Chapter 14

The winter of 1892 was darkened by the 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 Institution 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.

The winter of 1892 was darkened by the one cloud in the bright sky of my childhood. Joy left my heart, and for a long, long time I lived with doubt, anxiety, and fear. Books lost their appeal, and even now, the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. The trouble began with a short story called "The Frost King." I wrote it and sent it to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institution for the Blind. To make the matter clear, I must explain what happened. Fairness to my teacher and to myself requires me to tell the story.

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 had 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 come 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.

I wrote the story at home, in the autumn after I had learned to speak. We had stayed at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan had described the beauty of the late autumn leaves to me. Her descriptions seem to have brought back a story that must have been read to me. I must have remembered the story without knowing it. I thought I was "making up a story," as children say. I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas slipped away. My thoughts flowed easily, and I felt joy as I wrote. Words and images came dancing to my fingertips. As I thought out each sentence, I wrote it on my braille slate. Now, if words and images come to me without effort, I take it as a pretty sure sign they are not my own. They are stray ideas, and I regretfully set them aside. Back then, I eagerly absorbed everything I read without thinking about who had written it. Even now, I cannot be quite sure where my ideas end and those I find in books begin. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions come through other people's 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.

When I finished the story, I read it to my teacher. I still vividly remember how much I enjoyed the more beautiful passages. I was annoyed when she interrupted me to correct my pronunciation of a word. At dinner, the story was read to the whole family. They were surprised that I could write so well. Someone asked me if I had read it in a book.

This 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."

This question surprised me very much because I had no memory of anyone reading it to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I wrote 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.

So I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. Someone suggested that I change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," and I did. I took the little story to the post office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I had no idea how cruelly I would 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 were 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.

Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King" and published it in a Perkins Institution report. I had never been happier, but soon I was brought crashing down to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when someone discovered a similar story called "The Frost Fairies." Miss Margaret T. Canby had written it, and it had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories were so alike in ideas and language that Miss Canby’s story had clearly been read to me. My own story was plagiarism. It was hard to make me understand what had happened, but when I did, I was shocked and grieved. No child ever felt bitterness more deeply than I did. I had disgraced myself and brought suspicion upon those I loved most. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I tried until I was exhausted to remember anything about frost that I had read before writing "The Frost King." But I could remember nothing except the familiar references to Jack Frost and a children’s poem called "The Freaks of the Frost." I knew I had not used the poem in my story.

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.

At first, Mr. Anagnos seemed to believe me, though he was deeply troubled. He was unusually gentle and kind to me, and for a short time the shadow lifted. To please him, I tried not to be unhappy. I also tried to look as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's birthday. The celebration took place 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 wreathed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the piety of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that made my heart heavy.

I was to play Ceres in a kind of pageant put on by the blind girls. How well I remember the graceful fabric wrapped around me and the bright autumn leaves around my head. I remember the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands. But beneath all the reverence of the pageant, a crushing sense of coming trouble weighed on my heart.

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.

The night before the celebration, a teacher at the Institution asked me a question about "The Frost King." I told her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think I had admitted remembering Miss Canby's story "The Frost Fairies." Although I told her very firmly that she was mistaken, she told Mr. Anagnos what she had concluded.

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.

Mr. Anagnos loved me dearly, but he thought he had been deceived. He would not listen to appeals based on love and innocence. He believed, or at least suspected, that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen someone else's brilliant ideas. He thought we had passed them off as our own to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation made up of the Institution's teachers and officials. Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned again and again. It seemed to me that my judges were determined to make me admit that I remembered being read "The Frost Fairies." In every question, I felt their doubt and suspicion. I also felt that a dear friend was looking at me with reproach, though I could not have put those feelings into words. Blood seemed to rush around my pounding heart, and I could barely speak except in single words. Even knowing that it was all a terrible mistake did not lessen my suffering. When I was finally allowed to leave the room, I was dazed. I did not notice my teacher's caresses or my friends' tender words. They said I was a brave little girl and that 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 the bitterness of those sad days.

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

Miss Sullivan had never heard of "The Frost Fairies" or the book in which it appeared. With Dr. Alexander Graham Bell's help, she carefully investigated the matter. Eventually, she discovered that Mrs. Sophia C. Hopkins had a copy of Miss Canby's "Birdie and His Friends" in 1888. That was the year we spent the summer with Mrs. Hopkins at Brewster. Mrs. Hopkins could not find her copy. But she told me that, during that summer, she had tried to amuse me by reading from various books while Miss Sullivan was away on vacation. She could no more remember reading "The Frost Fairies" than I could. Still, she felt sure that "Birdie and His Friends" was one of the books she had read to me. She explained that she had recently sold her house and gotten rid of many children's books, such as old schoolbooks and fairy tales. "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.

The stories meant little or nothing to me then. But simply spelling the strange words was enough to amuse a little child who could do almost nothing to entertain herself. I remember nothing about the reading of the stories. Still, I cannot help thinking that I tried hard to remember the words, so my teacher could explain them when she returned. One thing is certain: the language was permanently stamped on my brain. For a long time, though, no one knew that, least of all me.

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.

When Miss Sullivan came back, I did not speak to her about "The Frost Fairies." This was probably because she immediately began reading "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. Long after I had forgotten it, the story came back to me so naturally that I never suspected it came from someone else's 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.

During my troubles, I received many messages of love and sympathy. All but one of my dearest friends have remained close to me to this day.

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.

Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Someday you will write a great story from your own imagination. It will comfort and help many people." But this kind prediction has never come true. I have never again played with words just for the pleasure of it. Ever since then, I have been tortured by the fear that what I write is not my own. For a long time, whenever I wrote a letter, even to my mother, I would suddenly feel terrified. I would spell the sentences over and over to make sure I had not read them in a book. If Miss Sullivan had not kept encouraging me, I think I would 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.

I have since read "The Frost Fairies" and the letters I wrote using other ideas from Miss Canby. One letter to Mr. Anagnos, dated September 29, 1891, contains words and thoughts exactly like those in the book. At the time, I was writing "The Frost King." Like many of my other letters, this one contains phrases showing that my mind was full of the story. In the letter, I describe my teacher saying to me about the golden autumn leaves, "Yes, they are beautiful enough to comfort us for the flight of summer." That idea came directly 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.

This habit of absorbing what pleased me and presenting it as my own appears often in my early letters and first attempts at writing. In an essay about the old cities of Greece and Italy, I borrowed my glowing descriptions from sources I have forgotten, changing them somewhat. I knew that Mr. Anagnos loved antiquity and warmly appreciated all beautiful sentiments about Italy and Greece. So, from all the books I read, I gathered every bit of poetry or history I thought would please him. Speaking of my essay on the cities, Mr. Anagnos said, "These ideas are poetic in their essence." But I do not understand how he ever thought an eleven-year-old child who was blind and deaf could have invented them. Still, I cannot think my little essay is entirely without interest just because I did not come up with the ideas. The essay shows me that I could express my appreciation of beautiful and poetic ideas in clear, lively 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.

Those early pieces of writing were exercises for the mind. Like all young, inexperienced people, I was learning to put ideas into words by absorbing and imitating others. I remembered everything I liked in books, whether I was aware of it or not, and adapted it. As Stevenson said, a young writer instinctively tries to copy whatever seems most admirable. A young writer’s admiration also shifts with astonishing flexibility. Only after years of practice like this have even great writers learned to organize the countless words that crowd in from every corner 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.

I am afraid I have not yet completed this process. I certainly cannot always tell my own thoughts from those I read, because what I read becomes part of the very substance and texture of my mind. As a result, nearly everything I write looks much like the crazy patchwork I used to make when I first learned to sew. That patchwork was made from all kinds of scraps, including pretty bits of silk and velvet. But the rough pieces that were unpleasant to touch always made up most of it. In the same way, my writing is made up of my own rough ideas, mixed with the brighter thoughts and more mature opinions of the authors I have read. It seems to me that the great challenge of writing is making educated language express our confused ideas. These ideas are half feelings and half thoughts, formed when we are little more than bundles of instinctive tendencies. Trying to write is much like trying to put a Chinese puzzle together. We have a pattern in mind that we want to work out in words. But the words will not fit the spaces, or, if they do, they will not match the design. Still, we keep trying because we know that others have succeeded, and we are not willing to admit 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.

“There is no way to become original, except to be born so,” says Stevenson. Although I may not be original, I hope someday to outgrow my artificial, old-fashioned writing. Then, perhaps, my own thoughts and experiences will come to the surface. Meanwhile, I trust and hope and keep trying. I try not to let the bitter memory of “The Frost King” hold me back.

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.

So this sad experience may have been good for me. It made me think about some of the challenges of writing. My only regret is that it cost me 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.

Since "The Story of My Life" was published in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has written to Mr. Macy. In his letter, he said that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent. He says the panel that investigated me consisted of eight people: four blind people and four sighted people. He says four thought I knew Miss Canby's story had been read to me. The other four did not think so. Mr. Anagnos says he voted with those who were in my favor.

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.

But whatever the case may have been, and whichever side he may have voted for, I felt hostility and menace in the very atmosphere. I felt this when I entered the room and found people there who seemed to doubt me. In that room, Mr. Anagnos had often held me on his knee and, forgetting his many cares, joined in my playful antics. Later events confirmed my impression. For two years, he seems to have believed that Miss Sullivan and I were innocent. Then he apparently changed his favorable judgment, though I do not know why. Nor did I know the details of the investigation. I never even knew the names of the members of the "court" who did not speak to me. I was too upset to notice anything and too frightened to ask questions. Indeed, I could hardly think about 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.

I have told the story of the "Frost King" affair because it was important in my life and education. To avoid any misunderstanding, I have presented all the facts as I see them. I have not tried to defend myself or blame anyone.