Thewinterof1892wasdarkeheonecloudinmychildhohtsky.Joydesertedmyheart,andforalong,longtimeIlivedindoubt,ayandfear.Bookslosttheircharmforme,andevennowthethoughtofthosedreadfuldayschillsmyheart.Alittlestorycalled"TheFrostKing,"whichIwroteaoMr.Anagnos,ofthePerkinsInstitutionfortheBlind,wasattherootofthetrouble.Iomakethematterclear,Imustsetforththefactsectedwiththisepisode,whichjustiyteacherandtomyselfpelsmetorelate.

    IwrotethestorywhenIwasathome,theautumnafterIhadlearospeak.WehadstayedupatFernQuarrylaterthanusual.Whilewewerethere,MissSullivanhaddescribedtomethebeautiesofthelatefoliage,anditseemsthatherdescriptionsrevivedthememoryofastory,whichmusthavebeeome,andwhichImusthaveunsciouslyretaihoughtthenthatIwas"makingupastory,"aschildrensay,andIeagerlysatdowntowriteitbeforetheideasshouldslipfromme.Mythoughtsflowedeasily;Ifeltasenseofjoyintheposition.Wordsandimagescametrippingtomyfingerends,andasIthoughtoutsenteersentence,Iwrotethemonmybrailleslate.Now,ifwordsandimagesetomewithouteffort,itisaprettysuresignthattheyarenottheoffspringofmyownmind,butstraywaifsthatIregretfullydismiss.AtthattimeIeagerlyabsorbedeverythingIreadwithoutathoughtofauthorship,andevennowIotbequitesureoftheboundaryliweenmyideasandthoseIfindinbooks.Isupposethatisbecausesomanyofmyimpressionsetomethroughthemediumofotherseyesandears.

    Wheorywasfinished,Ireadittomyteacher,andIreowvividlythepleasureIfeltinthemorebeautifulpassages,andmyannoyabeinginterruptedtohavethepronunciationofawordc