make when they try to express their half-formed ideas by means of
arbitrary language. She has the true language-impulse, and shows
great fertility of resource in making the words at her command
convey her meaning.

Lately she has been much interested in colour. She found the word
"brown" in her primer and wanted to know its meaning. I told her
that her hair was brown, and she asked, "Is brown very pretty?"
After we had been all over the house, and I had told her the
colour of everything she touched, she suggested that we go to the
hen-houses and barns; but I told her she must wait until another
day because I was very tired. We sat in the hammock; but there
was no rest for the weary there. Helen was eager to know "more
colour." I wonder if she has any vague idea of colour--any
reminiscent impression of light and sound. It seems as if a child
who could see and hear until her nineteenth month must retain
some of her first impressions, though ever so faintly. Helen
talks a great deal about things that she cannot know of through
the sense of touch. She asks many questions about the sky, day
and night, the ocean and mountains. She likes to have me tell her
what I see in pictures.

But I seem to have lost the thread of my discourse. "What colour
is think?" was one of the restful questions she asked, as we
swung to and fro in the hammock. I told her that when we are
happy our thoughts are bright, and when we are naughty they are
sad. Quick as a flash she said, "My think is white, Viney's think
is black." You see, she had an idea that the colour of our
thoughts matched that of our skin. I couldn't help laughing, for
at that very moment Viney was shouting at the top of her voice: