Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of
looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes.
Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as
good as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind
through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things!
How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might
be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He has
spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How many
walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their
neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration!

The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leaf
was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knew
every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how.
More than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her
the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was
with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether
the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice.

Another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures
living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." Not a cat
or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a
single call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her
wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice
quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and
that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vesta
said, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." But
Miss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touch
of her thin, kind old hand.