wave dash against the rock, sending up a shower of spray which quite covered me. I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations. The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea!

I could never stay long enough on the shore. The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day, Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the chilly water. It was a great horseshoe crab–the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure. But the next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea.

CHAPTER XI

IN the Autumn I returned to my Southern home with a heart full of joyous memories. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It seems to have been the beginning of everything. The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects which crowd a whole existence into one brief day. I had met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous symphony leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought! The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose.

I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way. The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood–an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad. In places, the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day.

Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each 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, and 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 roundabout 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 upon 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 mêlée. 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 though 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. 2 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 on 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 thought 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 me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face, and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has never heard–to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone of love, no song of bird, no strain of music ever pierces the stillness–can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones, trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight I felt when at my call Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.

But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time. I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius, untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends; in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds in a thousand ways. Even now, she calls my attention every day to mispronounced words.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In reading my teacher's lips, I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished, spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I could not be despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.

Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet, which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. I place my hand on the hand of the speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter any more than you see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell rapidly–about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere, spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.

When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey, talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood the whole family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaah's prophecy had been fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE winter of 1892 was darkened by one cloud in my childhood's bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, anxiety, and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institute for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts connected with this episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate. 3

I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have been read to me and which I must have unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate. Now, if words and images came to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I cannot be quite sure of the boundary line between my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come to me through the medium of others' eyes and ears.

When the story was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.

The question surprised me very much; for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."

Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King" and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King" called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories we so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was–a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King;" but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.

At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted. To please him I tried not to be unhappy, and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news.

I was to be Ceres in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that ringed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the gaiety of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.

The night before the celebration, one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.

Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had "The Frost Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion that was in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room, I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses, or the tender words of my friends, who said I was a brave little girl and they were proud of me.

As I lay in my bed that night, I wept as I hope few children have wept. I felt so cold, I imagined I should die before morning, and the thought comforted me. I think if this sorrow had come to me when I was older, it would have broken my spirit beyond repairing. But the angel of forgetfulness has gathered up and carried away much of the misery and all of the bitterness of those sad days.

Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or of the book in which it was published. With the assistance of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, she investigated the matter carefully, and at last it came out that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and His Friends" in 1888, the year that we spent the summer with her at Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins was unable to find her copy; but she has told me that at that time, while Miss Sullivan was away on a vacation, she tried to amuse me by reading from various books, and although she could not remember reading "The Frost Fairies" any more than I, yet she felt sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of them. She explained the disappearance of the book by the fact that she had a short time before sold her house and disposed of many juvenile books, such as old schoolbooks and fairy tales, and that "Birdie and His Friends" was probably among them.

The stories had little or no meaning for me then; but the mere spelling of the strange words was sufficient to amuse a little child who could do almost nothing to amuse herself; and although I do not recall a single circumstance connected with the reading of the stories, yet I cannot help thinking that I made a great effort to remember the words, with the intention of having my teacher explain them when she returned. One thing is certain, the language was ineffaceably stamped upon my brain, though for a long time no one knew it, least of all myself.

When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost Fairies" probably because she began at once to read "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which filled my mind to the exclusion of everything else. But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.

In my trouble I received many messages of love and sympathy. All the friends I loved best, except one, have remained my own to the present time. Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many." But this kind prophecy has never been fulfilled. I have never played with words again for the mere pleasure of the game. Indeed, I have ever since been tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time, when I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I was seized with a sudden feeling of terror, and I would spell the sentences over and over, to make sure that I had not read them in a book. Had it not been for the persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given up trying to write altogether.

I have read "The Frost Fairies" since, also the letters I wrote in which I used other ideas of Miss Canby's. I find in one of them, a letter to Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, words and sentiments exactly like those of the book. At the time I was writing "The Frost King," and this letter, like many others, contains phrases which show that my mind was saturated with the story. I represent my teacher as saying to me of the golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer"–an idea direct from Miss Canby's story.

This habit of assimilating what pleased me and giving it out again as my own appears in much of my early correspondence and my first attempts at writing. In a composition which I wrote about the old cities of Greece and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions, with variations, from sources I have forgotten. I knew Mr. Anagnos's great love of antiquity and his enthusiastic appreciation of all beautiful sentiments about Italy and Greece. I therefore gathered from all the books I read every bit of poetry or of history that I thought would give him pleasure. Mr. Anagnos, in speaking of my composition on the cities, has said, "These ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever thought a blind and deaf child of eleven could have invented them. Yet I cannot think that because I did not originate the ideas, my little composition is therefore quite devoid of interest. It shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear and animated language.

Those early compositions were mental gymnastics. I was learning, as all young and inexperienced persons learn, by assimilation and imitation, to put ideas into words. Everything I found in books that pleased me I retained in my memory, consciously or unconsciously, and adapted it. The young writer, as Stevenson has said, instinctively tries to copy whatever seems most admirable, and he shifts his admiration with astonishing versatility. It is only after years of this sort of practice that even great men have learned to marshal the legion of words which come thronging through every byway of the mind.

I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. It is certain that I cannot always distinguish my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes the very substance and texture of my mind. Consequently, in nearly all that I write, I produce something which very much resembles the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned to sew. This patchwork was made of all sorts of odds and ends–pretty bits of silk and velvet; but the coarse pieces that were not pleasant to touch always predominated. Likewise my compositions are made up of crude notions of my own, inlaid with the brighter thoughts and riper opinions of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great difficulty of writing is to make the language of the educated mind express our confused ideas, half feelings, half thoughts, when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is very much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in mind which we wish to work out in words; but the words will not fit the spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. But we keep on trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not willing to acknowledge defeat.

"There is no way to become original, except to be born so," says Stevenson, and although I may not be original, I hope sometime to outgrow my artificial, periwigged compositions. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile I trust and hope and persevere, and try not to let the bitter memory of "The Frost King" trammel my efforts.

So this sad experience may have done me good and set me thinking on some of the problems of composition. My only regret is that it resulted in the loss of one of my dearest friends, Mr. Anagnos.

Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He says, the court of investigation before which I was brought consisted of eight people: four blind, four seeing persons. Four of them, he says, thought I knew that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and the others did not hold this view. Mr. Anagnos states that he cast his vote with those who were favourable to me.

But, however the case may have been, with whichever side he may have cast his vote, when I went into the room where Mr. Anagnos had so often held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, had shared in my frolics, and found there persons who seemed to doubt me, I felt that there was something hostile and menacing in the very atmosphere, and subsequent events have borne out this impression. For two years he seems to have held the belief that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he evidently retracted his favourable judgment, why I do not know. Nor did I know the details of the investigation. I never knew even the names of the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too excited to notice anything, too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could scarcely think what I was saying, or what was being said to me.

I have given this account of the "Frost King" affair because it was important in my life and education; and, in order that there might be no misunderstanding, I have set forth all the facts as they appear to me, without a thought of defending myself or of laying blame on any one.

CHAPTER XV

THE summer and winter following the "Frost King" incident I spent with my family in Alabama. I recall with delight that home-going. Everything had budded and blossomed. I was happy. "The Frost King" was forgotten.

When the ground was strewn with the crimson and golden leaves of autumn, and the musk-scented grapes that covered the arbour at the end of the garden were turning golden brown in the sunshine, I began to write a sketch of my life–a year after I had written "The Frost King."

I was still excessively scrupulous about everything I wrote. The thought that what I wrote might not be absolutely my own tormented me. No one knew of these fears except my teacher. A strange sensitiveness prevented me from referring to the "Frost King"; and often when an idea flashed out in the course of conversation I would spell softly to her, "I am not sure it is mine." At other times, in the midst of a paragraph I was writing, I said to myself, "Suppose it should be found that all this was written by some one long ago!" An impish fear clutched my hand, so that I could not write any more that day. And even now I sometimes feel the same uneasiness and disquietude. Miss Sullivan consoled and helped me in every way she could think of; but the terrible experience I had passed through left a lasting impression on my mind, the significance of which I am only just beginning to understand. It was with the hope of restoring my self-confidence that she persuaded me to write for the Youth's Companion a brief account of my life. I was then twelve years old. As I look back on my struggle to write that little story, it seems to me that I must have had a prophetic vision of the good that would come of the undertaking, or I should surely have failed.

I wrote timidly, fearfully, but resolutely, urged on by my teacher, who knew that if I persevered, I should find my mental foothold again and get a grip on my faculties. Up to the time of the "Frost King" episode, I had lived the unconscious life of a little child; now my thoughts were turned inward, and I beheld things invisible. Gradually I emerged from the penumbra of that experience with a mind made clearer by trial and with a truer knowledge of life.

The chief events of the year 1893 were my trip to Washington during the inauguration of President Cleveland, and visits to Niagara and the World's Fair. Under such circumstances my studies were constantly interrupted and often put aside for many weeks, so that it is impossible for me to give a connected account of them.

We went to Niagara in March, 1893. It is difficult to describe my emotions when I stood on the point which overhangs the American Falls and felt the air vibrate and the earth tremble.

It seems strange to many people that I should be impressed by the wonders and beauties of Niagara. They are always asking: "What does this beauty or that music mean to you? You cannot see the waves rolling up the beach or hear their roar. What do they mean to you?" In the most evident sense they mean everything. I cannot fathom or define their meaning any more than I can fathom or define love or religion or goodness.

During the summer of 1893, Miss Sullivan and I visited the World's Fair with Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. I recall with unmixed delight those days when a thousand childish fancies became beautiful realities. Every day in imagination I made a trip around the world, and I saw many wonders from the uttermost parts of the earth–marvels of invention, treasures of industry and skill and all the activities of human life actually passed under my finger tips.

I liked to visit the Midway Plaisance. It seemed like the "Arabian Nights," it was crammed so full of novelty and interest. Here was the India of my books in the curious bazaar with its Shivas and elephant-gods; there was the land of the Pyramids concentrated in a model Cairo with its mosques and its long processions of camels; yonder were the lagoons of Venice, where we sailed every evening when the city and the fountains were illuminated. I also went on board a Viking ship which lay a short distance from the little craft. I had been on a man-of-war before, in Boston, and it interested me to see, on this Viking ship, how the seaman was once all in all–how he sailed and took storm and calm alike with undaunted heart, and gave chase to whosoever reechoed his cry, "We are of the sea!" and fought with brains and sinews, self-reliant, self-sufficient, instead of being thrust into the background by unintelligent machinery, as Jack is to-day. So it always is–"man only is interesting to man."

At a little distance from this ship there was a model of the Santa Maria, which I also examined. The captain showed me Columbus's cabin and the desk with an hourglass on it. This small instrument impressed me most because it made me think how weary the heroic navigator must have felt as he saw the sand dropping grain by grain while desperate men were plotting against his life.

Mr. Higinbotham, President of the World's Fair, kindly gave me permission to touch the exhibits, and with an eagerness as insatiable as that with which Pizarro seized the treasures of Peru, I took in the glories of the Fair with my fingers. It was a sort of tangible kaleidoscope, this white city of the West. Everything fascinated me, especially the French bronzes. They were so lifelike, I thought they were angel visions which the artist had caught and bound in earthly forms.

At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit, I learned much about the process of mining diamonds. Whenever it was possible, I touched the machinery while it was in motion, so as to get a clearer idea how the stones were weighed, cut, and polished. I searched in the washings for a diamond and found it myself–the only true diamond, they said, that was ever found in the United States.

Dr. Bell went everywhere with us and in his own delightful way described to me the objects of greatest interest. In the electrical building we examined the telephones, autophones, phonographs, and other inventions, and he made me understand how it is possible to send a message on wires that mock space and outrun time, and, like Prometheus, to draw fire from the sky. We also visited the anthropological department, and I was much interested in the relics of ancient Mexico, in the rude stone implements that are so often the only record of an age–the simple monuments of nature's unlettered children (so I thought as I fingered them) that seem bound to last while the memorials of kings and sages crumble in dust away–and in the Egyptian mummies, which I shrank from touching. From these relics I learned more about the progress of man than I have heard or read since.

woman in long skirt holding hand of bearded man in suit
Photograph by Marshall, 1902
MISS KELLER AND DR. ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL

All these experiences added a great many new terms to my vocabulary, and in the three weeks I spent at the Fair I took a long leap from the little child's interest in fairy tales and toys to the appreciation of the real and the earnest in the workaday world.

CHAPTER XVI

BEFORE October, 1893, I had studied various subjects by myself in a more or less desultory manner. I read the histories of Greece, Rome and the United States. I had a French grammar in raised print, and as I already knew some French, I often amused myself by composing in my head short exercises, using the new words as I came across them, and ignoring rules and other technicalities as much as possible. I even tried, without aid, to master the French pronunciation, as I found all the letters and sounds described in the book. Of course this was tasking slender powers for great ends; but it gave me something to do on a rainy day, and I acquired a sufficient knowledge of French to read with pleasure La Fontaine's, "Fables," "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" and passages from "Athalie."

I also gave considerable time to the improvement of my speech. I read aloud to Miss Sullivan and recited passages from my favourite poets, which I had committed to memory; she corrected my pronunciation and helped me to phrase and inflect. It was not, however, until October, 1893, after I had recovered from the fatigue and excitement of my visit to the World's Fair, that I began to have lessons in special subjects at fixed hours.

Miss Sullivan and I were at that time in Hulton, Pennsylvania, visiting the family of Mr. William Wade. Mr. Irons, a neighbour of theirs, was a good Latin scholar; it was arranged that I should study under him. I remember him as man of rare, sweet nature and of wide experience. He taught me Latin grammar principally; but he often helped me in arithmetic, which I found as troublesome as it was uninteresting. Mr. Irons also read with me Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I had read many books before, but never from a critical point of view. I learned for the first time to know an author, to recognize his style as I recognize the clasp of a friend's hand.

At first I was rather unwilling to study Latin grammar. It seemed absurd to waste time analyzing every word I came across–noun, genitive, singular, feminine–when its meaning was quite plain. I thought I might just as well describe my pet in order to know it–order, vertebrate; division, quadruped; class, mammalia; genus, felinus; species, cat; individual, Tabby. But as I got deeper into the subject, I became more interested, and the beauty of the language delighted me. I often amused myself by reading Latin passages, picking up words I understood and trying to make sense. I have never ceased to enjoy this pastime.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with–ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy. Miss Sullivan sat beside me at my lessons, spelling into my hand whatever Mr. Irons said, and looking up new words for me. I was just beginning to read Caesar's "Gallic War" when I went to my home in Alabama.

CHAPTER XVII

IN the summer of 1894, I attended the meeting at Chautauqua of the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. There it was arranged that I should go to the Wright-Humason School for the Deaf in New York City. I went there in October, 1894, accompanied by Miss Sullivan. This school was chosen especially for the purpose of obtaining the highest advantages in vocal culture and training in lip-reading. In addition to my work in these subjects, I studied, during the two years I was in the school, arithmetic, physical geography, French and German.

Miss Reamy, my German teacher, could use the manual alphabet, and after I had acquired a small vocabulary, we talked together in German whenever we had a chance, and in a few months I could understand almost everything she said. Before the end of the first year I read "Wilhelm Tell" with the greatest delight. Indeed, I think I made more progress in German than in any of my other studies. I found French much more difficult. I studied it with Madame Olivier, a French lady who did not know the manual alphabet, and who was obliged to give her instruction orally. I could not read her lips easily; so my progress was much slower than in German. I managed, however, to read "Le Medecin Malgrè Lui" again. It was very amusing but I did not like it nearly so well as "Wilhelm Tell."

My progress in lip-reading and speech was not what my teachers and I had hoped and expected it would be. It was my ambition to speak like other people, and my teachers believed that this could be accomplished; but, although we worked hard and faithfully, yet we did not quite reach our goal. I suppose we aimed too high, and disappointment was therefore inevitable. I still regarded arithmetic as a system of pitfalls. I hung about the dangerous frontier of "guess," avoiding with infinite trouble to myself and others the broad valley of reason. When I was not guessing, I was jumping at conclusions, and this fault, in addition to my dullness, aggravated my difficulties more than was right or necessary.

But although these disappointments caused me great depression at times, I pursued my other studies with unflagging interest, especially physical geography. It was a joy to learn the secrets of nature: how–in the picturesque language of the Old Testament–the winds are made to blow from the four corners of the heavens, how the vapours ascend from the ends of the earth, how rivers are cut out among the rocks, and mountains overturned by the roots, and in what ways man may overcome many forces mightier than himself. The two years in New York were happy ones, and I look back to them with genuine pleasure.

I remember especially the walks we all took together every day in Central Park, the only part of the city that was congenial to me. I never lost a jot of my delight in this great park. I loved to have it described every time I entered it; for it was beautiful in all its aspects, and these aspects were so many that it was beautiful in a different way each day of the nine months I spent in New York.

In the spring we made excursions to various places of interest. We sailed on the Hudson River and wandered about on its green banks, of which Bryant loved to sing. I liked the simple, wild grandeur of the palisades. Among the places I visited were West Point, Tarrytown, the home of Washington Irving, where I walked through "Sleepy Hollow."

The teachers at the Wright-Humason School were always planning how they might give the pupils every advantage that those who hear enjoy–how they might make much of few tendencies and passive memories in the cases of the little ones–and lead them out of the cramping circumstances in which their lives were set.

Before I left New York, these bright days were darkened by the greatest sorrow that I have ever borne, except the death of my father. Mr. John P. Spaulding, of Boston, died in February, 1896. Only those who knew and loved him best can understand what his friendship meant to me. He, who made every one happy in a beautiful, unobtrusive way, was most kind and tender to Miss Sullivan and me. So long as we felt his loving presence and knew that he took a watchful interest in our work, fraught with so many difficulties, we could not be discouraged. His going away left a vacancy in our lives that has never been filled.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be prepared for Radcliffe.

When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley and surprised my friends by the announcement, "Some day I shall go to college–but I shall go to Harvard!" When asked why I would not go to Wellesley, I replied that there were only girls there. The thought of going to college took root in my heart and became an earnest desire, which impelled me to enter into competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face of the strong opposition of many true and wise friends. When I left New York the idea had become a fixed purpose; and it was decided that I should go to Cambridge. This was the nearest approach I could get to Harvard and to the fulfillment of my childish declaration.

At the Cambridge School the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given.

Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but normal pupils, and my only means of conversing with them was reading their lips. My studies for the first year were English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional themes. Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of preparing for college; but I had been well drilled in English by Miss Sullivan, and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books prescribed by the college. I had had, moreover, a good start in French, and received six months' instruction in Latin; but German was the subject with which I was most familiar.

In spite, however, of these advantages, there were serious drawbacks to my progress. Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all that the books required, and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia were willing to hasten the work. For a while, indeed, I had to copy my Latin in braille, so that I could recite with the other girls. My instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes. I could not make notes in class or write exercises; but I wrote all my compositions and translations at home on my typewriter.

Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said. In study hours she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books I did not have in raised print. The tedium of that work is hard to conceive. Frau Gröte, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to give me instruction. No one realized more fully than dear Frau Gröte how slow and inadequate her spelling was. Nevertheless, the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelled out her instructions to me in special lessons twice a week, to give Miss Sullivan a little rest. But, though everybody was kind and ready to help us, there was only one hand that could turn drudgery into pleasure.

That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar, and read three chapters of Caesar's "Gallic War." In German I read, partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan's assistance, Schiller's "Lied von der Glocke" and "Taucher," Heine's "Harzreise," Freytag's "Aus dem Staat Friedrichs des Grossen," Riehl's "Fluch Der Schönheit," Lessing's "Minna von Barnhelm," and Goethe's "Aus meinem Leben." I took the greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller's wonderful lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great's magnificent achievements and the account of Goethe's life. I was sorry to finish "Die Harzreise," so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished, imaginative age–descriptions such as can be given only by those to whom nature is "a feeling, a love and an appetite."

Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature. We read together, "As You Like It," Burke's "Speech on Conciliation with America," and Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson." Mr. Gilman's broad views of history and literature and his cleaver explanations made my work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read notes mechanically with the necessarily brief explanations given in the classes.

Burke's speech was more instructive than any other book on a political subject that I had ever read. My mind stirred with the stirring times, and the characters round which the life of two contending nations centered seemed to move right before me. I wondered more and more, while Burke's masterly speech rolled on in mighty surges of eloquence, how it was that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation. Then I entered into the melancholy details of the relation in which the great statesman stood to his party and to the representatives of the people. I thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom should have fallen among the tares of ignorance and corruption.

In a different way Macaulay's "Life of Samuel Johnson" was interesting. My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in Grub Street, and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body and soul, always had a kind word, and lent a helping hand to the poor and despised. I rejoiced over all his successes, I shut my eyes to his faults, and wondered, not that he had them, but that they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul. But in spite of Macaulay's brilliancy and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times, and his frequent sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the Demosthenes of Great Britain.

At the Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age. I lived with several others in one of the pleasant house connected with the school, the house where Mr. Howells used to live, and we all had the advantage of home life. I joined them in many of their games, even blind man's buff and frolics in the snow; I took long walks with them; we discussed our studies and read aloud the things that interested us. Some of the girls learned to speak to me, so that Miss Sullivan did not have to repeat their conversation.

At Christmas, my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me, and Mr. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school. So Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge, and for six happy months we were hardly ever apart. It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together.

I took my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July in 1897. The subjects I offered were Elementary and Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all. I passed in everything, and received "honours" in German and English.

Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my examinations will not be amiss here. The student was required to pass in sixteen hours–twelve hours being called elementary and four advanced. He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted. The examination papers were given out at nine o'clock at Harvard and brought to Radcliffe by a special messenger. Each candidate was known, not by his name, but by a number. I was No. 233, but, as I had to use a typewriter, my identity could not be concealed.

It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by myself, because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls. Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual alphabet. A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption.

The first day I had German. Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper through first, then sentence by sentence, while I repeated the words aloud, to make sure that I understood him perfectly. The papers were difficult, and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the typewriter. Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written, and I made such changes as I thought necessary, and he inserted them. I wish to say here, that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations. At Radcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written, and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up. In that, case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few minutes allowed, and make notes of these corrections at the end of my paper. If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the finals, there are two reasons. In the finals, no one read my work over to me, and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school; for at the beginning of the year I had passed examinations in English, History, French and German, which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard papers.

Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with a certificate that I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.

woman sitting at small desk in room with bookshelves
Photograph by Marshall, 1902
MISS KELLER AT WORK IN HER STUDY

All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner. None of them was so difficult as the first. I remember that the day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and informed me I had passed satisfactorily in German. This encouraged me greatly, and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light heart and a steady hand.

CHAPTER XIX

WHEN I began my second year at the Gilman school, I was full of hope and determination to succeed. But during the first few weeks I was confronted with unforeseen difficulties. Mr. Gilman had agreed that that year I should study mathematics principally. I had physics, algebra, geometry, astronomy, Greek and Latin. Unfortunately, many of the books I needed had not been embossed in time for me to begin with the classes, and I lacked important apparatus for some of my studies. The classes I was in were very large, and it was impossible for the teachers to give me special instruction. Miss Sullivan was obliged to read all the books to me, and interpret for the instructors, and for the first time in eleven years it seemed as if her dear hand would not be equal to the task.

It was necessary for me to write algebra and geometry in class and solve problems in physics, and this I could not do until we bought a braille writer, by means of which I could put down the steps and processes of my work. I could not follow with my eyes the geometrical figures drawn on the blackboard, and my only means of getting a clear idea of them was to make them on a cushion with straight and curved wires, which had bent and pointed ends. I had to carry in my mind, as Mr. Keith says in his report, the lettering of the figures, the hypothesis and conclusion, the construction and the process of the proof. In a word, every study had its obstacles. Sometimes I lost all courage and betrayed my feelings in a way I am ashamed to remember, especially as the signs of my trouble were afterward used against Miss Sullivan, the only person of all the kind friends I had there, who could make the crooked straight and the rough places smooth.

Little by little, however, my difficulties began to disappear. The embossed books and other apparatus arrived, and I threw myself into the work with renewed confidence. Algebra and geometry were the only studies that continued to defy my efforts to comprehend them. As I have said before, I had no aptitude for mathematics; the different points were not explained to me as fully as I wished. The geometrical diagrams were particularly vexing because I could not see the relation of the different parts to one another, even on the cushion. It was not until Mr. Keith taught me that I had a clear idea of mathematics.

I was beginning to overcome these difficulties when an event occurred which changed everything.

Just before the books came, Mr. Gilman had begun to remonstrate with Miss Sullivan on the ground that I was working too hard, and in spite of my earnest protestations, he reduced the number of my recitations. At the beginning we had agreed that I should, if necessary, take five years to prepare for college, but at the end of the first year the success of my examinations showed Miss Sullivan, Miss Harbaugh (Mr. Gilman's head teacher), and one other, that I could without too much effort complete my preparation in two years more. Mr. Gilman at first agreed to this; but when my tasks had become somewhat perplexing, he insisted that I was overworked, and that I should remain at his school three years longer. I did not like his plan, for I wished to enter college with my class.

On the seventeenth of November I was not very well, and did not go to school. Although Miss Sullivan knew that my indisposition was not serious, yet Mr. Gilman, on hearing of it, declared that I was breaking down and made changes in my studies which would have rendered it impossible for me to take my final examinations with my class. In the end the difference of opinion between Mr. Gilman and Miss Sullivan resulted in my mother's withdrawing my sister Mildred and me from the Cambridge school.

After some delay it was arranged that I should continue my studies under a tutor, Mr. Merton S. Keith, of Cambridge. Miss Sullivan and I spent the rest of the winter with our friends, the Chamberlins in Wrentham, twenty-five miles from Boston.

From February to July, 1898, Mr. Keith came out to Wrentham twice a week, and taught me algebra, geometry, Greek and Latin. Miss Sullivan interpreted his instruction.

In October, 1898, we returned to Boston. For eight months Mr. Keith gave me lessons five times a week, in periods of about an hour. He explained each time what I did not understand in the previous lesson, assigned new work, and took home with him the Greek exercises which I had written during the week on my typewriter, corrected them fully, and returned them to me.

In this way my preparation for college went on without interruption. I found it much easier and pleasanter to be taught by myself than to receive instruction in class. There was no hurry, no confusion. My tutor had plenty of time to explain what I did not understand, so I got on faster and did better work than I ever did in school. I still found more difficulty in mastering problems in mathematics than I did in any other of my studies. I wish algebra and geometry had been half as easy as the languages and literature. But even mathematics Mr. Keith made interesting; he succeeded in whittling problems small enough to get through my brain. He kept my mind alert and eager, and trained it to reason clearly, and to seek conclusions calmly and logically, instead of jumping wildly into space and arriving nowhere. He was always gentle and forbearing, no matter how dull I might be, and, believe me, my stupidity would often have exhausted the patience of Job.

On the 29th and 30th of June, 1899, I took my final examinations for Radcliffe College. The first day I had Elementary Greek and Advanced Latin, and the second day Geometry, Algebra and Advanced Greek.

The college authorities did not allow Miss Sullivan to read the examination papers to me; so Mr. Eugene C. Vining, one of the instructors at the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was employed to copy the papers for me in American braille. Mr. Vining was a stranger to me, and could not communicate with me, except by writing braille. The proctor was also a stranger, and did not at tempt to communicate with me in any way.

The braille worked well enough in the languages, but when it came to geometry and algebra, difficulties arose. 4 I was sorely perplexed, and felt discouraged wasting much precious time, especially in algebra. It is true that I was familiar with all literary braille in common use in this country–English, American, and New York Point; but the various signs and symbols in geometry and algebra in the three systems are very different, and I had used only the English braille in my algebra.

Two days before the examinations, Mr. Vining sent me a braille copy of one of the old Harvard papers in algebra. To my dismay I found that it was in the American notation. I sat down immediately and wrote to Mr. Vining, asking him to explain the signs. I received another paper and a table of signs by return mail, and I set to work to learn the notation. But on the night before the algebra examination, while I was struggling over some very complicated examples, I could not tell the combinations of bracket, brace and radical. Both Mr. Keith and I were distressed and full of forebodings for the morrow; but we went over to the college a little before the examination began, and had Mr. Vining explain more fully the American symbols.

In geometry my chief difficulty was that I had always been accustomed to read the propositions in line print, or to have them spelled into my hand; and somehow, although the propositions were right before me, I found the braille confusing, and could not fix clearly in my mind what I was reading. But when I took up algebra I had a harder time still. The signs, which I had so lately learned, and which I thought I knew, perplexed me. Besides, I could not see what I wrote on my typewriter. I had always done my work in braille or in my head. Mr. Keith had relied too much on my ability to solve problems mentally, and had not trained me to write examination papers. Consequently my work was painfully slow, and I had to read the examples over and over before I could form any idea of what I was required to do. Indeed, I am not sure now that I read all the signs correctly. I found it very hard to keep my wits about me.

But I do not blame any one. The administrative board of Radcliffe did not realize how difficult they were making my examinations, nor did they understand the peculiar difficulties I had to surmount. But if they unintentionally placed obstacles in my way, I have the consolation of knowing that I overcame them all.

CHAPTER XX

THE struggle for admission to college was ended, and I could now enter Radcliffe whenever I pleased. Before I entered college, however, it was thought best that I should study another year under Mr. Keith. It was not, therefore, until the fall of 1900 that my dream of going to college was realized.

I remember my first day at Radcliffe. It was a day full of interest for me. I had looked forward to it for years. A potent force within me, stronger than the persuasion of my friends, stronger even than the pleadings of my heart, had impelled me to try my strength by the standards of those who see and hear. I knew that there were obstacles in the way; but I was eager to overcome them. I had taken to heart the words of the wise Roman who said, "To be banished from Rome is but to live outside of Rome." Debarred from the great highways of knowledge, I was compelled to make the journey across country by unfrequented roads–that was all; and I knew that in college there were many bypaths where I could touch hands with girls who were thinking, loving and struggling like me.

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, tragedies should be living, tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture-halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and the wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom. If I have since learned differently, I am not going to tell anybody.

But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college.

The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college, there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures–solitude, books and imagination–outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

My studies the first year were French, German, history, English composition and English literature. In the French course I read some of the work of Corneille, Molière, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically Milton's poems and "Aeropagitica."

I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which I work in college. In the classroom, I am of course practically alone. The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone. The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much worse off than the girl who takes notes. If the mind is occupied with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at pellmell speed, I should not think one could pay much attention to the subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented. I cannot make notes during the lectures, because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-tests, the mid-year and final examinations, on my typewriter, so that the professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When I began the study of Latin prosody, I devised and explained to my professor a system of signs indicating the different meters and quantities.

I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several shuttles, each with a different set of characters–Greek, French, or mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.

Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand. Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls. The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a few chapters, while in the world without other girls are laughing and singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, after all, every one who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E. Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they can ever know.

Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition, the Bible as English literature, the governments of America and Europe, the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting, vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland, more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old Testament, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a new growth on the ancient stem of time."

This year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially interest me, economics, Elizabethan literature, Shakespeare under Professor George L. Kittredge, and the History of Philosophy under Professor Josiah Royce. Through philosophy one enters with sympathy of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of thought, which erewhile seemed alien and without reason.

But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was. There one does not meet the great and the wise face to face; one does not even feel their living touch. They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified. We must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah, and not merely a clever imitation. Many scholars forget, it seems to me, that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. It is possible to know a flower, root and stem and all, and all the processes of growth, and yet to have no appreciation of the flower fresh bathed in heaven's dew. Again and again I ask impatiently, "Why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses?" They fly hither and thither in my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men. But when a great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind." He brings back Shakespeare, the poet.

There are, however, times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured at the greatest cost. It is impossible, I think, to read in one day four or five different books in different languages and treating of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads. When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-à-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape them, theme-goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until I wish–oh, may I be forgiven the wicked wish!–that I might smash the idols I came to worship.

But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formulæ and indigestible dates–unpalatable diets, until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea.

At last the dreaded hour arrives, and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch.

"Give a brief account of Huss and his work." Huss? Who was he and what did he do? The name looks strangely familiar. You ransack your budget of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag bag. You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top–you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the Reformation. But where is it now? You fish out all manner of odds and ends of knowledge–revolutions, schisms, massacres, systems of government; but Huss–where is he? You are amazed at all the things you know which are not on the examination paper. In desperation you seize the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you.

Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up. With a feeling of intense disgust you kick the mass of rubbish into a corner and go home, your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned.

It comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I have used figures which will turn the laugh against me. Ah, here they are–the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me, pointing to the bull in the china shop assailed by hailstones and the bugbears with pale looks, an unanalyzed species! Let them mock on. The words describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling, tumbling ideas I live in that I will wink at them for once, and put on a deliberate air to say that my ideas of college have changed.

While my days at Radcliffe were still in the future, they were encircled with a halo of romance, which they have lost; but in the transition from romantic to actual I have learned many things I should never have known had I not tried the experiment. One of them is the precious science of patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort. Such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a soundless tidal wave of deepening thought. "Knowledge is power." Rather, knowledge is happiness, because to have knowledge–broad, deep knowledge–is to know true ends from false, and lofty things from low. To know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress is to feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.

CHAPTER XXI

I HAVE thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom they bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have meant so much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back to the time when I began to read.

I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years of my education; nor did I read according to rule.

At first I had only a few books in raised print–"readers" for beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again and again the things that pleased me.

It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write, these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally, so that my friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way, until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly.

One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends in Boston, leaving me for a short time.

When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might have as long an afternoon as possible for the story. As we hastened through the long grass toward the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that my teacher insisted on picking them all off before we sat down, which seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words. At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.

Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed, and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious, because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and confused memories of earlier reading.

From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare;" "A Child's History of England" by Dickens, "The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them–I did not know whether they were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship. They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my own.

I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language, I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my mind to the exclusion of the moral.

Then, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our higher moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and restrained by reason, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge, self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and foxes.

But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel a genuine interest in the animals themselves, because they are real animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods–no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

God can dumbness keep
While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten–my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Æneid is not so great, but it is none the less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have traveled round the world many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road.

I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers. Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."

But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr. Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to having these great works weakened or falsified.

There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath. Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but if I live, my people shall live."

The story of Ruth, too–how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital! Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel age. Love like Ruth's, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.

The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are temporal, and things unseen are eternal."

I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger and Lady Macbeth's little white hand–the dreadful stain was as real to me as to the grief-stricken queen.

I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloucester's eyes are put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.

I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same time, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.

It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays–the ones I like best now–appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child: what it will hold, and what it will lose."

I have since read Shakespeare's plays many times and know parts of them by heart, but I cannot tell which of them I like best. My delight in them is as varied as my moods. The little songs and the sonnets have a meaning for me as fresh and wonderful as the dramas. But, with all my love for Shakespeare, it is often weary work to read all the meanings into his lines which critics and commentators have given them. I used to try to remember their interpretations, but they discouraged and vexed me; so I made a secret compact with myself not to try any more. This compact I have only just broken in my study of Shakespeare under Professor Kittredge. I know there are many things in Shakespeare, and in the world, that I do not understand; and I am glad to see veil after veil lift gradually, revealing new realms of thought and beauty.

Next to poetry I love history. I have read every historical work that I have been able to lay my hands on, from a catalogue of dry facts and dryer dates to Green's impartial, picturesque "History of the English People"; from Freeman's "History of Europe" to Emerton's "Middle Ages." The first book that gave me any real sense of the value of history was Swinton's "World History," which I received on my thirteenth birthday. Though I believe it is no longer considered valid, yet I have kept it ever since as one of my treasures. From it I learned how the races of men spread from land to land and built great cities, how a few great rulers, earthly Titans, put everything under their feet, and with a decisive word opened the gates of happiness for millions and closed them upon millions more: how different nations pioneered in art and knowledge and broke ground for the mightier growths of coming ages; how civilization underwent, as it were, the holocaust of a degenerate age, and rose again, like the Phoenix, among the nobler sons of the North; and how by liberty, tolerance and education the great and the wise have opened the way for the salvation of the whole world.

In my college reading I have become somewhat familiar with French and German literature. The German puts strength before beauty, and truth before convention, both in life and in literature. There is a vehement, sledgehammer vigour about everything that he does. When he speaks, it is not to impress others, but because his heart would burst if he did not find an outlet for the thoughts that burn in his soul.

Then, too, there is in German literature a fine reserve which I like; but its chief glory is the recognition I find in it of the redeeming potency of woman's self-sacrificing love. This thought pervades all German literature and is mystically expressed in Goethe's "Faust":

All things transitory
  But as symbols are sent.
Earth's insufficiency
  Here grows to event.
The indescribable
Here it is done.
The Woman Soul leads us upward and on!

Of all the French writers that I have read, I like Molière and Racine best. There are fine things in Balzac and passages in Mérimée which strike one like a keen blast of sea air. Alfred de Musset is impossible! I admire Victor Hugo–I appreciate his genius, his brilliancy, his romanticism; though he is not one of my literary passions. But Hugo and Goethe and Schiller and all great poets of all great nations are interpreters of eternal things, and my spirit reverently follows them into the regions where Beauty and Truth and Goodness are one.

I am afraid I have written too much about my book-friends, and yet I have mentioned only the authors I love most; and from this fact one might easily suppose that my circle of friends was very limited and undemocratic, which would be a very wrong impression. I like many writers for many reasons–Carlyle for his ruggedness and scorn of shams; Wordsworth, who teaches the oneness of man and nature; I find an exquisite pleasure in the oddities and surprises of Hood, in Herrick's quaintness and the palpable scent of lily and rose in his verses; I like Whittier for his enthusiasms and moral rectitude. I knew him, and the gentle remembrance of our friendship doubles the pleasure I have in reading his poems. I love Mark Twain–who does not? The gods, too, loved him and put into his heart all manner of wisdom; then, fearing lest he should become a pessimist, they spanned his mind with a rainbow of love and faith. I like Scott for his freshness, dash and large honesty. I love all writers whose minds, like Lowell's, bubble up in the sunshine of optimism–fountains of joy and good will, with occasionally a splash of anger and here and there a healing spray of sympathy and pity.

In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness. The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of ridiculously little importance compared with their "large loves and heavenly charities."

CHAPTER XXII

I TRUST that my readers have not concluded from the preceding chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are many and varied.

More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of the country and out-of-door sports. When I was quite a little girl, I learned to row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham, Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of course, I cannot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits in the stern and manages the rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks, and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly poised. In the same manner I can also tell when I am pulling against the current. I like to contend with wind and wave. What is more exhilarating than to make your staunch little boat, obedient to your will and muscle, go skimming lightly over glistening, tilting waves, and to feel the steady, imperious surge of the water!

I also enjoy canoeing, and I suppose you will smile when I say that I especially like it on moonlight nights. I cannot, it is true, see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the heavens, making a shining path for us to follow; but I know she is there, and as I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water, I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes. Sometimes a daring little fish slips between my fingers, and often a pond-lily presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter of a cove or inlet, I am suddenly conscious of the spaciousness of the air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it comes from the trees which have been heated by the sun, or from the water, I can never discover. I have had the same strange sensation even in the heart of the city. I have felt it on cold, stormy days and at night. It is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.

My favourite amusement is sailing. In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova Scotia, and had opportunities such as I had not enjoyed before to make the acquaintance of the ocean. After spending a few days in Evangeline's country, about which Longfellow's beautiful poem has woven a spell of enchantment, Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax, where we remained the greater part of the summer. The harbour was our joy, our paradise. What glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin, to McNabb's Island, to York Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war. Oh, it was all so interesting, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.

One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the Northwest Arm, in which the boats from the different warships were engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and the sea was calm. When the races were over, and we turned our faces homeward, one of the party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the sea, which grew and spread and thickened until it covered the whole sky. The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers. Our little boat confronted the gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled in the billows, now she sprang upward on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with angry howl and hiss. Down came the mainsail. Tacking and jibbing, we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with impetuous fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with excitement, not fear; for we had the hearts of vikings, and we knew that our skipper was master of the situation. He had steered through many a storm with firm hand and sea-wise eye. As they passed us, the large craft and the gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sail-boat that ventured out into the storm. At last, cold, hungry and weary, we reached our pier.

Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most charming villages in New England. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King Philip's Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family, was my home. I remember with deepest gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet companionship of their children meant much to me. I joined in all their sports and rambles through the woods and frolics in the water. The prattle of the little ones and their pleasure in the stories I told them of elf and gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr. Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower, until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak, and saw the sun glint from leaf to leaf. Thus it is that

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and wingéd things,
By sympathy of nature, so do I

gave evidence of things unseen.

It seems to me that there is in each of us a capacity to comprehend the impressions and emotions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning. Each individual has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness cannot rob him of this gift from past generations. This inherited capacity is a sort of sixth sense–a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.

I have many tree friends in Wrentham. One of them, a splendid oak, is the special pride of my heart. I take all my other friends to see this king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's Pond, and those who are wise in tree lore say it must have stood there eight hundred or a thousand years. There is a tradition that under this tree King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, gazed his last on earth and sky.

I had another tree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great oak–a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. One afternoon, during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily striven and was now mightily fallen.

But I must not forget that I was going to write about last summer in particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hastened to this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, sunny days were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were thrust into the background. In Wrentham we caught echoes of what was happening in the world–war, alliance, social conflict. We heard of the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-away Pacific, and learned of the struggles going on between capital and labour. We knew that beyond the border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall endure forever.

People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the ear have expressed surprise that I should notice any difference, except possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets and in country roads. They forget that my whole body is alive to the conditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of my face, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard pavements and the monotonous clangour of machinery are all the more torturing to the nerves if one's attention is not diverted by the panorama that is always present in the noisy streets to people who can see.

In the country one sees only Nature's fair works, and one's soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existence that goes on in the crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good people should be content to live in fine houses and become strong and beautiful, while others are condemned to live in hideous, sunless tenements and grow ugly, withered and cringing. The children who crowd these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crouch in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men and women, too, all gnarled and bent out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence must be–no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity. The sun and the air are God's free gifts to all, we say; but are they so? In yonder city's dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou forget and obstruct thy brother man, and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its gold, and return to wood and field and simple, honest living! Then would their children grow stately as noble trees, and their thoughts sweet and pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when I return to the country after a year of work in town.

What a joy it is to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet once more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I can bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous gladness!

Next to a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is splendid to feel the wind blowing in my face and the springy motion of my iron steed. The rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dance and my heart sing.

Whenever it is possible, my dog accompanies me on a walk or ride or sail. I have had many dog friends–huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, wood-wise setters and honest, homely bull terriers. At present the lord of my affections is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree, a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends seem to understand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I am alone. I love their affectionate ways and the eloquent wag of their tails.

When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of other girls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky ways I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them firmly. The black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top. Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob can be placed to distinguish the king from the commons. The chessmen are of two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble in following my opponent's maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to another tells me when it is my turn.

If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the upper right-hand corner with braille symbols which indicate the value of the card.

If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic with them. I find even the smallest child excellent company, and I am glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show me the things they are interested in. Of course the little ones cannot spell on their fingers; but I manage to read their lips. If I do not succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the pantomime begins all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.

woman holding dog in place on a table and leaning her head toward it
Copyright by Emily Stokes, 1902; Photograph by Emily Stokes, 1902
MISS KELLER AND "PHIZ"

Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration. Doubtless it will seem strange to many that the hand unaided by sight can feel action, sentiment, beauty in the cold marble; and yet it is true that I derive genuine pleasure from touching great works of art. As my finger tips trace line and curve, they discover the thought and emotion which the artist has portrayed. I can feel in the faces of gods and heroes hate, courage and love, just as I can detect them in living faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Diana's posture the grace and freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barré's bronzes the secrets of the jungle are revealed to me.

A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, conveniently low, so that I can easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow–tracks of life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with sorrow. Ah, how well I understand his deprivation–the perpetual night in which he dwelt–

O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!

In imagination I can hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating steps he gropes his way from camp to camp–singing of life, of love, of war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful, glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal crown, the admiration of all ages.

I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of sculpture than the eye. I should think the rhythmical flow of lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seen. Be this as it may, I know that I can feel the heart-throbs of the ancient Greeks in their marble gods and goddesses.

Another pleasure, which comes more rarely than the others, is going to the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being acted on the stage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirring events. It has been my privilege to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so bewitching you that you forget time and place and live again in the romantic past. I have been permitted to touch the face and costume of Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of intellect in his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overcomes in every line of his sensitive face. In the king's face, which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of grief which I shall never forget.

I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to count him among my friends. I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is acting. The first time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van Winkle." I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jefferson's beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight. I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose. After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the scenes, and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson let me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet.

Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

Saya yakin Anda pasti sudah sama mengetahui mengenai web site yang bernama Gamehouse.com.  Ya, Gamehouse.com adalah salah satu situs yang menyajikan bermacam permainan atau yang biasa disebut Game. Di sana Anda dapat menemukan ratusan game yang bagus dan seru, namun juga tidak terlalu rumit, sehingga cocok untuk kalangan keluarga. Di sana juga Anda dapat mendownload semua game atau dapat juga Anda download hanya beberapa game saja yang mungkin anda suka. 


Namun meskipun semua game di sana dapat Anda download, sayangnya game-game dari  situs ini hanya versi trial dan hanya bisa dimainkan untuk waktu 1 jam saja, setelahnya anda harus membeli serial numbernya. SebelumAnda terlanjur membeli serial number game-game tersebut, maka ada baiknya Anda memanfatkan saja yang sudah tersedia secara gratis tanpa harus membeli. Di bawah ini adalah daftar serial number game house lengkap dari A-Z yang ada di Gamehouse.comtermasuk game-game terbarunya, sehingga Anda bisa memiliki versi full versionnya, sebagai berikut:


0-9
7 Wonders

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code:  DQX9WE69MLMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: 7Wonders

Licence Code: CDJEQRHMVMMVDDS

Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: WDX78FWEDFJDBCD

7 Wonders II

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: QRJNBCXS97MAJADA

10 Talismans

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: T8G8VFSMGPMAJAD


A

Abundante!

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: QXVVV9CYFEMAJAD

Acropolis

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: MKMABNHFPGMAJAD

Academy of Magic

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: DEWWCNRDDSMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: AcademyofMagic

Licence Code: BYXCLMLF9SFBCNA

Adventure Ball

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: QFVTAMFWLYMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AdventureBall

Licence Code: BNJP6DEDXJFDNMN

Adventure Inlay

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: PHWLGNBQMAMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: AdventureInlay

Licence Cod : DD76BGJWQRMDVAB

Adventure Inlay – Safari Edition

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: YMCCXKEPEEMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AdventurInlaySafari

Licence Code: RVDCWHTSWYJAMNJ

Air Strike 3D

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: DYKEGHX8YBMAJAD

Alice Greenfingers

Licence Name : Pikachu

Licence Code : BNDY7NSVQEMAJAD

Alien Sky

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: PJBAY7ATDQMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: AlienSky

Licence Code: WLH66PW9N9FSJJJ

Aloha Solitaire

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: JJDWWFKYQ6MAJAD

Aloha Tripeaks

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: E86ECNEWGWMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: AlohaTriPeaks

Licence Code: X8RYRBG8CVFACNF

Amazing Adventures the Lost Tomb

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: 8YQESPYPYVMAJAD

Ancient Tri Jong

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: J7LVSECGVTMAJAD

Ancient Tripeaks

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: EAM7C6YNC7MAJAD

Or

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: 9MSFJX8Q8MMNFNA

Ancient Tripeaks 2

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: ASYPPJ9ANTMAJAD

Around the World in 80 Days
Licence Name: Asu Shrestha
Licence Code: DSSM9LTXSTFMNSM
Astrobatics

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: LFRR6NBGJ8MNFNA

Or

Licence Name: Astrobatics

Licence Code: DLJPJPNPKSFMAMJ

Atlantis Quest

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: VWLDEY9KCEMAJAD

Atomaders

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: J87GTW6WNPMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Atomaders

Licence Code: KMQDXQSHRPFMDMV

Aqua Park

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: SFAR67M8NJMAJAD

Azkend

Licence Name: Gamehousez

Licence Code: PHLPMBDACFFJSSM

Aztec Ball

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: LFPYDWPQGMMAJAD


B

Babel Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: 789WWXKPADMAJAD

BabySitting Mania

Licence Name: Gamehousez

Licence Code: W8CGS9CVPBFJSSM

Bejeweled 2

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: Q69N8SYAVSMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Bejeweled2

Licence Code: P8W7GKHRWSFDFVN

Belle‘s Beauty Boutique

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: LL7XTH7MDAMAJAD

Bewitched

Licence Name: SerialKeyz

Licence Code: EVG9DHQXNVMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: Bewitched

Licence Code: XKGQCATH6WFSVJM

Big City Adventure Sydney

Licence Name: Snape39

Licence Code: 8RLMRNFPV6SBBVD
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: TJF8J-RWNKP-SMNSC

Big City Adventure San Francisco

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: MP6BBV9VFPMAJAD

Big Island Blends

Licence Name: John Kosinsky

Licence Code: KL8QC-FNAER-MDAMV

Big Kahuna Reef

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: VH7CJSLNENMNFNA

Or
Licence Name: BigKahunaReef

Licence Code: JS9EAT7P78FSVAC

Big Kahuna Words

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: HKG7ST9NLTMAJAD

Blood Tiles

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: F6LFGYMX7CMAJAD 
Bonnie’s Bookstore Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: A8JQXGSWWGMAJAD

Bookworm Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: CPBJ7MAT9DMAJAD

Bookworm Adventures Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: S9R7QLNBPVMAJAD
Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny

Licence Code: AFJVEKRQGTJDBCD

Bounce Out Blitz!

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: 6EXPWQHFJTMNFNA
Or

Licence Name: BounceOutBlitz

Licence Code: HPDMGTTMDDMFMMB

Bricks of Atlantis

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: RBNXXEMJWYMAJAD

Build-a-lot

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: ESFHQDVBQMMAJAD
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: SCFHJ-WGNBR-SMNSC

Build-a-lot 2 town on the year!

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: KPYDV-9ACAB-SMNSC

Bunny Bounce Deluxe

Licence Name: Pikachu

Licence Code: FGW99H6HGYMAJAD

Burger Island

Licence Name: Alan Barker

Licence Code: NYBSY-KTMMG-FSSAN

Burger Rush

Licence Name: SerialFree

Licence Code: SXKHTH7YSPMNFNA

Or

Licence Name: BurgerRush

Licence Code: HRNCEK9DMVFJMJV

Burger Shop

Licence Name: BurgerShop

Licence Code: CA7GTTLBTDFJMJB
Or

Licence Name: Jirix

Licence Code: 9VGVN-Q9EVN-SMNSC


C

Cafe Mahjong

Licence Name: Jed Stephen

Licence Code: FLN69-SFEYH-MCCCS

Cake Mania

Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BNRWPRGYGVMAJAD

Cake Mania 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: JYCTHTQ9QJMAJAD

Cannon Blast!
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BE8PTJKNVTMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: 8SRGRCEMDQFDMBC

Captain Bubble Beard ‘s Treasure
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: DJCM9CMPELMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: LVTDNH7KEMJDBCD

Caramba Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: VQSANFJWQ8MAJAD

Caribbean MahJong
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: TSGLN7RCHJMAJAD

Casino Island To Go
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: GFFQJX68Q7MNFNA

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: 8CLLHWG7P8JDBCD
Cate West: The Vanishing
Licence Name: Jirix
Licence Code: JP7LN-HKHQW-SMNSC

Chainz
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: MTJHEEAEWWMNFNA

Chainz 2 Relinked
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: QP6LBPTV6QMNFNA

Chameleon Gems
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: HJCNBKAGB7MAJAD 
Charm Solitaire
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: QQG89H7CXSMNFNA

Charm Tale
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: SQYBLXPFF9MNFNA

Charma
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: PJA8HM69BRMAJAD

Chicktionary
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: BW6K7D88KGMAJAD

Chocolatier
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: GWF7R8NLXCMAJAD

Chocolatier 2
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: 9QM8C7WF6HFJSSM

Chocolatier 2 – Secret Ingredients
Licence Name: Super771
Licence Code: KLXVN6EHJSSVNAV

Chuzzle Deluxe
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XKMT8ABWHDMNFNA

Collapse! Crunch
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: AAKTMDFTTBMNFNA

Combo Chaos!
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XM6QWYA97AMAJAD

Cosmic Bugs
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: AWRBHSRKLCMNFNA

Cosmic Stacker
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licenec Code: Y9QQBH9NQEMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: P68VCSDKQTJDBCD

Cradle of Rome
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: E6XR6DXHEKMAJAD

Cradle of Persia
License name: Pikachu
License code: J6TFT6AHQ6MAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: TPFMQHLDSJFJSSM

Crystal Path
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XKGVCRM7GBMNFNA

Cubis Gold 2
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RLVDQ8P6LPMNFNA


D

Da Vinci ‘s Secret
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: WA8BHWMSYLMAJAD

Delicious Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: TV9CKRTKNBMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: EGMPGWDWW6JDBCD

Delicious 2 deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: P7SQYDLGDBMAJAD

Diamond Detective
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: AL7ES9FSAYMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: LJEEYY9ED8JDBCD

Digby’s Donuts
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: EVLQHY9NXVMNFNA

Diner Dash
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: KV8AJ6DLXYMNFNA

Diner Dash 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CLHTVHTECJMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: PPLMPJP6S9JDBCD

Diner Dash Flo on The Go
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: NJJH9TP9JEMAJAD

Diner Dash Hometown Hero
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XMFKT7PKTYMAJAD

Dream Chronicles
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: XDAH6TT8NPMAJAD


E

Emerald Tale
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CFB6MTYDLWMAJAD


F

Fab Fashion
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 6H76XCRJ87MAJAD 
Fairy Godmother Tycoon
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: N6JQ9VBNQLMAJAD

Fairy Treasure
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: KQFRW8MCK9MAJAD

Family Feud
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: HYHHTGQ898MAJAD 
Farm Frenzy
Licence Name: Jirix
Licence: A6ALJ-JABPY-SMNSC

Or
Licence Name: Super771
Licence Code : HQBFMGRYGMSVNAV

Fashion Boutique v1.0.0.164
Licence Name : FashionBoutique
Licence Code : AP9HSKBKDXVVABN

Fashion Craze
Licence Name: mini gamespc
Registration Keys: 0000JJ-PA838P-MQV8TN-TB9GW1-8BRTE6

Fashion Solitaire
Licence Name: FashionSolitaire
Licence Code: 6WCJ8RYCPMFDNDF 
Feeding Frenzy
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 786V7PNR8VMNFNA

Feeding Frenzy 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FG9JQWCWA8MAJAD
Or
Licence Name: fondazione
Licence Code : THWJJ8JJS6FVVDA

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: DJHPLGAQWHJDBCD

Fiber Twig
Licence Name: Jeff Heath
Licence Code: GHGAR-MJGYE-FFVBN

Five Card Deluxe
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 9AKJV7PBYQMNFNA

Flip or Flop Home Edition
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: YA9JVBFJNMMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: BWGSYD7WVAJDBCD

Flip Words
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RSJLVAXYM7MNFNA

Flower Shop: Big City Break
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: JVKV7LDQ8JMAJAD

Flying Leo
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: VSSNQ6PEQPMNFNA

Fortune Tiles Gold
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: XHGRYWHW6JMNFNA

Fresco Wizard
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: Q9YQ7NATMDMNFNA
Froggy Castle 2 Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 9Y8CBTAM6LMAJAD
Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: SGS9XSGTEJJDBCD
Funkiball Adventure
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RKBVE8KQPAMNFNA


G

G.H.O.S.T Hunters: The Haunting of Majesty Manor
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 6SRD89GKKKMAJAD

Gamehouse Sudoku
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FM7JADDQ7LMAJAD

Garden Dreams
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CKFFPDCJEJMAJAD

Or
Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: L96BSRCPHCJDBCD

Garden Defense
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: MRW7S96FBBFJSSM

Gearz
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: L7QRWHPTDHMNFNA 
Gem Shop
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: Q7AAASAND6MNFNA

Gemsweeper
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: E6L6QCW8PKMAJAD

Glyph
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: FHSC6WGFAXMAJAD

Granny In Paradise
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: LLK6LHFPQAMNFNA

Gutterball
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 7KHTMAH9RTMAJAD

Gutterball 2
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: SF8B7VYNWYMNFNA

H
Hammer Heads Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: J6TLBLA9CMMAJAD
Hamsterball
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 8D9DG6EW6XMNFNA
Heroes of Hellas
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 9VAC8GGPNVMAJAD
Hide & Secret
Licence Name: Philip Kessel
Licence Code: QAT9A-CTDXL-MAMNM
Hiden Relics:
Licence Name: Jirix
Licence Code: SYQJE-RJDQF-SMNSC
HomeSweetHome
Licence Name: wgvn 2008
Registration Keys: 00000Q-UWBZ6Y-YWHDK1-W1D5BJ-2KDG0N
Holiday Express
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: WT9AP97WMSMNFNA
Hotel Mahjong Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: LTPLPJKNV9MAJAD 
Hotel Solitaire Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: VVE98SNTD7MAJAD
Hyperballoid 2
Licence Name: snape39
Password: V8JG9NKAXTSBBVD

I
Iggle Pop 
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: RDARHKDVHTMNFNA 
Incredible Ink 
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: MN9WDD66MXMNFNA 
In spheration
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: W8G8LS9VMXMAJAD 
Infinite Crossword
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: QVQ7QVEQHAMNFNA 
Insaniquarium Deluxe
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: AVRP6898KDMNFNA 
Interpol The trail of Dr. Chaos
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 6DGSCRMXKPMAJA
Invadazoid
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: 76PHLNX9JTMNFNA 

J
Jurassic Realm
Licence Name: Pikachu 
Licence Code: SNCJCPPCSRMAJAD 
Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: TC8LT6LHRDJDBCD

Jane ‘s hotel
Licence name: Pikachu
Licence code: WF8MEBAHP6MAJAD

Jeopardy! 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: CQH8MTJHEMMAJAD

Jewel Match
Licence Name : Pikachu
Licence Code: JYFLHJNDSEMAJAD

Jewel of Atlantis
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 8X8DYAYAMJMAJAD

Jewel Quest
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: CKBWP7XYCGMNFNA

Jewel Quest 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence COde: ETEVYTBBJ9MAJAD

Jewel quest solitaire II
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: F6BJVVGQBEMAJAD

Jewels of Cleopatra
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 86PWAAXPPQMAJAD

Jungo
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: MFTBXX6FKSMAJAD

Jojo’s Fashion Show
Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: 99KW7PNXVHFJSSM

Janes Hotel: Family Hero
Licence Name: JanesHotel
Licence Code: QJPYAEGCMSFFAFB 

K 
Karu
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: JYCFXQHQHAMNFNA

Koi Solitaire
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: N7ASLMP7MYMAJAD

Kudos Rock Legend
Licence Name: minigames pc

Registration Keys:0000JJ-QQGRUJ-YVCYQN-F9TW4T-72NV2P 

L 
Legend Of Alladin
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: LLB6HRRYEKMAJAD

Or

Licence Name: Gamehousez
Licence Code: M6NEGN88N8FJSSM

LucyQ Deluxe
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: MSQRLRBLYFMAJAD

Lego Chic Boutique
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: SQ9SPMEJQ7MAJAD

Or

Licence Name: Arale Mathilda Septiaheny
Licence Code: WA9AYTVLRXJDBCD 

Lifetime RSVP
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: KF7YMQNA6EMAJAD

Liong The Dragon Dance
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: AMYWAXKJVTMAJAD 

Little Shop of treasures 

Licence Name: Katharyn Styre
Licence Code: PTGL8-ECJGJ-MCAFJ

Little Shop of treasures 2
Licence Name: John Kosinsky
Licence Code: MXXDT-JEJPQ-MDAMV

Luxor
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: GH7KJCDFBGMAJAD

Luxor 2
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: 8LJ7H6L6BFMAJAD

Luxor 3
License Name: Pikachu
License code: WYHDXJLHCYMAJAD

Luxor MahJong
Licence Name: Pikachu
Licence Code: AGB9GDGY7DMAJAD

Luxor Amun Rising
Licence Name: SerialFree
Licence Code: HGY7MCCAAHMNFNA

Lemonade Tycoon 2 – New York City
Key: 3029-6FB7-97D1-D1C7-71D9-D65E-AF78-28EC-3A30-6692-C0C0-094C


Daftar serial number selanjutnya untuk game-game dari Gamehouse.com dengan huruf awal mulaiM sampai Z, saya persilahkan Anda untuk melihatnya di Daftar Serial Number Game House Lengkap A-Z (Bagian 2: M-Z),  Klik DISINI.

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Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

Categories 
  Simulation   

Lemonade Tycoon 2 is the sequel to Lemonade Tycoon. This game contains more features, improved graphics, and is set in New York City, unlike its predecessor. Also, this version allowed the player to have more than one stand and the ability to have stands in more than one location at once. 

Lemonade Tycoon 2 revolves around selling lemonade for a profit. The player can buy upgrades to make customers happier and make lemonade faster. 

 Lemonade Tycoon has 19 locations where a stand can be located, which include The Bronx, Brooklyn, Greenwich Village, Central Park, Times Square, Statue of Liberty, and Grand Central Station.

Show

Источник: [https://torrent-igruha.org/3551-portal.html]

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