immediately the solid nature of a sculptured figure. When she was
at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston she stood on a step-ladder
and let both hands play over the statues. When she felt a
bas-relief of dancing girls she asked, "Where are the singers?"
When she found them she said, "One is silent." The lips of the
singer were closed.

It is, however, in her daily life that one can best measure the
delicacy of her senses and her manual skill. She seems to have
very little sense of direction. She gropes her way without much
certainty in rooms where she is quite familiar. Most blind people
are aided by the sense of sound, so that a fair comparison is
hard to make, except with other deaf-blind persons. Her dexterity
is not notable either in comparison with the normal person, whose
movements are guided by the eye, or, I am told, with other blind
people. She has practised no single constructive craft which
would call for the use of her hands. When she was twelve, her
friend Mr. Albert H. Munsell, the artist, let her experiment with
a wax tablet and a stylus. He says that she did pretty well and
managed to make, after models, some conventional designs of the
outlines of leaves and rosettes. The only thing she does which
requires skill with the hands is her work on the typewriter.
Although she has used the typewriter since she was eleven years
old, she is rather careful than rapid. She writes with fair speed
and absolute sureness. Her manuscripts seldom contain
typographical errors when she hands them to Miss Sullivan to
read. Her typewriter has no special attachments. She keeps the
relative position of the keys by an occasional touch of the
little finger on the outer edge of the board.