The weather is scorching. We need rain badly. We are all troubled
about Helen. She is very nervous and excitable. She is restless
at night and has no appetite. It is hard to know what to do with
her. The doctor says her mind is too active; but how are we to
keep her from thinking? She begins to spell the minute she wakes
up in the morning, and continues all day long. If I refuse to
talk to her, she spells into her own hand, and apparently carries
on the liveliest conversation with herself.

I gave her my braille slate to play with, thinking that the
mechanical pricking of holes in the paper would amuse her and
rest her mind. But what was my astonishment when I found that the
little witch was writing letters! I had no idea she knew what a
letter was. She has often gone with me to the post-office to mail
letters, and I suppose I have repeated to her things I wrote to
you. She knew, too, that I sometimes write "letters to blind
girls" on the slate; but I didn't suppose that she had any clear
idea what a letter was. One day she brought me a sheet that she
had punched full of holes, and wanted to put it in an envelope
and take it to the post-office. She said, "Frank--letter." I
asked her what she had written to Frank. She replied, "Much
words. Puppy motherdog--five. Baby--cry. Hot. Helen walk--no.
Sunfire--bad. Frank--come. Helen--kiss Frank. Strawberries--very
good."

Helen is almost as eager to read as she is to talk. I find she
grasps the import of whole sentences, catching from the context
the meaning of words she doesn't know; and her eager questions
indicate the outward reaching of her mind and its unusual powers.