THE WORLD BEYOND OUR SENSES 



THE world wherein lives Helen Keller would seem 

 to us, translated there, singular enough. In her 

 world floats no sound ; the rustle of the forest, the 

 roar of the cataract, the harmonies of Wagner, 

 the magic of the spoken word enlist no thrill. 

 Dawn and dusk, days and seasons are alike. The 

 glory of the summer, the bourgeoning of the spring, 

 the colors of October are known to her only through 

 dim changes in the warmth of her skin. The places 

 of the earth are all the same, the desert or the 

 crowded Strand. Bagdad and the Yosemite differ 

 for her only in their smell. Save for the reports of 

 those around her, of the living world she knows 

 little and could learn little more. 



And we, dowered with the seeing eye and the 

 listening ear, have pity for this stricken girl. Slight- 

 ly we realize that in some sense we are all Helen 

 Kellers, and that ours, too, is a Helen Keller world. 

 Suppose, by some magic, our eyes might be opened 

 so that we could see the filmy waves of light which 

 reflect for us the landscape and the morning sky, 



