The winter of 1892 was darkened by the one cloud in my childhoods bright sky. Joy deserted my heart, and for a long, long time I lived in doubt, ay and fear. Books lost their charm for me, and even now the thought of those dreadful days chills my heart. A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote ao Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble. In order to make the matter clear, I must set forth the facts ected with this episode, which justiy teacher and to myself pels me to relate.
I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learo speak. We had stayed up at Fern Quarry later than usual. While we were there, Miss Sullivan had described to me the beauties of the late foliage, and it seems that her descriptions revived the memory of a story, which must have beeo me, and which I must have unsciously retained. I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me. My thoughts flowed easily; I felt a sense of joy in the position. Words and images came tripping to my finger ends, and as I thought out senteer sentence, I wrote them on my braille slate. Now, if words and images e to me without effort, it is a pretty sure sign that they are not the offspring of my own mind, but stray waifs that I regretfully dismiss. At that time I eagerly absorbed everything I read without a thought of authorship, and even now I ot be quite sure of the boundary liween my ideas and those I find in books. I suppose that is because so many of my impressions e to me through the medium of others eyes and ears.
Wheory was finished, I read it to my teacher, and I recall now vividly the pleasure I felt in the more beautiful passages, and my annoya being interrupted to have the pronunciation of a word corrected. At di was read to the assembled family, who were surprised that I could write so well. Some one asked me if I had read it in a book.
This question surprised me very much; for I had not the fai recolle of having had it read to me. I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos.」
Accly I copied the story a it to him for his birthday. It was suggested that I should ge the title from "Autumn Leaves" to "The Frost King," which I did. I carried the little story to the post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air. I little dreamed how cruelly I should pay for that birthday gift.
Mr. Anagnos was delighted with "The Frost King," and published it in one of the Perkins Institutios.
This was the pinnay happiness, from which I was in a little while dashed to earth. I had been in Boston only a short time when it was discovered that a story similar to "The Frost King," called "The Frost Fairies" by Miss Margaret T. by, had appeared before I was born in a book called "Birdie and His Friends." The two stories were so much alike in thought and language that it was evident Miss bys story had beeo me, and that mine was--a plagiarism. It was difficult to make me uand this; but when I did uand I was astonished and grieved. No child ever drank deeper of the cup of bitterhan I did. I had disgraced myself; I had brought suspi upon those I loved best. A how could it possibly have happened? I racked my brain until I was weary to recall anything about the frost that I had read before I wrote "The Frost King"; but I could remember nothing, except the on ref