In my own case these noises have not been greatly troublesome, since I have persistently refused to listen to them. It is not unlikely that they are largely imaginary—although you are free to experiment by taking a double dose of quinine, which should give you a fair imitation of what many deaf people live with. The chief noise trouble that I have had is a sort of low roaring or murmuring, at times rising to an angry bellow, and then again dying to a low muttering. The deaf usually remember common noises heard in their youth, although I fancy that as the years go on our memory of sound changes with them. My private demonstration reminds me of the old sound of the ocean, pounding on the shores of the seaport town in New England where I was born. It seems to me now that the ocean was never quiet, except at low tide, and even then there came a low growl from the bar far out at the harbor entrance. I can remember lying awake at night as a child, listening to the pounding of the surf or the lap of the waves against the wharf. With a gentle east wind there was a low, musical murmur, but when the wind rose and worked to the north it seemed to me like a giant smashing at the beach, or like a magnified version of the Autumn flails pounding on barn floors far back among the hills. It seems to me now that I can hear and distinguish all those variations of sound in the noises within my head; I have often wondered if such memories ever come to those who have perfect hearing. Poets and dreamers have enlarged upon the romantic quality of “the sad sea waves.” I once knew a woman who wrote very successful songs about the “shining sea,” though she never saw the ocean in her life. Those who live in the interior, far from the ocean, with never a view of any large body of water, are easily led to believe that the sounds of the sea are delightful companions. I often wish I could share my part of the performance with them! I would gladly exchange my constant sound companion for ten minutes of wind among the trees. Bryant says: “There is society, where none intrude, By the deep sea, and music in its roar.” True; but Bryant was not deaf. No doubt as a child he held a sea shell to his ear and listened to its murmuring with delight. _But he could lay it aside when it became tiresome!_ One speaks from quite another point of view when incased for life within the shell. I think I know just how the Apostle John felt when, looking out from every direction from his weary island, he saw only the blue, rolling water. He wrote as part of his conception of heaven: “There shall be no more sea!” I agree with him fully, and yet I know people whose conception of heaven includes Byron’s apostrophe to the ocean. How can we all be satisfied?