Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. "Nothing in particular," she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

 

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy¹ of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere² touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch,or the rough shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening³ Nature after her winter's sleep I feel the delightful⁴, velvety⁵ texture⁶ of a flower, and discover its remarkable⁷ convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently in a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have cool waters of a brook⁸ rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious⁹ Persian rug. To me the pageant¹⁰ of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips. At times my heart cries out with longing¹¹ to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently¹² see little. The panorama¹³ of color and action fill the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light and the gift of sight is used only as mere convenience rather that as a means of adding fullness to life.

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