Martha Washington had as great a love of mischief as I. Two
little children were seated on the veranda steps one hot July
afternoon. One was black as ebony, with little bunches of fuzzy
hair tied with shoestrings sticking out all over her head like
corkscrews. The other was white, with long golden curls. One
child was six years old, the other two or three years older. The
younger child was blind--that was I--and the other was Martha
Washington. We were busy cutting out paper dolls; but we soon
wearied of this amusement, and after cutting up our shoestrings
and clipping all the leaves off the honeysuckle that were within
reach, I turned my attention to Martha's corkscrews. She objected
at first, but finally submitted. Thinking that turn and turn
about is fair play, she seized the scissors and cut off one of my
curls, and would have cut them all off but for my mother's timely
interference.

Belle, our dog, my other companion, was old and lazy and liked to
sleep by the open fire rather than to romp with me. I tried hard
to teach her my sign language, but she was dull and inattentive.
She sometimes started and quivered with excitement, then she
became perfectly rigid, as dogs do when they point a bird. I did
not then know why Belle acted in this way; but I knew she was not
doing as I wished. This vexed me and the lesson always ended in a
one-sided boxing match. Belle would get up, stretch herself
lazily, give one or two contemptuous sniffs, go to the opposite
side of the hearth and lie down again, and I, wearied and
disappointed, went off in search of Martha.

Many incidents of those early years are fixed in my memory,