Two nights later I sat on the bench by the camp stove drying my clothes after another day in the wet snow. At the moment when I was remembering that curious watch-dog habit of my bunk-mate’s the door suddenly opened and two men entered. One was the sheriff of a county in the lower tier, near the Ohio line; the other was also armed. They were after my bunk-mate—too late. “What’s it for?” asked the foreman. “Murder, I reckon. He quarreled with his wife and hit her with an axe.” And to this day I wonder what would have happened to me in the woods if I had heard what he said. Deaf persons undoubtedly come to be really troublesome to many kindly and essentially generous men and women. I have never been able to understand the feeling; perhaps it resembles the creepy terror which the touch or the sight of a cat arouses in some persons. At any rate I have been introduced to people who are unmistakably afraid of me. They cross the street to avoid a face-to-face encounter. I think they would not dare to walk alone with me at night. I have come to realize that a fair proportion of the human beings I meet are actually afraid of me, or uncomfortable in my presence until I in some way make them understand that I will not annoy them, or that I have a message for them which can be delivered by no one else. Some deaf people live tormented by the thought that society rejects them, or at best merely tolerates them. They would be far happier to admit frankly that they are not as other men, and realize that there is no reason why the world should give them special accommodation. They should rather seek to acquire original personality or power which would make them so luminous that the world would eagerly follow them. This is possible in some way for every deaf person. It is our best hope. One of the finest men I ever knew told me frankly that two classes of people make him shudder; men belonging to the Salvation Army, in uniform, and deaf persons, trying to hear. This friend is a thoroughly sincere clergyman, with a leaning toward the full dignity of the cloth. The Salvation Army came to his town, and being charitably disposed toward the workers, he attended one of their meetings. Greatly to his embarrassment the captain called in a loud voice for Brother Johnson to pray. The clergyman started in the formal manner but at the first period he was greeted with a loud chorus—“_Amen, brother!_” While the drummer pounded on his drum and clashed his brass. My friend still suffers from the shock. His feeling for the deaf may be traced to Aunt Sallie. At the bedside of a sick friend he was asked to pray. Before he could even start, Aunt Sallie, very deaf but anxious to miss nothing, planted herself so close as to place her ear about six inches from his mouth. I do not wonder that this man will cross the street at the approach of deafness or a uniformed Salvation Army officer.