A general history of quadrupeds: The figures engraved on wood by T. Bewick.
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In short, in every part of the world the Cow is found either large or small, in proportion to the rich ness or poverty of its food. Among the Eluth Tartars, where the pastures are remarkably rich and nourishing, the Cow grows to such an amazing size that a tall man can scarcely reach the tip of its shoulder.
In France, on the contrary, where this animal is stinted in its food, and driven from the bed pastures, it greatly degenerates. In Great-Britain, the Ox is the only horned animal that will apply his strength to the service of mankind; and in general, is more profitable than the Horse for the plough or the draught. There is scarcely any part of this animal without its use: The Cow goes nine months with young, and seldom produces more than one at a time. There was formerly a very singular species of wild cat tle in this country, which is now nearly extinct.
The principal external appearances which distinguish this breed of cattle from all others, are the following: Some of the Bulls have a thin upright mane, about an inch and an half or two inches long.
At the first appearance of any person, they set off in full gallop; and, at the distance of two or three hundred yards, make a wheel round, and come boldly up again, tossing their heads in a menacing manner; on a sudden they make a full stop at the distance of forty or fifty yards, looking wildly at the object of their surprize; but upon the least motion being made, they all again turn round, and fly off with equal speed, but not to the same distance; forming a shorter circle, and again returning with a bolder and more threatening aspect than before, they approach much nearer, probably within thirty yards; when they make another stand, and again fly off: This they do sever al times, shortening their distance and advancing nearer, till they come within ten yards, when most people think it prudent to leave them, not chusing to provoke them fur ther; for there is little doubt but in two or three turns they would make an attack.
The made of killing them was perhaps the only modern remains of the grandeur of ancient hunting: At some of these huntings twenty or thirty shots have been fired before he was subdued.
On such occasions the bleeding victim grew desperately furious, from the smart ing of his wounds, and the shouts of savage joy that were echoing from every side: But from the number of acci dents that happened, this dangerous mode has been little practised of late years, the park-keeper alone generally shooting them with a rifled gun, at one shot. When the Cows calve, they hide their calves for a week or ten days in some sequestered situation, and go and suckle them two or three times a-day.
If any per son come near the calves, they clap their heads close to the ground, and lie like a hare in form, to hide them selves. This is a proof of their native wildness; and is corroborated by the following circumstance that happened to the writer of this narrative, who found a hidden calf, two days old, very lean, and very weak: But it had done enough: When any one happens to be wounded, or is grown weak and feeble through age or sickness, the rest of the herd set upon it, and gore it to death.
The weight of the Oxen is generally from forty to fifty stone the four quarters; the Cows about thirty. The beef is finely marbled, and of excellent flavour. Those at Burton-Constable, in the county of York, were all destroyed by a distemper a few years since.
They varied slightly from those at Chillingham, having black ears and muzzles, and the tips of their tails of the same colour; they were also much larger, many of them weighing sixty stone, probably owing to the richness of the pasturage in Holderness, but generally attributed to the difference of kind between those with black and with red ears, the former of which they studiously endeavoured to preserve.
It grows to a size almost equal to the elephant, and is quite black; the eyes are red and fiery, the horns thick and short, and the fore head covered with a quantity of curled hair; the neck is short and strong, and the skin has an odour of musk. The female, though not so big as the male, exceeds the largest of our Bulls in size: Nevertheless her udder is ex tremely small.
Upon the whole, however, this animal, which greatly resembles those of the tame kind, probably owes its variety to its natural wildness, and the richness of the pastures where it is produced.
He has a long shaggy mane, which forms a kind of beard under his chin; his eyes are fierce, his forehead large, and his horns extremely wide.
It is dangerous to pursue him, except in forests abounding with trees large enough to conceal the hunters. He is generally taken in pits covered with branches of trees and grass, on the op posite side of which the hunters tempt the animal to pur sue them; and the enraged creature running towards them, falls into the trap prepared for it, and is then over powered and slain. The Bison, or the animal with the hump, is found in all the southern parts of the world, though greatly differ ing from each other in size and form; while the Urus, or the one without the hump, chiefly occupies the tempe rate and cold climates.
In some parts they are ex tremely large; while in others they are very small, such as the Zebu or Barbary Cow. They are all equally docile and gentle, when tamed; and are in general covered with fine glossy hair, softer and more beautiful than that of the common Cow. Their humps are of different sizes, in some weighing from forty to fifty pounds, but in others less: That part is in ge neral considered as a great delicacy; and when dressed, has much the appearance and taste of udder.
The Bisons of Madagascar and Malabar are of the great kind; those of Arabia, Petrea, and most parts of Africa, are of the Zebu or small kind. In America, especially towards the North, the Bison is well known. They herd together in droves of from one to two hundred, on the banks of the Missisippi; where the inhabitants hunt them, their flesh being esteemed good eating.
They all breed with the tame cow. Thus we see, whether it be the wild or the tame Ox, the Bonasus or the Urus, the Bison or the Ze bu, by whatever name they are distinguished, and though variously classed by naturalists, in reality they are the same; and however diversified in their appearance and properties, are descendants of one common stock; of which the most unequivocal proof is, that they all mix and breed with each other.
The Oxen of India are of different sizes, and are made use of in travelling, as substitutes for horses. Their com mon pace is soft. Instead of a bit, a small cord is passed through the cartilage of the nostrils, which is tied to a larger cord, and serves as a bridle.
They are saddled like Horses; and when pushed, move very briskly: They are likewise used in drawing chariots and carts. For the for mer purpose, white Oxen are in great esteem, and much admired: They will perform journies of sixty days, at the rate of from twelve to fifteen leagues a day; and their travelling pace is generally a trot.
In Persia there are many Oxen entirely white, with small blunt horns, and humps on their backs. They are very strong, and carry heavy burthens. When about to be loaded, they drop down on their knees like the camel, and rise when their burthens are properly fastened. The Sarluc, or Grunting Cow of Siberia, from its re semblance to the Bison, may be considered as belonging to the same species: The hair on its body is black, ex cept on the front and ridge of the back, where it is white: It has a mane on the neck; and the whole body is covered with very long hair, which hangs down below the knees, and makes the legs appear short: It has a hump on the back; the tail resembles that of a horse, is white, and ve ry bushy: It strikes with its head like a goat, and is very unruly: Its distinguishing peculiarity is, that it makes a grunting noise like a Hog, instead of lowing like the Ox, which in every other instance it greatly resembles.
The Buffalo is found wild in many parts of Africa and India, but is most common in the countries near the Cape of Good Hope; where he is described by Sparrman, as a fierce, cruel, and treacherous animal: He frequently stands behind trees, waiting the coming of some passen ger; when he rushes out upon him, and, after having thrown him down, tramples him to death with his feet and knees, tearing him with his horns and teeth, and licking him with his rough tongue till the skin is nearly stripped from the body.
From the tip of the muzzle to the horns, twenty-two inches: His limbs, in proportion to his size, are much stouter than those of the Ox; his fetlocks likewise hang nearer the ground: The ears are a foot long, somewhat pendent, and in a great measure covered and defended by the lower edges of the horns, which bend down on each side, forming a curve upwards with the points: Their hair is of a dark-brown colour, about an inch long, harsh, and upon those males that are ad vanced in years, straggling and thin, especially on each side of the belly, which gives them the appearance of be ing girt with a belt: They frequently roll themselves in the mire, of which they are very fond: The tail is short, and tufted at the end: The eyes are large, and somewhat sunk within their prominent orbits, which are almost co vered with the bases of the horns overhanging its dang ling ears; this, with a peculiar inclination of the head to one side, which is its usual manner, produces an aspect at once fierce, cunning, and tremendous: The flesh of the Buffalo is coarse, rather lean, but full of juice of a high, but not unpleasant flavour: The hide is thick and tough, and of great use in making thongs and harness; it is so hard, as not to be penetrated by a common mus ket-ball; those made use of for shooting the Buffalo, are mixed with tin; and even they are frequently flattened by the concussion.
In Italy, the Buffalo is domesticated, and constitutes the riches and food of the poor, who employ them for the purposes of agriculture, and make butter and cheese from their milk. The female produces but one at a time, and continues pregnant twelve months;—another striking characteristic difference between the Buffalo and the common Cow. THE Sheep, in its present domestic state, seems so far removed from a state of nature, that it may be deemed a difficult matter to point out its origin.
Cli mate, food, and above all, the unwearied arts of cultiva tion, contribute to render this animal, in a peculiar man ner, the creature of man; to whom it is obliged to trust entirely for its protection, and to whose necessities it largely contributes. Though singularly inoffensive, and harmless even to a proverb, it does not appear to be that stupid, inanimate creature described by Buffon, "devoid of every necessary art of self-preservation, without cou rage, and even deprived of every instinctive faculty, we are led to conclude, that the Sheep, of all other animals, is the most contemptible and stupid: But when the danger is more alarming, they have re course to the collected strength of the whole flock.
On such occasions they draw up into a compact body, placing the young and the females in the center; while the males take the foremost ranks, keeping close by each other. Thus an armed front is presented on all quarters, and cannot easily be attacked without danger of destruction to the assailant.
In this manner they wait with firmness the approach of the enemy; nor does their courage fail them in the moment of attack: For when the aggressor advances within a few yards of the line, the Rams dart upon him with such impetuosity as lays him dead at their feet, unless he save himself by flight. Against the attacks of single Dogs or Foxes, when in this situation, they are perfectly secure.
For the Bull, by lowering his head, receives the stroke of the Ram between his eyes, which usually brings him to the ground. In the selection of their food, few animals discover greater sagacity than the Sheep; nor does any domestic animal shew more dexterity and cunning in its attempts to elude the vigilance of the shepherd, in order to steal such delicacies as are agreeable to its palate.
Besides its hardiness in enduring great severities of weather, the na tural instinct of the Sheep in foreseeing the approach of a storm is no less remarkable: Thus beautifully described by Thompson: The variety in this creature is so great, that scarcely any two countries produce Sheep of the same kind; there is found a manifest difference in all, either in the size, the covering, the shape, or the horns.
The woolly Sheep is found only in Europe and in the temperate provinces of Asia: When transported into warmer climates, it loses its wool, and becomes hairy and rough; it is likewise less fertile, and its flesh no longer retains the same flavour.
No country produces finer Sheep than Great-Britain: Their fleeces are large, and well adapted to the various purposes of cloathing. The Spanish fleeces are indeed finer, but stand in no degree of comparison with those of Lincolnshire or Warwickshire for weight or utility. In Edward the Third's time, when wool was allowed to be exported, it brought ,l. Like other ruminating animals, the Sheep wants the upper fore-teeth: It has eight in the lower jaw, two of which drop out, and are replaced at two years old; four of them art renewed at three years, and the remainder at the age of four.
The Ewe produces one or two lambs at a time, and sometimes, though rarely, three or four; bears her young five months, and brings forth in the spring. The Ram lives to the age of about fifteen years, and begins to pro create at one. When castrated, they are called Wedders. They then grow sooner fat, and the flesh becomes finer and better flavoured. There is hardly any part of this animal that is not ser viceable to man: Of the fleece we make our cloths; the skin produces leather, of which are made gloves, parch ment, and covers for books; the entrails are formed into strings for fiddles and other musical instruments, like wise coverings for whips; its milk affords both butter and cheese; and its flesh is a delicate and wholesome food.
The following remarks, taken from Mr Cully's "Ob servations on live stock," will not be unacceptable to ma ny of our readers, as they convey a just idea of some of the most noted kinds of Sheep at this time in the island. He begins with those of Lincolnshire, which are of a large size, big-boned, and afford a greater quantity of wool than any other kind, owing to the rich, fat marshes on which they feed; but their flesh is coarse, leaner, and not so finely flavoured as that of smaller Sheep: But the largest breed of Sheep in this island, is to be met with on the banks of the Tees, which runs through a rich and fertile country, di viding the two counties of Yorkshire and Durham: This kind differs from the preceding, in their wool not being so long and heavy; their legs are longer, but finer boned, and support a thicker, firmer carcase; their flesh is like wise much fatter, and finer grained: These Sheep weigh from twenty-five to forty-five pounds per quarter; some have been fed to fifty pounds; and one in particular was killed, which weighed sixty-two pounds ten ounces per quarter, avoirdupois—a circumstance never before heard of in this island.
The Ewes of this breed generally bring forth two lambs each season; sometimes three, four, and even five. As an instance of extraordinary fecundity, it deserves to be mentioned, that one of these Ewes, at the age of two years, brought forth four lambs at one time, the next season five, both within eleven months.MEET THE PARENTS Pool Scene
The Dorsetshire breed is likewise remarkably prolific, the Ewes being capable of bringing forth twice a-year: It is from these, that the tables of our nobility and gentry are sup plied with early lamb at Christmas, or sooner if required. Great numbers of those early victims to luxury are year ly sent to the London markets, where they are sold at the enormous price of 10s.
The manner of rearing the lambs is curious: Great atten tion is paid to this, as much of the success of rearing these unseasonable productions depends upon warmth and cleanliness. The Dorsetshire Sheep are mostly white-faced; their legs are long and small, and great numbers of them have no wool upon their bellies, which gives them an uncouth appearance. They produce a small quantity of wool, but of a good quality, from which our fine Wiltshire cloths are made.
The mutton of these Sheep is very sweet and well flavoured. The variations of this breed are spread through most of the southern counties; but the true kind is only to be found in Dorsetshire and Wiltshire. There is a breed, not unlike this, in Norfolk and Suffolk; but they are all grey or black-faced.
The north-west part of Yorkshire, with all that moun tainous tract of country running towards Lancashire southward, and to Fort William northward, is occupied by a hardy, black-faced, wild-looking tribe, generally called short Sheep, which differ from our other breeds not only in the darkness of their complexions and horns, but principally in the coarse shaggy wool which they produce, not much unlike the hair growing upon a water-spaniel.
Their eyes have a very sharp and wild cast; they run with astonishing agility, and seem quite adapted to the heathy mountains they inhabit. Their flesh is pe culiarly fine and high flavoured. The three great fairs for these Sheep where amazing numbers of them are sold every year are, Stagshawbank, in Northumberland; Brough, in Westmorland; and Linton, in Scotland. Their wool is fine, and thickly planted.
The Sheep in the low parts of Northumberland are of a mixed breed, between the long kind, the Tees water, and the Lincolnshire. The mug or muff kind was for merly common in that county: They were so called from their wool growing round their heads into their very eyes, so as almost to prevent them from seeing. This breed is now nearly exploded, being considered, by every breeder of experience, as unprofitable, from their thriving slowly, and being very tender. In the northern districts of Scotland, and in many of the islands, there is a breed of Sheep which differs from the others in the smallness of their size, many of them when fed weighing no more than six, seven, or eight pounds per quarter.
They have dun faces, without horns; and their wool, which is very fine, is variously mixed, and streaked with black, brown, and red. To these various and numerous tribes of this useful animal, we must add, that, by the persevering industry and attention of Mr Bakewell, of Dishley, in Leicester shire, our breed of Sheep has been greatly improved; and he has been followed by many eminent breeders, with nearly equal success. It seems to be generally agreed, that in Sheep, as well as in all other animals, there is a certain symmetry or proportion of parts, which is best adapted to the size of each particular animal: Thus, by selecting the handsomest and best proportioned of their kinds, the ju dicious breeder has gradually arrived at a degree of per fection in improving this animal, unknown at any former period.
The superior qualities of the Leicestershire breed are, that they will feed quickly fat at almost any age, even on indifferent pastures, and carry the greatest quantity of mutton upon the smallest bone. Their carcases are round, have remarkably broad backs, and short legs; and to shew the immense weight to which they may be fed, we give the measurement of a Ram of Mr Bake well's, mentioned by Young in his "Eastern Tour: This valuable breed has also found its way into North umberland.
Culley, of Fenton, and Mr Thompson, of Lilburn, have also, by a mixture of this with other kinds, improved their breeds of Sheep to the astonishment of the neigh bouring farmers and graziers, who are now fully con vinced of its great superiority. We are favoured by Mr Culley with the following ac count of a Wedder of his breed, fed at Fenton, in North umberland, and killed at Alnwick in October,when four years old: At the dividing of the quarters, through the ribs it measured seven inches and one-eighth of solid fat, cut straight through without any slope; and his mutton was of the most beautiful bright colour: The proprietor of this Sheep laments, that he had not the of fals exactly weighed by offals, we would be understood to mean not only the tallow, but the head, pluck, and pelt, with the blood and entrails ; because it is now well known, that this breed of Sheep has a greater quantity of mutton, in proportion to their offals, than any other kind we know of, and is consequently cheaper to the consumer.
The wool growing round its head, forms a kind of hood or ruff, before which stand its short erect ears; the un common protrusion of its under jaw considerably before the upper, by which the fore-teeth are left exposed; and the shortness of the nose, which lies under its high pro jecting forehead, altogether give it the appearance of de formity, and make a striking contrast to most animals of the Sheep kind.
The Ram, from which the drawing was made, came from abroad, with two Ewes, as a pre sent to a gentleman in the county of Northumberland: They are very small, and have no horns. The Sheep, of which the annexed cut is an accurate representation, seem to differ from every other which we remember to have seen described.
A pair of them was brought to this country, by way of Russia, from the bor ders of Tartary. They are rather larger than the English Sheep. The colour of the male is roan, or light-brown mixed with white; that of the female, black and white: Their ears are pendulous; and instead of a tail, they have a large protuberance of fat behind, which covers the rump.
When the drawing was made, they had just been shorn; at other times the wool is so long and thick, that their form cannot be well distinguished. The African or Guinea Sheep is found in most of the tropical climates. They are large, strong, and swift; with coarse hairy fleeces, short horns, pendulous ears, have a kind of dew-lap under the chin, and, though do mesticated, seem to approach nearest to a state of nature.
The Iceland Sheep, as well as those of Muscovy and the coldest climates of the Norths resemble our own in the form of the body, but differ in the number of their horns, having generally four, and sometimes eight, grow ing from the forehead: Their wool is long, smooth, and hairy: They are of a dark-brown colour; and under the outward coat of hair, which drops off at stated periods, there is an internal covering resembling fur, which is fine, short, and soft;—the quantity produced by each Sheep, is about four pounds.
The broad-tailed Sheep, common in Persia, Barbary, Syria, and Egypt, are remarkable chiefly for their large and heavy tails, which grow a foot broad, and so long, that the shepherds are obliged to put boards with small wheels under them, to keep them from galling.
They generally weigh from twenty to fifty pounds each. The Sheep, bred on the mountains of Thibet, pro duce wool of extraordinary length and fineness, of which is made the Indian shawl, frequently sold in this country for fifty pounds or upwards. In Walachia, they have Sheep with curious spiral horns, standing upright, in the form of a screw; long shaggy fleeces; and in size and form, nearly resembling ours. They are also found in the island of Crete, and in many of the islands of the Archipelago.
This is said to be the Strepsicheros of the ancients. For it is curious to observe, that Nature, in all her variations, proceeds by slow and almost insensible degrees, scarcely drawing a firm and distinguishing line between any two races of animals that are essentially different, and yet, in many respects, nearly allied to each other. In all transitions from one kind to the other, there is to be found a middle race, that seems to partake of the nature of both, and that can precisely be referred to neither.
Thus it is hard to discover where the Sheep kind ends, or the Goat begins. The Musmon therefore, which is nei ther Sheep nor Goat, has many marks of both, and forms the link between the two kinds.
Though covered with hair, it bears a strong similitude to the Ram: In some they grow to an amazing size, measuring above two yards long. They often maintain furious battles with each other, in which their horns are frequently broken off. The general colour of the hair is reddish-brown; the in side of the thighs and belly is white tinctured with yel low; the muzzle and inside of the ears are of a whitish colour tinctured with yellow; the other parts of the sace are of a brownish-grey.
The Musmon is found in the wild and uncultivated parts of Greece, Sardinia, Corsica, and in the desarts of Tartary; where it maintains itself, by force or swiftness, against the attacks of all rapacious animals. It has been known to breed with the Sheep; and, from that circumstance, is supposed, by M. Buffon and others, to be the primitive race. The female of this species is rather less than the male; and her horns never grow to that prodigious size.
Those of Kamtschatka are so strong, that ten men can scarcely hold one; and the horns are so large, that young foxes often shelter themselves in the hollow of such as fall off by accident.
They grow to the size of a young Stag, propagate in autumn, and bring forth one young at a time, though sometimes two. THIS lively, playful, and capricious creature occu pies the next step in the great scale of Nature; and, though inferior to the Sheep in value, in various instances bears a strong affinity to that useful animal.
The Goat and the Sheep will propagate together: The Goat is a much more hardy animal than the Sheep, and is in every respect more fitted for a life of liberty: It is not easily confined to a flock, but chuses its own pasture, straying wherever its appetite or incli nation leads: The Goat is an animal easily sustained, and is chiefly therefore the property of those who inhabit wild and un cultivated regions, where it finds an ample supply of food from the spontaneous productions of Nature, in si tuations inaccessible to other creatures.
It delights ra ther on the heathy mountains, or the shrubby rock, than the fields cultivated by human industry. Its favourite food is the tops of the boughs, or the tender bark of young trees.
It bears a warm climate better than the Sheep, and frequently sleeps exposed to the hottest rays of the sun. The milk of the Goat is sweet, nourishing, and medi cinal, being found highly beneficial in consumptive cases: It is not so apt to curdle upon the stomach as that of the Cow.
From the shrubs and heath on which it feeds, the milk of the Goat acquires a flavour and wildness of taste very different from that of either the Sheep or Cow, and is highly pleasing to such as have accustomed themselves to its use: It is made into whey for those whose digestion is too weak to bear it in its primitive state. Several places in the North of England and the mountainous parts of Scotland are much resorted to for the purpose of drinking the milk of the Goat, and its effects have been generally salutary in vitiated and debilitated habits.
They lie upon beds made of their skins, which are soft, clean, and wholesome; they live upon their milk, and oat bread; they convert part of it into butter, and some into cheese. The flesh of the kid, which they do not allow themselves to taste, is considered by the city epicure as a great rarity; and, when properly prepared, is esteemed by some as little inferior to venison. The Goat produces generally two young at a time, sometimes three, rarely four: In warmer climates, it is more prolific, and produces four or five at once; though the breed is found to degenerate.
The male is capable of propagating at one year old, and the female at seven months; but the fruits of a generation so premature, are generally weak and defective: Their best time is at the age of two years, or eighteen months at least. The Goat is a short-lived animal, full of ardour, but soon enervated. His appetite for the female is excessive, so that one buck is sufficient for one hundred and fifty females. They are bent backward, and full of knots; and every year the creature lives, it is asserted, one is added to the number of them.
Some of these horns have been found at least two yards long. The head of the Ibex is small, adorned with a large dusky beard, and has a thick coat of hair of a tawny colour mixed with ash; a streak of black runs along the top of its back; the belly and thighs are of a delicate fawn colour.
The Ibex inhabits the highest Alps of the Grisons' country, and the Vallais; and is also found in Crete. The chase of them is attended with great danger: Being very strong, they often turn upon the incautious huntsman, and tumble him down the precipice, unless he have time to lie down, and let the animal pass over him.
They bring forth one young at a time, seldom two; and are said not to be long-lived. The Chamois, though a wild animal, is very easily tamed, and docile; and to be found only in rocky and mountainous places. It is about the size of a domestic Goat, and resembles one in many respects. It is most agreeably lively, and active beyond expression. This ani mal is found in great plenty in the mountains of Dau phiny, of Piedmont, Savoy, Switzerland, and Germany.
They are peaceful, gentle creatures, and live in society with each other. They are found in flocks of from four to fourscore, and even an hundred, dispersed upon the crags of the mountains.
The large males are seen feed ing detached from the rest, except in rutting time, when they approach the females, and drive away the young. The time of their coupling is from the beginning of No vember to the end of October; and they bring forth in April and March.
The young keep with the dam for about five months, and sometimes longer, if the hunters and the wolves do not separate them. It is asserted, that they live between twenty and thirty years. Their flesh is good to eat; and they are found to have ten or twelve pounds of suet, which far surpasses that of the Goat in hardness and goodness.
As my knowledge of things grew I felt more and more the delight of the world I was in. Long before I learned to do a sum in arithmetic or describe the shape of the earth, Miss Sullivan had taught me to find beauty in the fragrant woods, in every blade of grass, and in the curves and dimples of my baby sister's hand.
She linked my earliest thoughts with nature, and made me feel that "birds and flowers and I were happy peers. One day my teacher and I were returning from a long ramble.
The morning had been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry when at last we turned our faces homeward. Two or three times we stopped to rest under a tree by the wayside.
Our last halt was was under a wild cherry tree a short distance from the house. The shade was grateful, and the tree was so easy to climb that with my teacher's assistance I was able to scramble to a seat in the branches.
It was so cool up in the tree that Miss Sullivan proposed that we have our luncheon there.
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I promised to keep still while she went to the house to fetch it. Suddenly a change passed over the tree. All the sun's warmth left the air. I knew the sky was black, because all the heat, which meant light to me, had died out of the atmosphere. A strange odour came up from the earth.
I knew it, it was the odour that always precedes a thunderstorm, and a nameless fear clutched at my heart. I felt absolutely alone, cut off from my friends and the firm earth. The immense, the unknown, enfolded me. I remained still and expectant; a chilling terror crept over me. I longed for my teacher's return; but above all things I wanted to get down from that tree.
There was a moment of sinister silence, then a multitudinous stirring of the leaves. A shiver ran through the tree, and the wind sent forth a blast that would have knocked me off had I not clung to the branch with might and main. The tree swayed and strained. The small twigs snapped and fell about me in showers. A wild impulse to jump seized me, but terror held me fast. I crouched down in the fork of the tree.
The branches lashed about me. I felt the intermittent jarring that came now and then, as if something heavy had fallen and the shock had traveled up till it reached the limb I sat on. It worked my suspense up to the highest point, and just as I was thinking the tree and I should fall together, my teacher seized my hand and helped me down. I clung to her, trembling with joy to feel the earth under my feet once more. I had learned a new lesson—that nature "wages open war against her children, and under softest touch hides treacherous claws.
The mere thought filled me with terror. It was the sweet allurement of the mimosa tree in full bloom that finally overcame my fears. One beautiful spring morning when I was alone in the summer-house, reading, I became aware of a wonderful subtle fragrance in the air. I started up and instinctively stretched out my hands. It seemed as if the spirit of spring had passed through the summer-house.
I felt my way to the end of the garden, knowing that the mimosa tree was near the fence, at the turn of the path. Yes, there it was, all quivering in the warm sunshine, its blossom-laden branches almost touching the long grass. Was there ever anything so exquisitely beautiful in the world before! Its delicate blossoms shrank from the slightest earthly touch; it seemed as if a tree of paradise had been transplanted to earth.
I made my way through a shower of petals to the great trunk and for one minute stood irresolute; then, putting my foot in the broad space between the forked branches, I pulled myself up into the tree. I had some difficulty in holding on, for the branches were very large and the bark hurt my hands. But I had a delicious sense that I was doing something unusual and wonderful, so I kept on climbing higher and higher, until I reached a little seat which somebody had built there so long ago that it had grown part of the tree itself.
I sat there for a long, long time, feeling like a fairy on a rosy cloud. After that I spent many happy hours in my tree of paradise, thinking fair thoughts and dreaming bright dreams. Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process.
But whatever the process, the result is wonderful. Gradually from naming an object we advance step by step until we have traversed the vast distance between our first stammered syllable and the sweep of thought in a line of Shakespeare.
At first, when my teacher told me about a new thing I asked very few questions. My ideas were vague, and my vocabulary was inadequate; but as my knowledge of things grew, and I learned more and more words, my field of inquiry broadened, and I would return again and again to the same subject, eager for further information. Sometimes a new word revived an image that some earlier experience had engraved on my brain. I remember the morning that I first asked the meaning of the word, "love.
I had found a few early violets in the garden and brought them to my teacher. She tried to kiss me: Miss Sullivan put her arm gently round me and spelled into my hand, "I love Helen. She drew me closer to her and said, "It is here," pointing to my heart, whose beats I was conscious of for the first time. Her words puzzled me very much because I did not then understand anything unless I touched it.
I smelt the violets in her hand and asked, half in words, half in signs, a question which meant, "Is love the sweetness of flowers? The warm sun was shining on us. But Miss Sullivan shook her head, and I was greatly puzzled and disappointed. I thought it strange that my teacher could not show me love. A day or two afterward I was stringing beads of different sizes in symmetrical groups—two large beads, three small ones, and so on.
I had made many mistakes, and Miss Sullivan had pointed them out again and again with gentle patience. Finally I noticed a very obvious error in the sequence and for an instant I concentrated my attention on the lesson and tried to think how I should have arranged the beads. Miss Sullivan touched my forehead and spelled with decided emphasis, "Think. This was my first conscious perception of an abstract idea.
For a long time I was still—I was not thinking of the beads in my lap, but trying to find a meaning for "love" in the light of this new idea. The sun had been under a cloud all day, and there had been brief showers; but suddenly the sun broke forth in all its southern splendour. Again, I asked my teacher, "Is this not love? Then in simpler words than these, which at that time I could not have understood, she explained: You cannot touch love either; but you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything.
Without love you would not be happy or want to play. From the beginning of my education Miss Sullivan made it a practice to speak to me as she would to any hearing child; the only difference was that she spelled the sentences into my hand instead of speaking them. If I did not know the words and idioms necessary to express my thoughts she supplied them, even suggesting conversation when I was unable to keep up my end of the dialogue.
This process was continued for several years; for the deaf child does not learn in a month, or even in two or three years, the numberless idioms and expressions used in the simplest daily intercourse. The little hearing child learns these from constant repetition and imitation. The conversation he hears in his home stimulates his mind and suggests topics and calls forth the spontaneous expression of his own thoughts.
This natural exchange of ideas is denied to the deaf child. My teacher, realizing this, determined to supply the kinds of stimulus I lacked. This she did by repeating to me as far as possible, verbatim what she heard, and by showing me how I could take part in the conversation.
But it was a long time before I ventured to take the initiative, and still longer before I could find something appropriate to say at the right time. The deaf and the blind find it very difficult to acquire the amenities of conversation. How much more this difficulty must be augmented in the case of those who are both deaf and blind! They cannot distinguish the tone of the voice or, without assistance, go up and down the gamut of tones that give significance to words; nor can they watch the expression of the speaker's face, and a look is often the very soul of what one says.
As soon as I could spell a few words my teacher gave me slips of cardboard on which were printed words in raised letters. I quickly learned that each printed word stood for an object, an act, or a quality.
I had a frame in which I could arrange the words in little sentences; but before I ever put sentences in the frame I used to make them in objects. I found the slips of paper which represented, for example, "doll," "is," "on," "bed" and placed each name on its object; then I put my doll on the bed with the words is, on, bed arranged beside the doll, thus making a sentence out of the words, and at the same time carrying out the idea of the sentence with the things themselves.
One day, Miss Sullivan tells me, I pinned the word girl on my pinafore and stood in the wardrobe.
On the shelf I arranged the words, is, in, wardrobe. Nothing delighted me so much as this game. My teacher and I played it for hours at a time.
Often everything in the room was arranged in object sentences. From the printed slip it was but a step to the printed book. I took my "Reader for Beginners" and hunted for the words I knew; when I found them my joy was like that of a game of hide-and-seek.
ESOF Programme - ESOF Toulouse
Thus I began to read. Of the time when I began to read connected stories I shall speak later. For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed more like play than work. Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem. Whenever anything delighted or interested me she talked it over with me just as if she were a little girl herself.
What many children think of with dread, as a painful plodding through grammar, hard sums and harder definitions, is to-day one of my most precious memories. I cannot explain the peculiar sympathy Miss Sullivan had with my pleasures and desires. Perhaps it was the result of long association with the blind. Added to this she had a wonderful faculty for description.
She went quickly over uninteresting details, and never nagged me with questions to see if I remembered the day-before-yesterday's lesson.
She introduced dry technicalities of science little by little, making every subject so real that I could not help remembering what she taught.
We read and studied out of doors, preferring the sunlit woods to the house. All my early lessons have in them the breath of the woods—the fine, resinous odour of pine needles, blended with the perfume of wild grapes.
Seated in the gracious shade of a wild tulip tree, I learned to think that everything has a lesson and a suggestion. 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!
Sometimes I rose at dawn and stole into the garden while the heavy dew lay on the grass and flowers. Few know what joy it is to feel the roses pressing softly into the hand, or the beautiful motion of the lilies as they sway in the morning breeze. Sometimes I caught an insect in the flower I was plucking, and I felt the faint noise of a pair of wings rubbed together in a sudden terror, as the little creature became aware of a pressure from without. Another favourite haunt of mine was the orchard, where the fruit ripened early in July.
The large, downy peaches would reach themselves into my hand, and as the joyous breezes flew about the trees the apples tumbled at my feet. Oh, the delight with which I gathered up the fruit in my pinafore, pressed my face against the smooth cheeks of the apples, still warm from the sun, and skipped back to the house!
Our favourite walk was to Keller's Landing, an old tumble-down lumber-wharf on the Tennessee River, used during the Civil War to land soldiers. There we spent many happy hours and played at learning geography. I built dams of pebbles, made islands and lakes, and dug river-beds, all for fun, and never dreamed that I was learning a lesson. I listened with increasing wonder to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the great round world with its burning mountains, buried cities, moving rivers of ice, and many other things as strange.
She made raised maps in clay, so that I could feel the mountain ridges and valleys, and follow with my fingers the devious course of rivers. I liked this, too; but the division of the earth into zones and poles confused and teased my mind. The illustrative strings and the orange stick representing the poles seemed so real that even to this day the mere mention of temperate zone suggests a series of twine circles; and I believe that if any one should set about it he could convince me that white bears actually climb the North Pole.
Arithmetic seems to have been the only study I did not like. From the first I was not interested in the science of numbers. Miss Sullivan tried to teach me to count by stringing beads in groups, and by arranging kindergarten straws I learned to add and subtract.
I never had patience to arrange more than five or six groups at a time. When I had accomplished this my conscience was at rest for the day, and I went out quickly to find my playmates. Once a gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, sent me a collection of fossils—tiny mollusk shells beautifully marked, and bits of sandstone with the print of birds' claws, and a lovely fern in bas-relief.
These were the keys which unlocked the treasures of the antediluvian world for me. With trembling fingers I listened to Miss Sullivan's descriptions of the terrible beasts, with uncouth, unpronounceable names, which once went tramping through the primeval forests, tearing down the branches of gigantic trees for food, and died in the dismal swamps of an unknown age.
For a long time these strange creatures haunted my dreams, and this gloomy period formed a somber background to the joyous Now, filled with sunshine and roses and echoing with the gentle beat of my pony's hoof. Another time a beautiful shell was given me, and with a child's surprise and delight I learned how a tiny mollusk had built the lustrous coil for his dwelling place, and how on still nights, when there is no breeze stirring the waves, the Nautilus sails on the blue waters of the Indian Ocean in his "ship of pearl.
Just as the wonder-working mantle of the Nautilus changes the material it absorbs from the water and makes it a part of itself, so the bits of knowledge one gathers undergo a similar change and become pearls of thought.
Again, it was the growth of a plant that furnished the text for a lesson. We bought a lily and set it in a sunny window. Very soon the green, pointed buds showed signs of opening. The slender, fingerlike leaves on the outside opened slowly, reluctant, I thought, to reveal the loveliness they hid; once having made a start, however, the opening process went on rapidly, but in order and systematically.
There was always one bud larger and more beautiful than the rest, which pushed her outer covering back with more pomp, as if the beauty in soft, silky robes knew that she was the lily-queen by right divine, while her more timid sisters doffed their green hoods shyly, until the whole plant was one nodding bough of loveliness and fragrance.
Once there were eleven tadpoles in a glass globe set in a window full of plants. I remember the eagerness with which I made discoveries about them. It was great fun to plunge my hand into the bowl and feel the tadpoles frisk about, and to let them slip and slide between my fingers.
One day a more ambitious fellow leaped beyond the edge of the bowl and fell on the floor, where I found him to all appearance more dead than alive. The only sign of life was a slight wriggling of his tail. But no sooner had he returned to his element than he darted to the bottom, swimming round and round in joyous activity.
He had made his leap, he had seen the great world, and was content to stay in his pretty glass house under the big fuchsia tree until he attained the dignity of froghood. Then he went to live in the leafy pool at the end of the garden, where he made the summer nights musical with his quaint love-song. Thus I learned from life itself. At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities.
It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them. When she came, everything about me breathed of love and joy and was full of meaning.
She has never since let pass an opportunity to point out the beauty that is in everything, nor has she ceased trying in thought and action and example to make my life sweet and useful. It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me.
She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower.
Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks. My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell.
I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her—there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.
Every one in the family prepared surprises for me, but what pleased me most, Miss Sullivan and I prepared surprises for everybody else. The mystery that surrounded the gifts was my greatest delight and amusement. My friends did all they could to excite my curiosity by hints and half-spelled sentences which they pretended to break off in the nick of time. Miss Sullivan and I kept up a game of guessing which taught me more about the use of language than any set of lessons could have done.
Every evening, seated round a glowing wood fire, we played our guessing game, which grew more and more exciting as Christmas approached. On Christmas Eve the Tuscumbia schoolchildren had their tree, to which they invited me. In the centre of the schoolroom stood a beautiful tree ablaze and shimmering in the soft light, its branches loaded with strange, wonderful fruit.
It was a moment of supreme happiness. I danced and capered around the tree in an ecstasy. When I learned that there was a gift for each child, I was delighted, and the kind people who had prepared the tree permitted me to hand the presents to the children.
In the pleasure of doing this, I did not stop to look at my own gifts; but when I was ready for them, my impatience for the real Christmas to begin almost got beyond control.
I knew the gifts I already had were not those of which friends had thrown out such tantalizing hints, and my teacher said the presents I was to have would be even nicer than these. I was persuaded, however, to content myself with the gifts from the tree and leave the others until morning. That night, after I had hung my stocking, I lay awake a long time, pretending to be asleep and keeping alert to see what Santa Claus would do when he came. At last I fell asleep with a new doll and a white bear in my arms.
Next morning it was I who waked the whole family with my first "Merry Christmas! But when my teacher presented me with a canary, my cup of happiness overflowed.
Little Tim was so tame that he would hop on my finger and eat candied cherries out of my hand. Miss Sullivan taught me to take all the care of my new pet. Every morning after breakfast I prepared his bath, made his cage clean and sweet, filled his cups with fresh seed and water from the well-house, and hung a spray of chickweed in his swing. One morning I left the cage on the window-seat while I went to fetch water for his bath. When I returned I felt a big cat brush past me as I opened the door.
At first I did not realize what had happened; but when I put my hand in the cage and Tim's pretty wings did not meet my touch or his small pointed claws take hold of my finger, I knew that I should never see my sweet little singer again. As if it were yesterday I remember the preparations, the departure with my teacher and my mother, the journey, and finally the arrival in Boston.
How different this journey was from the one I had made to Baltimore two years before! I was no longer a restless, excitable little creature, requiring the attention of everybody on the train to keep me amused. I sat quietly beside Miss Sullivan, taking in with eager interest all that she told me about what she saw out of the car window: On the seat opposite me sat my big rag doll, Nancy, in a new gingham dress and a beruffled sunbonnet, looking at me out of two bead eyes.
Sometimes, when I was not absorbed in Miss Sullivan's descriptions, I remembered Nancy's existence and took her up in my arms, but I generally calmed my conscience by making myself believe that she was asleep.
As I shall not have occasion to refer to Nancy again, I wish to tell here a sad experience she had soon after our arrival in Boston. She was covered with dirt—the remains of mud pies I had compelled her to eat, although she had never shown any special liking for them.
The laundress at the Perkins Institution secretly carried her off to give her a bath. This was too much for poor Nancy. When I next saw her she was a formless heap of cotton, which I should not have recognized at all except for the two bead eyes which looked out at me reproachfully. When the train at last pulled into the station at Boston it was as if a beautiful fairy tale had come true.
The "once upon a time" was now; the "far-away country" was here. We had scarcely arrived at the Perkins Institution for the Blind when I began to make friends with the little blind children. It delighted me inexpressibly to find that they knew the manual alphabet. What joy to talk with other children in my own language! Until then I had been like a foreigner speaking through an interpreter.
In the school where Laura Bridgman was taught I was in my own country. It took me some time to appreciate the fact that my new friends were blind. I knew I could not see; but it did not seem possible that all the eager, loving children who gathered round me and joined heartily in my frolics were also blind. I remember the surprise and the pain I felt as I noticed that they placed their hands over mine when I talked to them and that they read books with their fingers.
Although I had been told this before, and although I understood my own deprivations, yet I had thought vaguely that since they could hear, they must have a sort of "second sight," and I was not prepared to find one child and another and yet another deprived of the same precious gift.
But they were so happy and contented that I lost all sense of pain in the pleasure of their companionship. One day spent with the blind children made me feel thoroughly at home in my new environment, and I looked eagerly from one pleasant experience to another as the days flew swiftly by.
I could not quite convince myself that there was much world left, for I regarded Boston as the beginning and the end of creation. While we were in Boston we visited Bunker Hill, and there I had my first lesson in history. The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly. I climbed the monument, counting the steps, and wondering as I went higher and yet higher if the soldiers had climbed this great stairway and shot at the enemy on the ground below.
The next day we went to Plymouth by water. This was my first trip on the ocean and my first voyage in a steamboat. How full of life and motion it was! But the rumble of the machinery made me think it was thundering, and I began to cry, because I feared if it rained we should not be able to have our picnic out of doors. I was more interested, I think, in the great rock on which the Pilgrims landed than in anything else in Plymouth.
I could touch it, and perhaps that made the coming of the Pilgrims and their toils and great deeds seem more real to me. I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims. How my childish imagination glowed with the splendour of their enterprise!
I idealized them as the bravest and most generous men that ever sought a home in a strange land. I thought they desired the freedom of their fellow men as well as their own. I was keenly surprised and disappointed years later to learn of their acts of persecution that make us tingle with shame, even while we glory in the courage and energy that gave us our "Country Beautiful.
William Endicott and his daughter. Their kindness to me was the seed from which many pleasant memories have since grown. One day we visited their beautiful home at Beverly Farms. I remember with delight how I went through their rose-garden, how their dogs, big Leo and little curly-haired Fritz with long ears, came to meet me, and how Nimrod, the swiftest of the horses, poked his nose into my hands for a pat and a lump of sugar.
I also remember the beach, where for the first time I played in the sand. It was hard, smooth sand, very different from the loose, sharp sand, mingled with kelp and shells, at Brewster. Endicott told me about the great ships that came sailing by from Boston, bound for Europe. I saw him many times after that, and he was always a good friend to me; indeed, I was thinking of him when I called Boston "The City of Kind Hearts.
I was delighted, for my mind was full of the prospective joys and of the wonderful stories I had heard about the sea. My most vivid recollection of that summer is the ocean. I had always lived far inland, and had never had so much as a whiff of salt air; but I had read in a big book called "Our World" a description of the ocean which filled me with wonder and an intense longing to touch the mighty sea and feel it roar.
So my little heart leaped with eager excitement when I knew that my wish was at last to be realized. No sooner had I been helped into my bathing-suit than I sprang out upon the warm sand and without thought of fear plunged into the cool water.
I felt the great billows rock and sink. The buoyant motion of the water filled me with an exquisite, quivering joy. Suddenly my ecstasy gave place to terror; for my foot struck against a rock and the next instant there was a rush of water over my head. I thrust out my hands to grab some support, I clutched at the water and at the seaweed which the waves tossed in my face.
But all my frantic efforts were in vain. The waves seemed to be playing a game with me, and tossed me from one to another in their wild frolic. The good, firm earth had slipped from my feet, and everything seemed shut out from this strange, all-enveloping element—life, air, warmth, and love. At last, however, the sea, as if weary of its new toy, threw me back on the shore, and in another instant I was clasped in my teacher's arms.
Oh, the comfort of the long, tender embrace! As soon as I had recovered from my panic sufficiently to say anything, I demanded: I felt the pebbles rattling as the waves threw their ponderous weight against the shore; the whole beach seemed racked by their terrific onset, and the air throbbed with their pulsations.
The breakers would swoop back to gather themselves for a mightier leap, and I clung to the rock, tense, fascinated, as I felt the dash and roar of the rushing sea! I could never stay long enough on the shore.
The tang of the untainted, fresh and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought, and the shells and pebbles and the seaweed with tiny living creatures attached to it never lost their fascination for me. One day, Miss Sullivan attracted my attention to a strange object which she had captured basking in the chilly water.
It was a great horseshoe crab—the first one I had ever seen. I felt of him and thought it strange that he should carry his house on his back. It suddenly occurred to me that he might make a delightful pet; so I seized him by the tail with both hands and carried him home. This feat pleased me highly, as his body was very heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him half a mile. I would not leave Miss Sullivan in peace until she had put the crab in a trough near the well where I was confident he would be secure.
But the next morning I went to the trough, and lo, he had disappeared! Nobody knew where he had gone, or how he had escaped. My disappointment was bitter at the time; but little by little I came to realize that it was not kind or wise to force this poor dumb creature out of his element, and after awhile I felt happy in the thought that perhaps he had returned to the sea. As I recall that visit North I am filled with wonder at the richness and variety of the experiences that cluster about it. It seems to have been the beginning of everything.
The treasures of a new, beautiful world were laid at my feet, and I took in pleasure and information at every turn. I lived myself into all things. I was never still a moment; my life was as full of motion as those little insects which crowd a whole existence into one brief day.
I had met many people who talked with me by spelling into my hand, and thought in joyous symphony leaped up to meet thought, and behold, a miracle had been wrought!
The barren places between my mind and the minds of others blossomed like the rose. I spent the autumn months with my family at our summer cottage, on a mountain about fourteen miles from Tuscumbia. It was called Fern Quarry, because near it there was a limestone quarry, long since abandoned. Three frolicsome little streams ran through it from springs in the rocks above, leaping here and tumbling there in laughing cascades wherever the rocks tried to bar their way.
The opening was filled with ferns which completely covered the beds of limestone and in places hid the streams. The rest of the mountain was thickly wooded. Here were great oaks and splendid evergreens with trunks like mossy pillars, from the branches of which hung garlands of ivy and mistletoe, and persimmon trees, the odour of which pervaded every nook and corner of the wood—an illusive, fragrant something that made the heart glad.
In places, the wild muscadine and scuppernong vines stretched from tree to tree, making arbours which were always full of butterflies and buzzing insects. It was delightful to lose ourselves in the green hollows of that tangled wood in the late afternoon, and to smell the cool, delicious odours that came up from the earth at the close of day. Our cottage was a sort of rough camp, beautifully situated on the top of the mountain among oaks and pines. The small rooms were arranged on each side of a long open hall.
Round the house was a wide piazza, where the mountain winds blew, sweet with all wood-scents. We lived on the piazza most of the time—there we worked, ate and played. At the back door there was a great butternut tree, round which the steps had been built, and in front the trees stood so close that I could touch them and feel the wind shake their branches, or the leaves twirl downward in the autumn blast. Many visitors came to Fern Quarry. In the evening, by the campfire, the men played cards and whiled away the hours in talk and sport.
They told stories of their wonderful feats with fowl, fish, and quadruped—how many wild ducks and turkeys they had shot, what "savage trout" they had caught, and how they had bagged the craftiest foxes, outwitted the most clever 'possums, and overtaken the fleetest deer, until I thought that surely the lion, the tiger, the bear, and the rest of the wild tribe would not be able to stand before these wily hunters. The men slept in the hall outside our door, and I could feel the deep breathing of the dogs and the hunters as they lay on their improvised beds.
At dawn I was awakened by the smell of coffee, the rattling of guns, and the heavy footsteps of the men as they strode about, promising themselves the greatest luck of the season. I could also feel the stamping of the horses, which they had ridden out from town and hitched under the trees, where they stood all night, neighing loudly, impatient to be off. At last the men mounted, and, as they say in the old songs, away went the steeds with bridles ringing and whips cracking and hounds racing ahead, and away went the champion hunters "with hark and whoop and wild halloo!
A fire was kindled at the bottom of a deep hole in the ground, big sticks were laid crosswise at the top, and meat was hung from them and turned on spits. Around the fire squatted negroes, driving away the flies with long branches. The savoury odour of the meat made me hungry long before the tables were set. When the bustle and excitement of preparation was at its height, the hunting party made its appearance, struggling in by twos and threes, the men hot and weary, the horses covered with foam, and the jaded hounds panting and dejected—and not a single kill!
Every man declared that he had seen at least one deer, and that the animal had come very close; but however hotly the dogs might pursue the game, however well the guns might be aimed, at the snap of the trigger there was not a deer in sight. They had been as fortunate as the little boy who said he came very near seeing a rabbit—he saw his tracks.
The party soon forgot its disappointment, however, and we sat down, not to venison, but to a tamer feast of veal and roast pig. One summer I had my pony at Fern Quarry.
I called him Black Beauty, as I had just read the book, and he resembled his namesake in every way, from his glossy black coat to the white star on his forehead. I spent many of my happiest hours on his back. Occasionally, when it was quite safe, my teacher would let go the leading-rein, and the pony sauntered on or stopped at his sweet will to eat grass or nibble the leaves of the trees that grew beside the narrow trail.
On mornings when I did not care for the ride, my teacher and I would start after breakfast for a ramble in the woods, and allow ourselves to get lost amid the trees and vines, and with no road to follow except the paths made by cows and horses.
Frequently we came upon impassable thickets which forced us to take a roundabout way. We always returned to the cottage with armfuls of laurel, goldenrod, ferns, and gorgeous swamp-flowers such as grow only in the South. Sometimes I would go with Mildred and my little cousins to gather persimmons. I did not eat them; but I loved their fragrance and enjoyed hunting for them in the leaves and grass. We also went nutting, and I helped them open the chestnut burrs and break the shells of hickory-nuts and walnuts—the big, sweet walnuts!
At the foot of the mountain there was a railroad, and the children watched the trains whiz by. Sometimes a terrific whistle brought us to the steps, and Mildred told me in great excitement that a cow or a horse had strayed on the track. About a mile distant, there was a trestle spanning a deep gorge. It was very difficult to walk over, the ties were wide apart and so narrow that one felt as if one were walking on knives.
I had never crossed it until one day Mildred, Miss Sullivan and I were lost in the woods, and wandered for hours without finding a path. Suddenly Mildred pointed with her little hand and exclaimed, "There's the trestle! I had to feel for the rails with my toe; but I was not afraid, and got on very well, until all at once there came a faint "puff, puff" from the distance.
I felt the hot breath from the engine on my face, and the smoke and ashes almost choked us. As the train rumbled by, the trestle shook and swayed until I thought we should be dashed to the chasm below. With the utmost difficulty we regained the track. Long after dark we reached home and found the cottage empty; the family were all out hunting for us. Once I went on a visit to a New England village with its frozen lakes and vast snow fields.
It was then that I had opportunities such as had never been mine to enter into the treasures of the snow.
I recall my surprise on discovering that a mysterious hand had stripped the trees and bushes, leaving only here and there a wrinkled leaf. The birds had flown, and their empty nests in the bare trees were filled with snow. Winter was on hill and field. The earth seemed benumbed by his icy touch and the very spirits of the trees had withdrawn to their roots, and there, curled up in the dark, lay fast asleep.
All life seemed to have ebbed away, and even when the sun shone the day was Shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. The withered grass and the bushes were transformed into a forest of icicles.
Then came a day when the chill air portended a snowstorm. We rushed out-of-doors to feel the first few tiny flakes descending.
Hour by hour the flakes dropped silently, softly from their airy height to the earth, and the country became more and more level. A snowy night closed upon the world, and in the morning one could scarcely recognize a feature of the landscape. All the roads were hidden, not a single landmark was visible, only a waste of snow with trees rising out of it.
Around the great fire we sat and told merry tales, and frolicked, and quite forgot that we were in the midst of a desolate solitude, shut in from all communication with the outside world. But during the night, the fury of the wind increased to such a degree that it thrilled us with a vague terror. The rafters creaked and strained, and the branches of the trees surrounding the house rattled and beat against the windows, as the winds rioted up and down the country.
On the third day after the beginning of the storm the snow ceased. The sun broke through the clouds and shone upon a vast, undulating white plain. High mounds, pyramids heaped in fantastic shapes, and impenetrable drifts lay scattered in every direction. Narrow paths were shoveled through the drifts. I put on my cloak and hood and went out. The air stung my cheeks like fire. Half walking in the paths, half working our way though the lesser drifts, we succeeded in reaching a pine grove just outside a broad pasture.
The trees stood motionless and white like figures in a marble frieze. There was no odour of pine-needles. The rays of the sun fell upon the trees, so that the twigs sparkled like diamonds and dropped in showers when we touched them.
So dazzling was the light, it penetrated even the darkness that veils my eyes. As the days wore on, the drifts gradually shrunk, but before they were wholly gone another storm came, so that I scarcely felt the earth under my feet once all winter.
At intervals the trees lost their icy covering, and the bulrushes and underbrush were bare; but the lake lay frozen and hard beneath the sun. Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water's edge. Down these steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming surface to the opposite bank.
For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine! I used to make noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other hand felt the movements of my lips. I was pleased with anything that made a noise, and liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my hand on a singer's throat, or on a piano when it was being played.
Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was fast learning to talk, but after my illness it was found that I had ceased to speak because I could not hear.
I used to sit in my mother's lap all day long and keep my hands on her face because it amused me to feel the motions of her lips; and I moved my lips, too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My friends say that I laughed and cried naturally, and for awhile I made many sounds and word-elements, not because they were a means of communication, but because the need of exercising my vocal organs was imperative.
There was, however, one word the meaning of which I still remembered, water. I pronounced it "wa-wa. I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my fingers. I had known for a long time that the people about me used a method of communication different from mine; and even before I knew that a deaf child could be taught to speak, I was conscious of dissatisfaction with the means of communication I already possessed.
One who is entirely dependent on the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint, of narrowness. This feeling began to agitate me with a vexing, forward-reaching sense of a lack that should be filled. My thought would often rise and beat up like birds against the wind; and I persisted in using my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage this tendency, fearing lest it would lead to disappointment. But I persisted, and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of this great barrier—I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.
Lamson, who had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, and who had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden, came to see me, and told me of Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had actually been taught to speak. Lamson had scarcely finished telling me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School.
This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March,