For lip-reading one must have good eyes and a quick brain. Some of us deaf become proficient in the use of the science, and I think its practice will extend and become far more general. I have some little knowledge of it, though I have not made it a prolonged study. It would be difficult for me to explain exactly why I have not studied the science more carefully. For many years my aurist told me that my great hope for holding such hearing as I had was to force myself to listen, even though I could get little of conversation. He thought that the constant use of instruments or of lip-reading would weaken and finally destroy my limited natural hearing, so that in time I should forget how to listen and hear. This advice was, no doubt, good, though if I were to go through life again I should make a thorough study of lip-reading, anyway. In fact, I once started seriously enough, but was switched away by a curious and disheartening discovery. I began practicing on the train, studying intently the faces of men and women, trying to take their words from their lips. Next to the ability to read thought comes for interest and excitement the power of interpreting ordinary conversation when the speaker has no thought of betraying his communications to outsiders. I succeeded only too well with one man. I had always supposed him to be a person of high character, and had been wont to envy the recipients of his conversation. I finally was able to read his lips, only to find that all of his talk was trivial, and some of it filthy beyond expression. I, in my silence, busy with my gleanings from good literature, had fancied that my companions were using a gift priceless to me, and denied, for what we may honestly call “the glory of God.” My little essay into lip-reading was thus discouraged; it seemed suddenly a waste of time. Youth is probably the best time for studying lip-reading, when the spirit for riding down obstacles and discouragements is stronger.
The inexplicable sixth sense—a sort of intuition which we deaf acquire—appears to be even stronger in afflicted animals than in men. Sometimes it leads to an amusing outcome. In a certain New England State a law was passed prohibiting exports of quail, and a well-informed scientist was put in charge of it. He knew all about the habits of quail, but little about the practical side of legal enforcement. He made a tour through the State to consult with his deputies, and in one locality he found a rough old farmer serving as game warden; an independent old fellow, very deaf, most opinionated, with small respect for professional knowledge. His constant companion was a little mongrel dog, also very deaf. A strange silent combination they made, but they carried a State-wide reputation for “spotting quail.”
The clash came at the railroad station, where the professor was waiting for his train, completely disgusted with the appearance and general attitude of the warden. The latter came slouching along the platform with the small brown dog at his heels, and the face of the learned man became as a book, in which the countryman could “read strange matters.” The deaf are prompt to act when action seems necessary or desirable. They do not join in useless preliminaries. Quickly and decisively the game warden opened the campaign.
“You’re going home to fire me, but before you leave I want to tell you before this crowd that you don’t know as much about this business as my dog Jack does. He’s deaf, too!”
There are few situations more damaging to dignity than a public argument with an angry deaf person—especially when the participator with good ears is a polished gentleman and ladies are present. Again, some men might appreciate the compliment of being associated with a large, noble-looking dog. But the professor glanced at Jack and fully realized the size of the insult. Here was just a little brown dog of no particular breed, with one ear upright and the other lying limp, evidence of previous injury in a fight. How was the professor to know that because the outer door of those ears was shut the brain had been forced to greater activity. And here was a shambling backwoodsman telling a Ph.D. that this disreputable creature was his mental superior! The professor was too indignant for words, but the game warden was ready to continue:
“I’ll prove it! I’ll prove it right here. There’s a shipment of quail going out of this town right now. Right on this platform are three farmers, an old woman with a basket, two drummers with bags, old man Edwards with a trunk, and that young woman with a fiddle case. Who’s got the quail? Here’s a case where it don’t do us no good to know how many eggs a quail lays or how many potato bugs she has in her gizzard. Who’s got the quail? Can you tell?”
“Why,” gasped the indignant professor, “do you suppose I am going to insult this young woman by intimating that she is a quail runner? And these gentlemen? It’s preposterous!”
“It is, hey? Give it up, do ye? Well, we’ll try Jack. He can’t hear nothing, but his ears have went to nose. Sic ’em, Jack!” And he snapped his fingers at the little dog.
Jack put up his one capable ear and trotted along the platform, applying his scarred nose to each package. He sniffed at the bags of the drummers, nosed the trunk and the baskets, and finally came to the violin case of the beautiful young woman. The instant his nose touched that case every hair on Jack’s back stood erect and that broken ear came as near to rising as it ever had done since the fight. Jack was undoubtedly “pointing” at the hiding-place of the quail. In spite of the young woman’s protest, the warden opened the case, and inside were thirteen quail, snugly packed. Probably the lady could not even play the “Rogue’s March” on a real violin.
And the farmer strode up triumphantly to the professor. Shaking a long forefinger, he stated an evident truth.