so full was it of joy.


April 10, 1887.

I see an improvement in Helen day to day, almost from hour to
hour. Everything must have a name now. Wherever we go, she asks
eagerly for the names of things she has not learned at home. She
is anxious for her friends to spell, and eager to teach the
letters to every one she meets. She drops the signs and pantomime
she used before, as soon as she has words to supply their place,
and the acquirement of a new word affords her the liveliest
pleasure. And we notice that her face grows more expressive each
day.

I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO TRY TO HAVE REGULAR LESSONS FOR THE
PRESENT. I AM GOING TO TREAT HELEN EXACTLY LIKE A TWO-YEAR-OLD
CHILD. IT OCCURRED TO ME THE OTHER DAY THAT IT IS ABSURD TO
REQUIRE A CHILD TO COME TO A CERTAIN PLACE AT A CERTAIN TIME AND
RECITE CERTAIN LESSONS, WHEN HE HAS NOT YET ACQUIRED A WORKING
VOCABULARY. I sent Helen away and sat down to think. I asked
myself, "How does a normal child learn language?" The answer was
simple, "By imitation." The child comes into the world with the
ability to learn, and he learns of himself, provided he is
supplied with sufficient outward stimulus. He sees people do
things, and he tries to do them. He hears others speak, and he
tried to speak. BUT LONG BEFORE HE UTTERS HIS FIRST WORD, HE
UNDERSTANDS WHAT IS SAID TO HIM. I have been observing Helen's
little cousin lately. She is about fifteen months old, and
already understands a great deal. In response to questions she