sense, between native sensory capacity of the sense organ, and the acquired ability to use that capacity."

The second sense to be developed in the blind child is that of touch, and this development begins at a very early date, supplementing the sense of hearing. Long before the child is old enough to read, its fingers have become its eyes, and each of the ten fingers carries its quota of information to the active brain, the amount and quality of this information increasing with the mental development. In addition to the fingers, the nerves of the face and those of the feet contribute their share of information. The child learns to detect differences in climatic condition by the feel of the air on its face. I have often heard very young blind children exclaim, "It feels like rain! It feels like a nice day! The air feels heavy! The wind feels soft! The wind is rough today!" The nerves of the feet contribute their share of helpful knowledge, calling attention to differences in the ground often unnoticed by the eye, telling whether the path is smooth or rough, grass-grown or rock-strewn. The auditory and pedal nerves are mutually helpful, the ear recording and classifying the sounds made by the feet, often guiding them aright by recalling certain peculiarities of sound—whether the ground is hollow, whether the sidewalk is of board or cement, and whether there is a depression here or a raised place there. I often wonder how deaf-blind people walk as well as they do, when they can not hear their footfalls. I find walking much more difficult when on a crowded thoroughfare, or when passing a planing mill or boiler factory.

The last of the trio of senses whose development compensates in large measure for the want of eyesight, is that of smell. Through this sense, the child comes very close to the heart of Nature. Of course, the ear is charmed by the song of birds, the hum of insects, the murmur of wind in the trees, or the sound of mighty waters. Through the finger-tips, he learns the shape and size of each flower and shrub and tree, traces the delicate pattern of ferns, notes wonderful rock formations, and finds the first blade of tender grass coaxed to the surface by the warmth of the Spring sunshine. But all this does not bring him the keen pleasure he experiences when he inhales the fragrance of the rose, the perfume of flowers with the dew still upon them, the smell of the freshly turned earth, the newly cut grass, or the blossom laden trees. In the case of Helen Keller, the olfactory nerves have been cultivated to a very high degree, and through this sense she is often able to recognize her friends. A little blind boy once told me that each member of his family had a distinct odor, by which he could tell things worn by them, or books they had handled. Laura Bridgeman is said to have selected the laundry of the pupils in her school by this unusual process. I frequently astonish my friends by telling them when I pass a drug store or hospital, a grocery, a confectioner's, or drygoods store, a paint shop, a florist's stand, or a livery stable. I do not think the blind have a keener sense of taste than any other class of people, although this claim is often made, even by the blind themselves.

We have, then, the senses of hearing, touch and smell, each playing its part in the development of the blind child, and each playing it so well that the lack of eyesight is not keenly felt in early childhood. Not until it is old enough to understand the thoughtless remarks of well-meaning people, to catch the pitying tone, to feel the compassionate touch, does it realize that this lack of eyesight is to prove an almost insurmountable barrier to its future success.

I was in my sixth year before I understood the meaning of the word "blind." Up to that time, I had romped and played with other children, climbed trees, jumped ditches, accepting bumps and bruises as part of the game, and having no sense of fear, since some child always held my hand. In fact, in those days, all the children held each other's hands, and it was easier going, so. Is it not a pity that, in later life, we feel so self-reliant we are unwilling to admit that the way could often be made easier if we resorted to the childish game of holding hands, and moved forward together as we faced the more serious struggles of life. My first realization of the meaning of blindness came when, one day, after hearing some people call me "poor child," and expressing their sympathy to my mother, I asked if we were very poor, poorer than my playmates, and why I could not go to school. My mother explained that we were no poorer than the others, that the ladies did not mean it in that way, but were sorry that I could not see and did not think I could ever go to school. But my mother assured me that I was going to school, and that there I would learn to see with my fingers, better than the ladies did with their eyes. My childish mind was aroused then, and I asked every one what it meant to see, and soon realized that I did not know what "seeing" really was, at least, not in the sense the other children used the word. I was filled with wonder, since my world had hitherto seemed so complete—I heard things, or felt things, or smelled things, and was satisfied—and yet there was another medium of knowledge entirely unknown to me, and until then unnecessary. How eagerly I looked forward to the time when I should learn to see and my heart was filled with childish rapture on the day when I entered the school for the blind at Berkeley. My first question, on meeting the Superintendent, was, "are you going to teach me to see?" How well he performed this task, how wisely he guided my childish feet, how carefully he developed my eager mind, stimulated my ambition, and renewed my faltering courage, I did not realize until I was called upon to face life, with its trials and opportunities. And here, where his work is so well known, I wish to pay my tribute of love and gratitude to Dr. Warring Wilkinson. He was my great-hearted, great-souled teacher, father and friend.

When I found myself in a place with children some of whom were, like myself, blind from infancy, and others whose eyesight had been lost through various accidents, and yet others who could see to go about, to tell the color of our ribbons, and advise us of the approach of a matron or teacher my wonder grew apace. This process of learning to see was varied and absorbing, but I soon found that it had its limitations, and that, after all, eyes were very useful possessions, and without them I could know nothing of color, could not picture the sky, or any of the heavenly bodies; nor could I distinguish different people, unless I heard their voices or steps, though no two had faces alike. I found, too, that some children who could see colors, could not recognize faces, and I came to realize that vision, however slight, was greatly to be desired. I could distinguish light from darkness, and this enabled me to locate doors and windows; but color, with its varying shades, was then, and is now, a mystery profound. But in my desire to see, to be just like other children, I resolved to learn all I could about color, and so I memorized the list of colors, which ones harmonized, which were most pleasing to the eye, which were bright, which produced a sombre impression. Thus I soon learned to speak of color with a degree of intelligence, and to select my gowns with a view to pleasing the eyes of my friends. I soon learned to associate certain phrases with certain colors—for instance, blue as the sky, green as grass, yellow as gold, black as night, red as fire, and brown as a berry. I also learned that a color had a variety of shades, and that at times colors were changeable, it being difficult to distinguish blue from green at night. The sky, with its starred phenomena, was even harder to conceive, and I could not understand how clouds obscured the sun, or how old Sol could put the blackest clouds to rout.

My