May 16, 1887.

We have begun to take long walks every morning, immediately after
breakfast. The weather is fine, and the air is full of the scent
of strawberries. Our objective point is Keller's Landing, on the
Tennessee, about two miles distant. We never know how we get
there, or where we are at a given moment; but that only adds to
our enjoyment, especially when everything is new and strange.
Indeed, I feel as if I had never seen anything until now, Helen
finds so much to ask about along the way. We chase butterflies,
and sometimes catch one. Then we sit down under a tree, or in the
shade of a bush, and talk about it. Afterwards, if it has
survived the lesson, we let it go; but usually its life and
beauty are sacrificed on the altar of learning, though in another
sense it lives forever; for has it not been transformed into
living thoughts? It is wonderful how words generate ideas! Every
new word Helen learns seems to carry with it necessity for many
more. Her mind grows through its ceaseless activity.

Keller's Landing was used during the war to land troops, but has
long since gone to pieces, and is overgrown with moss and weeds.
The solitude of the place sets one dreaming. Near the landing
there is a beautiful little spring, which Helen calls
"squirrel-cup," because I told her the squirrels came there to
drink. She has felt dead squirrels and rabbits and other wild
animals, and is anxious to see a "walk-squirrel," which
interpreted, means, I think, a "live squirrel." We go home about
dinner-time usually, and Helen is eager to tell her mother
everything she has seen. THIS DESIRE TO REPEAT WHAT HAS BEEN TOLD
HER SHOWS A MARKED ADVANCE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF HER INTELLECT,