And Harlow opened his eyes, expecting to see a picture which could never be erased from memory. There were the dead bodies on the grass before him in the lantern light. There were three big skunks with more than the usual amount of white about their faces and backs! Harlow gazed at them, and his paralyzed mind slowly came back to normal working order. And then the light came. He had not taken part in any family feud. No one had tried to kill him. The people of that section were as kindly neighbors as any he had ever had in Boston. For some weeks the skunks had been stealing chickens, and the family had organized this successful defense. It was not the white face of a man that John had seen in the tangled grass, but the white head and back of a skunk. He was not a murderer—he was only a skunk-killer! Most deaf men go through these “adventures in silence.” Many of them are not particularly thrilling, but they are sometimes exciting enough to let the imagination run away with us. In what follows I shall try to make it clear that most of our fears are imaginary—thin ghosts, stuffed lions, scarecrows (or skunks!) which stand beside the road to frighten us. For the deaf should know from experience that the only safety in life is to _go on_, no matter what dangers croakers or cowards may predict just around the curve. CHAPTER II ON THE ROAD TO SILENCE The Nature of the Journey to the Silent Country—Substitutes for Perfect Silence—Sounds of Nature Companionable—The Direct Attack—“Just As I am”—Compensation in Idealized Memories—“Cut Out the Bitterness”—Reasons for Writing the Book—A Matter of Point of View, Concerning John Armstrong’s Possessions. I think life has given me a certificate which qualifies me to act as guide and interpreter on the journey to the Silent Land. For forty years I have been traveling along the road to silence. I have seen some unfortunate people who were suddenly deprived of their hearing, as it seemed without warning. Fate did not give them even a chance to prepare for the death of sound. It was as if some cruel hand had suddenly dragged them into a prison, a form of living death through which the poor bewildered wretches must wander aimlessly until they could in some feeble way adjust themselves to the new conditions which we shall find in the world of silence. Happily my journey was not made in that way. I have wandered slowly and gently along the road, each year coming a little nearer to silence, yet working on so easily and unobtrusively that the way has not seemed hard and rough. I know every step of the road, and I can point out the landmarks as we pass along. You may be compelled to travel over the same route alone some day. Perhaps your feet are upon it even now, unknown to you. Take my advice and notice the milestones as you pass them.