ave 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,