person to tell when he is passing tall buildings, fences, trees, and many other obstructions. Mr. Hawkes says: "The sixth sense, if such it be, probably depends upon three conditions--sound, the compression of the air, and whether the face be free to use its sensitive feelers. This subject is still in its infancy, and time may reveal many interesting facts concerning it; but for our purpose it is enough that the blind have a sense of obstacles, and let us regard it as another proof that we are wonderfully made and divinely led." In a surprisingly short time, the blind adult becomes accustomed to the new conditions, the various organs perform their new functions, and he finds life in sightless land to be, in many respects, very like life in that world of light and color, now only a memory. But a very living memory--enabling him to recall the faces of his friends, the glow of sunset, or the rosy light of dawn with the eye of the mind whose vision is keener, clearer than mere physical sight. This ability to call up mental pictures is yet another of the compensations, and these pictures never fade, but come, when familiar scenes or objects are suggested. The adult is deeply interested in form and color, and likes to have them minutely described. This fact is not well understood by sighted friends, and so the blind are often deprived of details which would give them keenest pleasure, because friends fear to recall painful memories. In this connection, and by way of conclusion, I shall give a poem written by one of our pupils, who lost his eyes when a drummer boy in the Civil War. This man learned to read raised type after being blind fifty-three years. His poem follows: A BLIND MAN'S SOLILOQUY. What, then, is blindness? This and nothing more: The window blinds are closed, the outer door Close shut and bolted, and the curtains drawn. No more comes light of stars nor morning's dawn, Nor one lone ray from day's meridian light. And men pass by and say "within is night!" Not so; for Memory's lamp, with steady blaze, Shines on the hallowed scenes of other days, While Fancy's torch, prophetic, flashing through The vistas of the future, brings to view Scenes passing strange, but scenes that yet shall be, Which I can see, but which he can not see Whose dazzled orbs find nothing hid away Beyond the brilliant margin of today. To me the radiant world forever gleams With the rich halo of my boyish dreams; The faces I have loved no wrinkles know; My dear ones' eyes ne'er lose their cherished glow; The hair of gold ne'er turns to silver hair; The young are young, the fair are always fair.