The Story of My Life | Page 9

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 my 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