ulp, is as important to the journalist as a
knowledge of anatomy to the figure painter.

I went over it a second time before I handed it back to him as the best
I could do. I had plucked the fatted column to a lean quarter of that
length, yet I trembled and sweated.

"Bah!" he cried, scoring it with a pencil, which sped as dexterously as
a surgeon's knife. "Read it now. Have I omitted anything essential?"

He had not; only the verbiage had gone. All that was worthy of
preservation remained in what the printer calls a "stickful." That was
my first lesson in journalism.

HELEN ADAMS KELLER

(1880-____)

HOW SHE LEARNED TO SPEAK

When nineteen months old Helen Keller was stricken with an illness
which robbed her of both sight and hearing. The infant that is blind
and deaf is of course dumb also, for being unable to see or hear the
speech of others, the child cannot learn to imitate it.

Despite her enormous handicaps, Miss Keller to-day is a college
graduate, a public speaker, and the author of several charming books.
It need scarcely be explained that this miracle was not wrought by
self-help alone. But if she had not striven with all her might to
respond to the efforts of her devoted teacher, Miss Keller would not
to-day be mistress of the unusual talent for literary expression which
makes her contributions sure of a welcome in the columns of the leading
magazines.

From "The Story of My Life," by Helen Keller. Published by Doubleday,
Page & Co.

The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my
teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder
when I consider the immeasurable contrast between the two lives which
it connects. It was the third of March; 1887, three months before I
was seven years old.

On the afternoon of that eventful day I stood on the porch, dumb,
expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother's signs and from the
hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to
happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon
sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell
on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the
familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the
sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel
or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me
continually for weeks, and a deep languor had