Chapter 22

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.

I hope my readers have not concluded from the previous chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure. I have many varied pleasures and amusements.

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!

More than once in my story, I have mentioned my love of the country and outdoor sports. I learned to row and swim when I was very young. In summer, when I am in Wrentham, Massachusetts, I practically live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than taking my friends rowing when they visit me. Of course, I cannot steer the boat very well. Someone usually sits in the stern and handles the rudder while I row. Sometimes, though, I row without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the scent of water grasses, lilies, and bushes growing along the shore. I use oars with leather bands that keep them in place in the oarlocks. I can tell when the oars are evenly balanced by how the water resists them. In the same way, I can tell when I am rowing against the current. I like to struggle against wind and waves. What could be more exhilarating than making your sturdy little boat obey your will and strength? It skims lightly over the glistening, rolling waves, and you feel the steady, powerful 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.

I also enjoy canoeing, and I imagine you will smile when I say I especially like it on moonlit nights. I cannot see the moon rise behind the pines and drift softly across the sky, making a shining path for us to follow. But I know the moon is there. As I lie back among the pillows and put my hand in the water, I imagine I can feel her shimmering clothes as she passes. Sometimes a daring little fish slips between my fingers, and often a pond lily brushes shyly against my hand. Often, as we leave the shelter of a cove or inlet, I suddenly become aware of the vast space around me. A glowing warmth seems to wrap around me. I can never tell whether it comes from the sun-warmed trees or from the water. I have felt 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.

My favorite pastime is sailing. In the summer of 1901, I visited Nova Scotia. There, I had chances to get to know the ocean as I never had before. Miss Sullivan and I spent a few days in Evangeline's country, which Longfellow's beautiful poem has filled with enchantment. Then we went to Halifax, where we stayed for most of the summer. The harbor 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! At night, we spent soothing, wondrous hours in the shadow of the great, silent warships. 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.

One day we had a thrilling experience. There was a regatta in the Northwest Arm, with boats from different warships racing. We joined many others in sailboats to watch the races. Hundreds of little sailboats rocked back and forth nearby, and the sea was calm. After the races, we turned toward home. Someone in our party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the sea. It grew, spread, and thickened until it covered the whole sky. The wind rose, and the waves crashed angrily against unseen barriers. Our little boat faced the gale fearlessly. With its sails spread and ropes tight, it seemed to sit on the wind. One moment it swirled among the waves. The next, it leaped up on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with an angry howl and hiss. The mainsail came down. Tacking and jibbing, we fought against winds that drove us from side to side with wild fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with excitement, not fear. We had the hearts of Vikings, and we knew our skipper was in control. He had steered through many storms with a firm hand and an experienced eye. As the large boats and gunboats in the harbor passed us, they saluted. Their sailors shouted applause for the skipper of the only little sailboat that had ventured out into the storm. At last, cold, hungry, and tired, 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

Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest corners of one of New England’s most charming villages. Wrentham, Massachusetts, is connected with nearly all my joys and sorrows. For many years, my home was Red Farm, by King Philip’s Pond. It was the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family. I remember with deep gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet companionship of their children meant a great deal to me. I joined them in all their games, walks through the woods, and play in the water. I have fond memories of the little ones’ chatter and their delight in my stories. I told them of elves and gnomes, heroes and clever bears. Mr. Chamberlin introduced me to the mysteries of trees and wildflowers. With the little ear of love, I came to hear sap flowing in the oak and see sunlight glinting from leaf to leaf. And so it is that

have evidence of things unseen.

have evidence of things we cannot see.

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.

It seems to me that each of us can understand the impressions and emotions people have experienced since the beginning of humankind. Each person has a subconscious memory of the green earth and murmuring waters. Blindness and deafness cannot take away this gift from past generations. This inherited ability is a kind of sixth sense, a soul-sense that sees, hears, and feels all at once.

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 have many tree friends in Wrentham. One of them, a magnificent oak, is especially dear to my heart. I take all my other friends to see this king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philip's Pond. People who know about trees say it must have stood there for eight hundred or a thousand years. According to tradition, King Philip, the heroic Indian chief, looked his last on earth and sky beneath this tree.

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.

I had another tree friend, a linden that grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. It was gentle and more approachable than the great oak. One afternoon, during a terrible thunderstorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house. Even before anyone told me, I knew the linden had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had weathered so many storms. It broke my heart to see him lying there, after he had struggled so mightily and fallen so mightily.

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.

But I must not forget that I meant to write about last summer in particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hurried to this green haven. We have a little cottage here on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. The long, sunny days were mine to enjoy. All thoughts of work, college, and the noisy city faded into the background. In Wrentham, we heard echoes of events in the world: war, alliances, and social conflict. We heard about the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the distant Pacific. We also learned about the struggles between capital and labor. We knew that beyond our Eden, men were making history through hard work when they might better have been taking a holiday. But we paid little attention to these things. They would pass away. Here were lakes, woods, broad fields dotted with daisies, and sweet-smelling meadows. These would 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.

People who think all sensations reach us through sight and hearing are surprised that I notice any difference between city streets and country roads. They think I might notice only the absence of pavement. They forget that my whole body is aware of the conditions around me. The city’s rumble and roar strike the nerves in my face. I feel the constant footsteps of an unseen crowd, and the clashing noise disturbs my spirit. Heavy wagons grind over hard pavement, and machinery makes a constant clanging noise. These sounds are even more painful to the nerves if nothing distracts one’s attention. People who can see are distracted by the changing sights always present in noisy streets.

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.

In the countryside, one sees only the beauty of nature. The cruel struggle for mere existence in the crowded city does not sadden the soul. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets where the poor live. I grow hot with indignation when I think that good people can be content to live in fine houses and grow strong and beautiful. Meanwhile, others are condemned to live in ugly, sunless tenements and grow ugly, withered, and fearful. The children who crowd these filthy alleys are half clothed and underfed. They shrink from your outstretched hand as if you were going to strike them. Dear little creatures, they crouch in my heart and haunt me with a constant sense of pain. There are men and women, too, whose bodies are all twisted and bent out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and understood what an endless struggle their lives must be. Their lives are little more than a series of struggles and frustrated attempts to do something. There seems to be an immense gap between their effort and their opportunities. We say that the sun and air are God's free gifts to all, but are they? In the city's dingy alleys, the sun does not shine, and the air is foul. Oh, how people forget and hinder their fellow human beings! How can they say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when their neighbor has none? Oh, if only people would leave the city, its splendor, its noise and commotion, and its gold! If only they would return to the woods and fields and to simple, honest living! Then their children would grow tall and stately like noble trees, and their thoughts would be sweet and pure like wildflowers by the road. I cannot help thinking of all this when I return to the countryside 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!

What a joy to feel the soft, springy earth under my feet again! I love following grassy roads to brooks lined with ferns, where I can bathe my fingers in a waterfall of rippling notes. Or I can climb over a stone wall into green fields that tumble, roll, and rise in wild joy!

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.

After a leisurely walk, my favorite activity is a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. I love feeling the wind in my face and the springy motion of my iron steed. Rushing through the air gives me a wonderful sense of strength and lightness. The exercise makes my pulse 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.

Whenever possible, my dog comes with me when I walk, ride, or sail. I have had many dog friends: huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, setters who knew the woods, and honest, plain-looking bull terriers. Right now, my favorite is one of those bull terriers. He has a long pedigree, a crooked tail, and the funniest "face" in the dog world. My dog friends seem to understand my limitations. They always stay close beside me when I am alone. I love their affectionate ways and how much their wagging tails express.

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 way 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.

When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I entertain myself as other girls do. I like to knit and crochet. I read in the casual way I love, a line here and there. Or perhaps I play a game or two of checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board for these games. The squares are cut out, so the pieces stand firmly in them. The black checkers are flat, and the white ones are curved on top. Each checker has a hole in the middle where a brass knob can be placed. The knob distinguishes a king from an ordinary checker. The chess pieces come in two sizes, with the white ones larger than the black ones. So after my opponent makes a move, I can easily follow it by moving my hands lightly over the board. The jolt from moving the pieces 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 I am all alone and have nothing to do, I play solitaire, a game I love. I use playing cards with braille symbols in the upper right-hand corner that indicate each card’s value.

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 wingéd hours depart and leave us good and happy.

If there are children around, nothing makes me happier than playing with them. Even the youngest child is wonderful company, and I am glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me around and show me things that interest them. Of course, the little ones cannot spell words on their fingers, but I manage to read their lips. If I cannot, they use gestures instead. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing. The children burst into laughter at my mistake, and the gestures begin all over again. I often tell them stories or teach them a game. The hours fly by, leaving us good and happy.

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 Barre's bronzes the secrets of the jungle are revealed to me.

Museums and art stores also bring me pleasure and inspiration. Many people will no doubt find it strange that a hand without sight can feel action, emotion, and beauty in cold marble. Yet I truly enjoy touching great works of art. As my fingertips trace lines and curves, they discover the thoughts and emotions the artist has portrayed. I can feel hate, courage, and love in the faces of gods and heroes. I can feel them just as I do in the living faces I am allowed to touch. In Diana's posture, I feel the grace and freedom of the forest. I also feel the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the calm and graceful curves of the Venus. In Barre'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—

A medallion of Homer hangs low on my study wall, so I can easily reach it. I touch his beautiful, sad face with love and reverence. I know every line in his majestic forehead so well. The lines are marks of life and painful signs of struggle and sorrow. Even in the cold plaster, his sightless eyes seem to search in vain for light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas. His beautiful mouth is firm, true, and tender. It is the face of a poet and a man who has known sorrow. Ah, how well I understand what he lacked, the endless night in which he lived.

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 can imagine hearing Homer sing as he feels his way from camp to camp with unsteady, hesitant steps. He sings of life, love, war, and the great achievements of a noble people. His song was wonderful and glorious. It earned 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 wonderful 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.

I sometimes wonder if the hand is more sensitive to the beauty of sculpture than the eye. I think the wonderful rhythmic flow of lines and curves may be felt more subtly than it can be seen. Whatever the case, I know I can feel the heartbeats 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.

Another pleasure, though one I enjoy less often than the others, is going to the theatre. I enjoy hearing a play described while it is being performed much more than reading it. Hearing the play described makes me feel as if I were living amid exciting events. I have had the privilege of meeting a few great actors and actresses who can enchant you. They make you forget time and place and live again in the romantic past. I have been allowed to touch Miss Ellen Terry's face and costume as she played our ideal of a queen. She had an almost divine presence, like the one that surrounds the deepest sorrow. Beside her stood Sir Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship. Every gesture and pose showed the majesty of his intellect. Every line of his sensitive face showed a royal power that could subdue and overcome. In the king's face, which he wore like a mask, there was a distant and unreachable grief. I shall never forget it.

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.

I also know Mr. Jefferson, and I am proud to call him a friend. I visit him whenever I happen to be where he is performing. I first saw him perform while I was 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, old-fashioned, kind ways as I did during the play. Mr. Jefferson's beautiful, moving performance filled me with delight. My fingers hold an image of old Rip that they will never lose. After the play, Miss Sullivan took me backstage to see him. I felt his unusual costume and his long, flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferson let me touch his face so I could imagine how he looked after waking from that strange twenty-year sleep. He also showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet.

I have also seen him in "The Rivals." Once while I was calling on him in Boston he acted the most striking parts of "The Rivals" for me. The reception-room where we sat served for a stage. He and his son seated themselves at the big table, and Bob Acres wrote his challenge. I followed all his movements with my hands, and caught the drollery of his blunders and gestures in a way that would have been impossible had it all been spelled to me. Then they rose to fight the duel, and I followed the swift thrusts and parries of the swords and the waverings of poor Bob as his courage oozed out at his finger ends. Then the great actor gave his coat a hitch and his mouth a twitch, and in an instant I was in the village of Falling Water and felt Schneider's shaggy head against my knee. Mr. Jefferson recited the best dialogues of "Rip Van Winkle," in which the tear came close upon the smile. He asked me to indicate as far as I could the gestures and action that should go with the lines. Of course, I have no sense whatever of dramatic action, and could make only random guesses; but with masterful art he suited the action to the word. The sigh of Rip as he murmurs, "Is a man so soon forgotten when he is gone?" the dismay with which he searches for dog and gun after his long sleep, and his comical irresolution over signing the contract with Derrick—all these seem to be right out of life itself; that is, the ideal life, where things happen as we think they should.

I have also seen him in "The Rivals." Once, while I was visiting him in Boston, he acted out its most striking scenes for me. The reception room where we sat became a stage. He and his son sat down at the big table, and Bob Acres wrote his challenge. I followed all his movements with my hands. I understood the humor in his mistakes and gestures in a way that would have been impossible if everything had been spelled out to me. Then they got up to fight the duel. I followed the swift thrusts and blocks of the swords and poor Bob's hesitation as his courage drained out through his fingertips. Then the great actor gave his coat a tug and his mouth a twitch. In an instant I was in the village of Falling Water, feeling Schneider's shaggy head against my knee. Mr. Jefferson recited the best dialogues from "Rip Van Winkle," where tears followed close upon smiles. He asked me to suggest, as best I could, the gestures and actions that should go with the lines. Of course, I have no sense of dramatic action at all, so I could only guess. But with masterful art, he matched the action to the words. Rip sighs as he murmurs, "Is a man so soon forgotten when he is gone?" He searches in dismay for his dog and gun after his long sleep. He hesitates comically over signing the contract with Derrick. All these moments seem to come straight from life itself. That is, they come from the ideal life, where things happen as we think they should.

I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was in Boston, and Miss Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I shall never forget the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the play I was permitted to go behind the scenes and meet her in her royal costume. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue, though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just learning to speak, and had previously repeated her name until I could say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.

I remember my first visit to the theater well. It was twelve years ago. Elsie Leslie, the young actress, was in Boston, and Miss Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prince and the Pauper." I will never forget how that beautiful little play moved between joy and sorrow. I will never forget the wonderful child who acted in it, either. After the play, I was allowed to go backstage and meet Elsie in her royal costume. It would have been hard to find a prettier or more lovable child. A cloud of golden hair floated over her shoulders, and she smiled brightly. She showed no signs of shyness or tiredness, though she had performed for a huge audience. I was just learning to speak. Before meeting Elsie, I had repeated her name until I could say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she understood the few words I said to her and reached out her hand to greet me without hesitation.

Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitations touches at many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.

Isn't it true, then, that my life, with all its limitations, touches the life of the World Beautiful in many ways? Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence. Whatever state I may be in, I learn to be content.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation surrounds me like a cold mist. I sit alone and wait at life’s closed gate. Beyond it are light, music, and sweet companionship, but I cannot enter. Fate, silent and merciless, blocks the way. I long to question his commanding decree, because my heart is still undisciplined and passionate. But my tongue will not speak the bitter, useless words that rise to my lips. Instead, they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence weighs heavily on my soul. Then hope comes with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in forgetting yourself." So I try to make the light in others’ eyes my sun, the music in others’ ears my symphony, and the smile on others’ lips my happiness.