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……（内容加载失败！）
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