Chapter 7

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

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 of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.

As soon as I could spell a few words, my teacher gave me cardboard slips with words printed in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an action, or a quality. I had a frame where I could arrange the words into short sentences. But before I ever put sentences in the frame, I used objects to make them. For example, I found the slips for "doll," "is," "on," and "bed" and placed each name on its object. Then I put my doll on the bed and arranged the words is, on, bed beside the doll. This made a sentence with the words while acting out its meaning with the objects 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.

Miss Sullivan tells me that one day I pinned the word girl to my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe. On the shelf, I arranged the words is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me more than this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time. Often, everything in the room was arranged into sentences using objects.

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.

It was only a small step from the printed slip to a printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and searched for the words I knew. Finding them was as joyful as playing hide-and-seek. That was how I began to read. I will talk later about when I began to read stories from beginning to end.

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.

For a long time, I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied very seriously, it felt more like play than work. Miss Sullivan illustrated everything she taught me with a beautiful story or poem. Whenever something delighted or interested me, she talked about it with me as if she were a little girl herself. Many children dread the slow, painful work of learning grammar, difficult arithmetic, and even harder definitions. Today, those lessons are among 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.

I cannot explain how deeply Miss Sullivan understood my pleasures and desires. Perhaps her understanding came from spending many years with blind people. She also had a wonderful gift for describing things. She went quickly over uninteresting details. She never nagged me with questions to check whether I remembered the lesson from two days before. She introduced the dry technical details of science little by little. She made 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 wildflowers, 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!

We read and studied outdoors, preferring the sunny woods to the house. All my early lessons carry the scent of the woods. I remember the fresh, resinous smell of pine needles mixed with the fragrance of wild grapes. Sitting in the welcoming shade of a wild tulip tree, I came to believe that everything has a lesson and an idea to offer. "The loveliness of things taught me all their use." Indeed, everything that could hum, buzz, sing, or bloom played a part in my education. There were loud-voiced frogs, katydids, and crickets. I held the katydids and crickets in my hand until they forgot their embarrassment and sang their thin, reedy notes. There were little fluffy chickens and wildflowers, dogwood blossoms, meadow violets, and budding fruit trees. I felt the cotton bolls bursting open and touched their soft fibers and fuzzy seeds. I felt the wind sighing softly through the cornstalks and the long leaves rustling like silk. I also felt my pony snort in protest as we caught him in the pasture and put the bit in his mouth. Ah, how well I remember the spicy, clover-scented 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.

Sometimes I got up at dawn and slipped into the garden while heavy dew still covered the grass and flowers. Few people know the joy of feeling roses press softly against the hand. Few know the joy of feeling the beautiful movement of lilies swaying in the morning breeze. Sometimes, as I picked a flower, I caught an insect inside it. I felt the faint sound of its wings rubbing together in sudden terror as the little creature sensed pressure from outside.

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!

Another favorite place of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July. The large, fuzzy peaches seemed to reach into my hand. As the joyful breezes blew through the trees, apples tumbled at my feet. What delight I felt gathering the fruit in my pinafore! I 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 tumbledown 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.

Our favorite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old, run-down lumber wharf on the Tennessee River. It had been used to land soldiers during the Civil War. We spent many happy hours there, playing at learning geography. I built dams out of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug riverbeds. I did it all for fun and never imagined I was learning a lesson. I listened with growing wonder as Miss Sullivan described the great round world. She told me about its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other equally strange things. She made raised maps out of clay, so I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys. I could also follow the winding paths of rivers with my fingers. I liked this too, but dividing the earth into zones and poles confused and puzzled me. The strings used to illustrate the zones and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real. Even today, the mere mention of the temperate zone brings a series of twine circles to mind. And I believe that if anyone tried, they 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 kintergarten 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.

Arithmetic seems to have been the only subject I disliked. From the start, I was not interested in the study of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups. I learned to add and subtract by arranging kindergarten straws. I never had the patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. Once I had done that, I felt I had done enough for the day. I quickly went out to find my playmates.

In this same leisurely manner I studied zoology and botany.

I studied zoology and botany at the same relaxed pace.

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.

Once a gentleman sent me a collection of fossils, though I have forgotten his name. There were tiny mollusk shells with beautiful markings, bits of sandstone bearing the prints of birds' claws, and a lovely fern raised in relief. These fossils unlocked the treasures of the prehistoric world for me. With trembling fingers, I listened to Miss Sullivan describe the terrible beasts with strange, unpronounceable names. They once marched through ancient forests, tearing down branches of giant trees for food. They died in the gloomy swamps of an unknown age. For a long time, these strange creatures haunted my dreams. That gloomy age formed a dark background to the joyful present, 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.

Another time, I was given a beautiful shell. With a child's surprise and delight, I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the shining coil as its home. I also learned how the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl." He sails on still nights, when no breeze stirs the waves. I learned many other interesting things about the lives and habits of the children of the sea. Little polyps build the beautiful coral islands of the Pacific amid crashing waves, and foraminifera have made the chalk hills of many lands. After I learned these things, my teacher read me "The Chambered Nautilus." She showed me that the way mollusks build shells symbolizes the development of the mind. The wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus transforms material it absorbs from the water and makes it part of the Nautilus itself. In much the same way, the bits of knowledge we gather are transformed 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 again, the growth of a plant provided a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike outer leaves opened slowly. I thought they seemed reluctant to reveal the beauty they hid. Once they began to open, however, the process went quickly, but in an orderly, systematic way. One bud was always larger and more beautiful than the rest. She pushed back her outer covering with greater grandeur, as if she knew she was the lily queen by divine right. The beauty inside was dressed in soft, silky robes. Her more timid sisters shyly took off their green hoods, until the whole plant was a nodding branch of beauty 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.

Once, eleven tadpoles lived in a glass bowl on a windowsill full of plants. I remember how eager I was to discover things about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles dart around. I loved letting them slip and slide between my fingers. One day, a more ambitious tadpole leaped over the edge of the bowl and fell to the floor. I found him there, looking more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggle of his tail. But as soon as he was back in the water, he darted to the bottom. He swam around and around in joyful activity. He had made his leap and seen the great world. Now he was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he became a frog. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden. There he filled the summer nights 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.

This is how I learned from life itself. At first, I was just a little bundle of possibilities. My teacher brought those possibilities out and helped them grow. When she came, everything around me seemed full of love, joy, and meaning. Ever since, she has never missed a chance to point out the beauty in everything. Through her thoughts, actions, and example, she has never stopped trying 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.

My teacher’s genius, quick understanding, and loving tact made the first years of my education so beautiful. She knew just when to teach me something, and that made learning pleasant and welcome. She understood that a child’s mind is like a shallow brook. It ripples and dances merrily over the stones along its educational path, reflecting a flower here, a bush there, and a soft white cloud in the distance. She tried to guide my mind along its path. She knew that, like a brook, it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs until it grew into a deep river. Then its calm surface could reflect rolling hills, the bright shadows of trees, and the blue sky, 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.

Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyfully unless he feels free, whether he is busy or at rest. He must feel the thrill of victory and the sinking feeling of disappointment. Only then will he willingly take on tasks he dislikes and resolve to dance bravely through the 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.

My teacher is so close to me that I can hardly think of myself apart from her. I can never tell how much of my delight in beautiful things is inborn and how much comes from her influence. I feel that her life is inseparable from mine and that my footsteps follow hers. All the best of me belongs to her. Every talent, hope, and joy in me has been awakened by her loving touch.