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PART FOUR

THE winter of 1892 was darkened by the one cloud in my chidhood's bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, anxiety and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost-King" which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear I must set forth the facts connected with this most painful episode, which justice to my teacher and to myself compels me to relate.

When I wrote the story I was at home the autumn after I had learned to speak.

At Fern Quarry Miss Sullivan had been describing to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story which must have been read to me and which I had unconsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as the children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the composition. Words and images came tripping to my finger-ends, and as I thought out sentence after sentence I wrote them on my Braille slate.

When the story was finished I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoyance at being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At dinner it was read to the assembled family, who were greatly amazed that I could write so well. Someone asked me if I had read it in a book. This question surprised me very much, for I had not the faintest recollection of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh no, it is my story, and have written it for Mr. Anagnos." Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should change the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost-King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.

MR. ANAGNOS was delighted with "The Frost-King" and published it in one of the Perkins Institution reports. This was the pinnacle of my happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to the earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost-King," called "Frost-Fairies," by Miss Margaret T. Canby, had appeared before I was born. The two stories were so much alike in thought and language that it was evident that Miss Canby's story had been read to me, and that mine was -- a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me understand this; but when I did understand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterness than I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspicion upon those I loved best. And yet how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary, to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost-King," but I could remember nothing, except the common reference to Jack Frost, and a poem for children, "The Freaks of the Frost," and I knew I had not used that in my composition.

At first Mr. Anagnos, though deeply troubled, seemed to believe me. He was unusually tender and kind to me, and for a brief space the shadow lifted, revealing the splendor of love and trust and faith -- plants that bloom in the shady spots of our lives. To please him I tried not to be unhappy and to make myself as pretty as possible for the celebration of Washington's Birthday, which took place very soon after I received the sad news. I was to be "Ceres " in a kind of masque given by the blind girls. Ah, how well I remember the graceful draperies that enfolded me, the bright autumn leaves that wreathed my head, and the fruit and grain at my feet and in my hands, and beneath all the gayety and charm of the masque the oppressive sense of coming ill that chilled my heart.

The night before the celebration one of the teachers of the Institution had asked me a question connected with "The Frost-King," and I was telling her that Miss Sullivan had talked to me about Jack Frost and his wonderful works. Something I said made her think she detected in my words an acknowledgment that I did remember Miss Canby's story of the "Frost-Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.

Mr. Anagnos, who loved me tenderly, thinking that he had been deceived, turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of love and innocence. He believed that Miss Sullivan and I had deliberately stolen the bright thoughts of another and imposed them on him to win his admiration. I was brought before a court of investigation composed of the teachers and officers of the Institution, and Miss Sullivan was asked to leave me. Then I was questioned and cross-questioned with what seemed to me a determination on the part of my judges to force me to acknowledge that I remembered having had the "Frost-Fairies" read to me. I felt in every question the doubt and suspicion in their minds, and I felt, too, that a loved friend was looking at me coldly and reproachfully, although I could not have put all this into words. The blood pressed about my thumping heart, and I could scarcely speak, except in monosyllables. Even the consciousness that it was only a dreadful mistake did not lessen my suffering, and when at last I was allowed to leave the room I was dazed and did not notice my teacher's caresses, or the tender words of my friends.