ration, travelling back and forth along a wooden surface,
brings me the information that he is using a plane.

A slight flutter on the rug tells me that a breeze has blown my papers
off the table. A round thump is a signal that a pencil has rolled on the
floor. If a book falls, it gives a flat thud. A wooden rap on the
balustrade announces that dinner is ready. Many of these vibrations are
obliterated out of doors. On a lawn or the road, I can feel only
running, stamping, and the rumble of wheels.

By placing my hand on a person's lips and throat, I gain an idea of many
specific vibrations, and interpret them: a boy's chuckle, a man's
"Whew!" of surprise, the "Hem!" of annoyance or perplexity, the moan of
pain, a scream, a whisper, a rasp, a sob, a choke, and a gasp. The
utterances of animals, though wordless, are eloquent to me--the cat's
purr, its mew, its angry, jerky, scolding spit; the dog's bow-wow of
warning or of joyous welcome, its yelp of despair, and its contented
snore; the cow's moo; a monkey's chatter; the snort of a horse; the
lion's roar, and the terrible snarl of the tiger. Perhaps I ought to
add, for the benefit of the critics and doubters who may peruse this
essay, that with my own hands I have felt all these sounds. From my
childhood to the present day I have availed myself of every opportunity
to visit zoological gardens, menageries, and the circus, and all the
animals, except the tiger, have talked into my hand. I have touched the
tiger only in a museum, where he is as harmless as a lamb. I have,
however, heard him talk by putting my hand on the bars of his cage. I
have touched several lions in the flesh, and felt them roar royally,
like a cataract over rocks.

To continue, I know the _plop_ of liquid in a pitcher. So if I spill my
milk, I have not the excuse of ignorance. I am also familiar with the
pop of a cork, the sputter of a flame, the tick-tack of the clock, the
metallic swing of the windmill, the laboured rise and fall of the pump,
the voluminous spurt of the hose, the deceptive tap of the breeze at
door and window, and many other vibrations past computing.

There are tactual vibrations which do not belong to skin-touch. They
penetrate the skin, the nerves, the bones, like pain, heat, and cold.
The beat of a drum smites me through from the chest to the
shoulder-blades. The din of the train, the bridge, and grinding
machinery retains its "old-man-of-the-sea" grip upon me long after its