John was a seedling, rooted in one of those Vermont hill farms. The Psalmist tells of a man who is like “a tree planted by the rivers of water”; such a tree puts its roots down until it becomes well-nigh impossible to pull them out of the earth. There had been a mortgage howling at the Armstrong door for generations. Not much beside family pride can be grown on these hillsides, and John would have spent his life cultivating it to the end, if his lungs hadn’t given out. The country doctor put it to him straight; it was stay on the hills and die, or go to the Western desert and probably live. In some way the love of life proved strongest. John bequeathed his share of the family pride to brother Henry and went to Arizona. There he lost the use of one lung, but filled his pockets with money. He secured a great tract of desert land, and one day the engineers turned the course of a mountain stream and spread it over John’s land. At home in Vermont the little streams tumbled down hill, played with a few mill wheels, gave drink to a few cows and sheep, and played on until they reached the river, to be finally lost in the ocean. In Arizona the river caused the desert to bloom with Alfalfa, and wheat, and orchards, thus turning the sand to gold.
And one day John stood on the mountain with his friends and looked over the glowing country, all his—wealth uncounted. All his! Worth an entire county of Vermont, so his friends told him.
“You should be a happy man,” they said, “with all that wealth and power taken from the sand. A happy man—what more can you ask?”
“I know it,” said John. “I know it—and yet, in spite of it all, right face to face with all this wealth, I’d give the whole darned country for just one week in that Vermont pasture in June!”
And so, unmolested in my world of silence, free from chatter and small talk, able to concentrate my mind on strong books, I look across to the idle gossipers and know just how John Armstrong felt. I would give up all this restful calm if I could only hear my boy play his violin, if I could only hear little Rose when she comes to say good-night, if I could only hear that bird which they say is singing to her young in yonder tree.
CHAPTER III
Head Noises and Subjective Audition.
Head Noises—The Quality Probably Depends on the Memory of Sounds Heard in Youth—The Sea and the Church Bells—“Voices” and Subjective Audition—Insanity and the Unseen—The Rich Dream-Life of the Deaf.
Deafness is not even complete silence, for we must frequently listen to head noises, which vary from gentle whispering to wild roars or hideous bellowing. There is little other physical discomfort usually, though some exceptional cases are associated with headache or neuralgia. There is, however, an annoying pressure upon the ears, which is greatly increased by excitement, depression or extreme fatigue. Unseen hands appear to be pressing in at either side of the head. The actual noises are peculiar to the individual in both quantity and quality; there are cases of the “boiler-maker’s disease,” where the head is filled with a hammering which keeps time with the pulse. I have known people to be amazed at the “uncontrolled fury” of the deaf when their anger is fully aroused—perhaps by something which seems trivial enough. They do not realize how a sudden quickening of the heart action may start a great army of furies to shouting and smashing in the deaf man’s brain!