radiant with intelligence and pleasure. Her hair, braided by her
own hands, was bound about a head, whose intellectual capacity and
development were beautifully expressed in its graceful outline, and
its broad open brow; her dress, arranged by herself, was a pattern
of neatness and simplicity; the work she had knitted, lay beside
her; her writing-book was on the desk she leaned upon. - From the
mournful ruin of such bereavement, there had slowly risen up this
gentle, tender, guileless, grateful-hearted being.

Like other inmates of that house, she had a green ribbon bound
round her eyelids. A doll she had dressed lay near upon the
ground. I took it up, and saw that she had made a green fillet
such as she wore herself, and fastened it about its mimic eyes.

She was seated in a little enclosure, made by school-desks and
forms, writing her daily journal. But soon finishing this pursuit,
she engaged in an animated conversation with a teacher who sat
beside her. This was a favourite mistress with the poor pupil. If
she could see the face of her fair instructress, she would not love
her less, I am sure.

I have extracted a few disjointed fragments of her history, from an
account, written by that one man who has made her what she is. It
is a very beautiful and touching narrative; and I wish I could
present it entire.

Her name is Laura Bridgman. 'She was born in Hanover, New
Hampshire, on the twenty-first of December, 1829. She is described
as having been a very sprightly and pretty infant, with bright blue
eyes. She was, however, so puny and feeble until she was a year