How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note?
I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere 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 the spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud,
the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep I feel the delightful,
velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable 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 brook rush through my open fingers.
To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug.
To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.
At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things.
If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight.