I shall never forget the time I approached a table and launched into my guaranteed-applause getter, The Magic Square, when to my surprise I ascertained that the little girl for whom I was demonstrating the many astounding ways that columns of numbers could be added was, in fact, blind. Thinking quickly, I wadded up the paper I was writing on, let her feel it, then went into Slydini's Paper Balls Over The Head. With each successive vanish she became more and more perplexed, and the harder her family laughed at her. Soon total strangers at the restaurant had pulled their chairs closer just to watch. Tears of frustration began to trickle down the child's cheek, an obvious sign that I was truly nailing her to the wall. Since I'd done it so many times I handed the next paper wad to her father and brother, both who executed the move flawlessly and left the girl even more bewildered. Taking a bigger chance, I asked the girl to gently place the ball between the teeth of her seeing eye dog and keep her finger on it. One well timed chop to the dog's back and the ball shot backwards down its throat, feeling to the girl as if the ball vanished while she was touching it. Her father and brother then helped me lift the dog and fling it over her head as well, seeming to her that her dog had also instantly vanished. "And he's never, ever coming back again," I quipped as I bowed and made my exit. The postscript to this wonderful story is that years later I got a letter from the girl, which since I don't read braille is meaningless to me, but what touched me was that also enclosed in the package were both of her eyes, which she'd clawed out of her head in frustration and disgust.