The Process of Thought.

To treat the child’s mind as merely a harbourer of fancies, as completely subject to the illusive spell of its bright imagery, would be the grossest injustice. It is one of the reputable characteristics of childhood that it manages to combine with so much vivacity and force of imagination a perfectly grave matter-of-fact look-out on the actual world.

And here I should like to correct the common supposition that children are imaginative or observant of their surroundings, but not both. I have no doubt that there are many children who show a marked preponderance of the one or of the other tendency: there is the fanciful and dreamy child, and the matter-of-fact child with a tenacious grasp on the realities of things. I have but little doubt, too, that in the case of children who show the two tendencies, the one or the other is apt to preponderate at a certain stage of development: many boys, for example, have their dreamy period, and then become almost stolidly practical. All that I am concerned to make out here is that the two tendencies do co-exist, and as a number of parents have assured me may co-exist each in a high degree of intensity in the same child; the really intelligent children, boys as well as girls, being dispassionate and shrewd inquirers into the make of the actual world while ardently engaged in fashioning a brighter one.

The two tendencies belong to two moods, one of which may be regent for days together, though they often alternate with astonishing rapidity. More particularly the serious matter-of-fact mood readily passes, as if in relief from mental tension, into the playful fanciful one, as when the tiny student, deep in the stupendous lore of the spelling-book, suddenly dashes off to some fanciful conceit suggested by the ‘funny’ look of a particular word or letter.

The child not only observes but begins to reflect on what he observes, and does his best to understand the puzzling scene which meets his eye. And all this gives seriousness, a deep and admirable seriousness, to his attitude. So much is this the case that if we were called on to portray the typical mental posture of the child we might probably do so by drawing the erect little figure of a boy, as with widely open eye he gazes at some new wonder, or listens to some new report of his surroundings from a mother’s lips. Hence, one may forgive the touch of exaggeration when Mr. Bret Harte writes: “All those who have made a loving study of the young human animal will, I think, admit that its dominant expression is gravity and not playfulness”.^[37] We may now turn to this graver side of the young intelligence.

Here, again, I may as well say that I prefer to observe the phenomenon in its clearer and fuller manifestations, that is to say, to study the serious intelligence of the child in the most intelligent children, or at least in children whose minds are most active. This does not mean that we shall be on the look-out for precocious wisdom or priggish smartness. On the contrary, since it is childish intelligence as such that we are in search of, we shall take pains to avoid as far as possible any encounter with prodigies. By these I mean the unfortunate little people whose mental limbs have been twisted out of beautiful child-shape by the hands of those in whom the better instincts of the parent have been outweighed by the ambition of the showman. We shall seek more particularly for spontaneous openings of the mental flower under the warming rays of a true mother’s love, for confidential whisperings of child-thought to her ever-attentive and ever-tolerant ear.

In order fully to understand the serious work of childish intelligence, we ought to begin with a study of early observation. But I must pass by this interesting subject with only a remark or two.

Much has been written on the deeply concentrated all-absorbing scrutiny of things by the young eye. But to say how much an infant of nine months really sees when he fixes his wide eyes on some new object, is a matter of great uncertainty. What seems certain, is that the infant has to learn to see things, and very probably takes what seems to us an unnecessarily long time to see them at all completely.

We find when the child grows and can give an account of what he notes that his observation, while often surprisingly minute in particular directions, is highly restricted as to its directions, being narrowly confined within the limits of a few dominant attractions. Thus a child will sometimes be so impressed with the colour of an object as almost to ignore its form. A little girl of eighteen months, who knew lambs and called them ‘lammies,’ on seeing two black ones in a field among some white ones called out, “Eh! doggie, doggie!” The likeness of colour to the black dog overpowered the likeness in form to the other lambs close by. Within the limits of form-perception again, we may remark the tendency to a one-sided mode of observing things which has in it something of an abstract quality. For the child C. the pointed head was the main essential feature of the dog, and he recognised this in a bit of biscuit. We shall find further examples of this abstract observation when we come to consider children’s drawings.

This same partiality of observation comes out very clearly in a good deal of the early assimilation or apperception already referred to. The reason why it is so easy for a child to superimpose a fanciful analogy on an object of sense, is that his mind is untroubled by all the complexity of this object. It fastens on some salient feature of supreme attractiveness or interest, and flies away on the wings of this, to what seems to us a far-off resemblance.

This detaching or selective activity in children’s observation, which in a manner is a defect, is also a point of superiority. It has this in common with the observation of the poet, that it is wholly engrossed with what is valuable. Thus one main feature of the eye-lid is certainly that it opens and closes like a curtain; and it is its resemblance to the mysterious curtain shutting out the daylight, which makes it a matter of absorbing interest. Here, then, we have, as we shall see more fully presently, a true germ of thought-activity embedded in the very process of childish observation and recognition. For thought is precisely a more methodical process of bringing the concrete object into its relations to other things.

Yet children’s observation does not remain at this height of grand selectiveness. The pressure of practical needs tends to bring it down to our familiar level. A child finds himself compelled to distinguish things and name them as others do. The lamb and the dog, for example, have to be distinguished by a complex of marks in which the supremely interesting detail of colour holds a quite subordinate place. Individual things, too, have to be distinguished, if only for the purpose of drawing the line between what is ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’. The boy’s mother, his cup, his hat, must be readily recognised, and this necessity forces the attention to grasp a plurality of marks. Thus the mother cannot always be recognised by her height alone, as when she happens to be sitting, nor by her hair alone, as when she happens to have her hat on, so that the weighty problem of recognising her always compels the child to note a number of distinctive marks, some of which will in every case be available.

When once the eye has begun to note differences it makes rapid progress. This is particularly true where the development of a special interest in a group of things leads to a habit of concentration. Thus little boys when the ‘railway interest’ seizes them are apt to be finely observant of the differences between this and that engine and so forth. A boy aged two years and eleven months, after travelling from Dublin to Cork, and thence by another railway, asked his mother if she had noticed the difference in the make of the rails on the two lines. Of course she had not, though she afterwards ascertained that there was a slight difference which the boy’s keener eye had detected.

The fineness of a child’s distinguishing observation is well illustrated in his recognition of small drawings and photographs, as when a child of two will pick out the likeness of his father from a small carte de visite group. But this side of children’s recognition will occupy us later on.

Such fine and ready recognition as that just illustrated shows not merely a penetrating observation of what is distinctive and characteristic, but also a measure of a higher power, that of seizing in one act of attention a complex or group of such marks. In truth, children’s observation, when close and methodical, as it is apt to be under the stimulus of a powerful interest, is often surprisingly full as well as exact. The boy, John Ruskin, was not the only one who could look for hours together at such an object as flowing water, noting all its changing features. A mother writes to me that her boy, when three and a half years old, received a picture-book, ‘The Railway Train,’ and looked at it almost uninterruptedly for a week, retaining it even at meals.meals. “At the end of this time he had grasped the smallest detail in every picture.” By such occasional fits of fine exhaustive inspection, a child of the more intelligent sort will now and again come surprisingly near that higher type of observation, at once minute and comprehensive, which subserves, in somewhat different ways, scientific discovery and artistic representation. Many parents when watching these exceptional heights of childish scrutiny have indulged in fond dreams of future greatness. Yet these achievements are, alas, often limited to a certain stage of intellectual progress, and are apt to disappear when the bookish days come on, and the child loses himself hours together over his favourite stories. And in any case the germ of promise must possess a wondrous vitality if it resists all the efforts of our school-system to weed out from the garden of the mind anything so profitless as an observing faculty.

Next to this work of observation we must include in the pre-conditions of childish thought at its best a lively retention of what is observed. Everybody who has talked much with little children must have been struck by the tenacity of their memories, their power of recalling after considerable intervals small features of an object or small incidents which others hardly noted, or, if they noted them at the time, have since forgotten. Stories of this surprising recollection may be obtained in abundance. A little girl when only nine months old was on a walk shown some lambs at the gate of a field. On being taken the same road three weeks later she surprised her mother by calling out just before arriving at the gate ‘Baa, baa!’ Later on children will remember through much longer intervals. A little boy aged two years and ten months when taken to Italy a second time after four or five months’ absence, remembered the smallest details, e.g., how the grapes were cut, how the wine was made and so forth.

The gradual gathering of a store of such clear memory-images is a necessary preliminary to reflexion and thought. It is because the child remembers as well as sees, remembering even while he sees, that he grows thoughtful, inquiring about the meaning and reason of this and that, or boldly venturing on some explanation of his own. And just as the child’s mind must take on many pictures of things before it reflects upon and tries to understand the world, so it must collect and arrange pictures of the successive scenes and events of its life, before it will grow self conscious and reflect upon its own strange existence.

The only other pre-condition of this primitive thoughtfulness is that imaginative activity which we have already considered on its playful and pleasurable side. We are learning at last that the inventive phantasy of a child, prodigal as it is of delightful illusions, is also a valuable contributor to this sober work of thought. It is just because the young mind is so mobile and agile, passing far beyond the narrow confines of the actual in imaginative conjecture of what lies hidden in the remote, that it begins to think, that is, to reason about the causes of things. In the history of the individual as of the race, thought, even the abstract thought of science, grows out of the free play of imagination. The myth is at once a picturesque fancy, and a crude attempt at an explanation. This primitive thought is indeed so compact of bright picturesque imagery that we with our scientifically trained minds might easily overlook its inherent thoughtfulness. Yet a close inspection shows us that it contains the essential characteristics of thought, an impulse to comprehend things, to reduce the confusing multiplicity to order and system.

We must not hope to trace clearly the lines of this first child-thought. The earliest attitude of the wakening intelligence towards the confusion of novelties, which for us has become a world, is presumably indescribable, and further, by the time that a child comes to the use of words and can communicate his thoughts, in a broken way at least, the scene is already losing something of its first strangeness, the organising work of experience has begun. Yet though we cannot expect to get back to the primal wonderment we can catch glimpses of that later wonderment which arises when instruction supplements the senses, and ideas begin to form themselves of a vast unknown in space and time, of the changefulness of things, and of that mystery of mysteries the beginning of things. The study of this child-thought as it tries to utter itself in our clumsy speech will well repay us. Only we must be ever on the alert lest we read too much into these early utterances, forgetting that the child’s first tentative use of words is very apt to mislead.

The child first dimly reveals himself as thinker in the practical domain. In the evolution of the race the reasoning faculty has been first quickened into action by the ferment of instinctive craving and striving. Man began to reflect on the connexions of things in order to supply himself with food, to ward off cold and other evils. So with the child. Before the age of speech we may observe him thinking out rapidly as occasion arises some new practical expedient, as, for example, seizing a clothes-pin or other available aid in order to reach a toy that has slipped out of his reach; or clutching at our dress and pulling the chair by way of signifying to us that we are to remain and continue to amuse him. The observations of the first months of child-life abound with such illustrations of an initiating practical intelligence.

Yet these exploits, impressive as they often are, hardly disclose the distinctive attributes of the human thinker. The cat, without any example to imitate, will find its way to a quite charming begging gesture by reaching up and tapping your arm.

Probably the earliest unambiguous indication of a human faculty of thought is to be found in infantile comparison. When a baby turns its head deliberately and sagely from a mirror-reflexion or portrait of its mother to the original, we appear to see the first crude beginnings of a process which, when more elaborated, becomes human understanding.

A good deal of comparison of this kind seems to enter into the mental activity of young children. Thus the deep absorbing attention to pictures spoken of above commonly means a careful comparison of this and that form one with another, and in certain cases, at least, a comparison of what is now seen with the mental image of the original. In some children, moreover, comparison under the form of measurement grows into a sort of craze. They want to measure the height of things one with another and so forth. An intelligent child will even find his way to a mediate form of comparison, that is, to measuring things through the medium of a third thing. Thus a boy of five, who had conceived a strong liking for dogs, was in the habit when walking out of measuring on his body how high a dog reached. On returning home he would compare this height with that of the seat or back of a chair, and would finally ask for a yard measure and find out the number of inches.

This comparison of things is of the very essence of understanding, of comprehending things as distinguished from merely apprehending them as concrete isolated objects. The child in his desire to assimilate, to find something in the region of the known with which the new and strange thing may be brought into kinship, is ever on the look-out for likeness. Hence the analogical and half-poetical apperception of things, the metaphorical reduction of a thing to a prototype, as in calling a star an eye, or an eyelid a curtain, may be said to contain the germ at once of poetry and of science.

This comparison for purposes of understanding leads on to what psychologists call classification, or generalisation; the bringing together and keeping before the mind of a number of like things by help of a general name. The child may be said to become a true thinker as soon as he uses names intelligently, calling each thing by an appropriate name, and so classing it with its kind.

This power of infantile generalisation is one full of interest and has been carefully observed. It will, however, be more conveniently dealt with in another chapter where we shall be specially concerned with the child’s use of language.

While thus beginning to arrange things according to such points of likeness as he can discover, the child is noting the connexions of things. He finds out what belongs to a horse, to a locomotive engine, he notes when father leaves home and returns, when the sun declines, what accompanies and follows rain, and so forth. That is to say, he is feeling his way to the idea of connectedness, of regularity, of what we call uniformity or law. We now say that the child reasons, no longer blindly or automatically like the dog, but with a consciousness of what he is doing. We little think how much hard work has to be got through by the little brain before even this dim perception of regularity is attained. In some things, no doubt, the regularity is patent enough, and can hardly be overlooked by the dullest of children. The connexion between the laying of the cloth and the meal—at least in an orderly home—is a matter which even the canine and the feline intelligence is quite able to grasp. But when it comes to finding out the law according to which, say, his face gets dirty, his head aches, or people send out their invitations to children’s parties, the matter is not so simple.

The fact is that there is so large a proportion of apparent disconnectedness and capricious irregularity in the child’s world that it is hard to see how he would ever learn to understand and to reason, were he not endowed with a lively and inextinguishable impulse to connect and simplify. Herein lies a part of the pathos of childhood. It brings its naÏve prepossession of a regular well-ordered world, and alas, finds itself confronted with an impenetrable tangle of disorder. How quaint it is to listen to the little thinker, as, with untroubled brow, he begins to propound his beautifully simple theory of the cosmic order. An American boy of ten who had had one cross small teacher, and whose best teacher had been tall, accosted a new teacher thus: “I’m afraid you’ll make a cross teacher”. His teacher replied: “Why, am I cross?” To which he rejoined: “No; but you are so small”. We call this hasty generalisation. We might with equal propriety term it the child’s innate a priori view of things.

With this eagerness to get at and formulate the law of things is inseparably bound up the impulse to bring every new occurrence under some general rule. Here, too, the small thinker may only too easily slip by failing to see the exact import and scope of the rule. We see this in the extension of laws of human experience to the animal world. Rules supplied by others and only vaguely understood, more particularly moral and religious truths, lend themselves to this kind of misapplication. The Worcester collection of Thoughts and Reasonings of Children gives some odd examples of such application. American children, to judge from these examples, appear to be particularly smart at quoting Scripture; not altogether, one suspects, without a desire to show off, and possibly to raise a laugh. But discounting the influence of such motives it seems pretty clear that a child has a marvellous power of reading his own ideas into others’ words, and so of giving them a turn which is apt to stagger their less-gifted authors. Here is a case. R.’s aunt said: “You are so restless, R., I can’t hold you any longer”. R.: “Cast your burden on the Lord, Aunty K., and He will sustain you”. The child, we are told, was only four. He probably understood the Scripture injunction as a useful prescription for getting rid of a nuisance, and with the admirable impartiality of childish logic at once applied it to himself. Other illustrations of such misapplication will meet us when we take up the relation of the child’s thought to language.

The child’s first vigorous effort to understand the things about him may be roughly dated at the end of the third year, and it is noteworthy that this synchronises with the advent of the questioning age. The first putting of a question occurred in the case of Preyer’s boy in the twenty-eighth month, in that of Pollock’s girl in the twenty-third month. But the true age of inquisitiveness when question after question is fired off with wondrous rapidity and pertinacity seems to be ushered in with the fourth year.

A common theory peculiarly favoured by ignorant nurses and mothers is that children’s questioning is a studied annoyance. The child has come to the use of words, and with all a child’s ‘cussedness’ proceeds to torment the ears of those about him. There are signs, however, of a change of view on this point. The fact that the questioning follows on the heels of the reasoning impulse might tell us that it is connected with the throes which the young understanding has to endure in its first collision with a tough and baffling world. The question is the outcome of ignorance coupled with a belief in the boundless knowledge of grown-up people. It is an attempt to add to the scrappy, unsatisfying information about things which the little questioner’s own observation has managed to gather, or others’ half-understood words have succeeded in communicating. It is the outcome of intellectual craving, of a demand for mental food. But it is much more than an expression of need. Just as the child’s articulate demand for food implies that he knows what food is, and that it is obtainable, so the question implies that the little questioner knows what he needs, and in what direction to look for it. The simplest form of question, e.g., “What is this flower?” “this insect?” shows that the child by a half-conscious process of reflexion and reasoning has found his way to the truth that things have their qualities, their belongings, their names. Many questions, indeed, e.g., ‘Has the moon wings?’ ‘Where do all the days go to?’ reveal a true process of childish thought and have a high value as expressions of this thought.

Questioning may take various directions. A good deal of the child’s catechising of his long-suffering mother is prompted by thirst for fact.^[38] The typical form of this line of questioning is ‘What?’ The motive here is to gain possession of some fact which will connect itself with and supplement a fact already known. ‘How old is Rover?’ ‘Where was Rover born?’ ‘Who was his father?’ ‘What is that dog’s name?’ ‘What sort of hair had you when you were a little girl?’ These are samples of the questioning activity by help of which the little inquirer tries to make up his connected wholes, to see things with his imagination in their proper attachment and order. And how greedily and pertinaciously the small folk will follow up their questioning, flying as it often looks wildly enough from point to point, yet gathering from every answer some new contribution to their ideas of things. A boy of three years and nine months would thus attack his mother: ‘What does frogs eat, and mice and birds and butterflies? and what does they do? and what is their names? What is all their houses’ names? What does they call their streets and places?’ etc., etc.

Such questions easily appear foolish because, as in the case just quoted, they are directed by quaint childish fancies. The child’s anthropomorphic way of looking out on the world leads him to assimilate animal to human ways.

One feature in this fact-gleaning kind of question is the great store which the child sets by the name of a thing. M. CompayrÉ has pointed out that the form of question: ‘What is this?’ often means, “What is it called?” The child’s unformulated theory seems to be that everything has its own individual name. The little boy just spoken of explained to his mother that he thought all the frogs, the mice, the birds, and the butterflies had names given to them by their mothers as he himself had. Perhaps this was only a way of expressing the childish idea that everything has its name, primordial and unchangeable.

A second direction of this early questioning is towards the reason and the cause of things. The typical form is here ‘why?’ This form of inquiry occurred in the case of Preyer’s boy at the age of two years forty-three weeks. But it becomes the all-predominant form of question somewhat later. Who that has tried to instruct the small child of three or four does not know the long shrill whinelike sound of this question? This form of question develops naturally out of the earlier, for to give the ‘what?’ of a thing, that is its connexions, is to give its ‘why?’ that is its mode of production, its use and purpose.

Nothing perhaps in child utterance is better worth interpreting, hardly anything more difficult to interpret, than this simple-looking little ‘why?’

We ourselves perhaps do not use the word ‘why’ and its correlative ‘because’ with one clear meaning; and the child’s first use of the words is largely imitative. What may be pretty safely asserted is that even in the most parrot-like and wearisome iteration of ‘why?’ and its equivalents ‘what for?’ etc., the child shows a dim recognition of the truth that a thing is understandable, that it has its reasons if only they can be found.

Let us in judging of this pitiless ‘why?’ try to understand the situation of the young mind confronted by so much that is strange and unassimilated, meeting by observation and hearsay with new and odd occurrences every day. The strange things standing apart from his tiny familiar world, the wide region of the quaint and puzzling in animal ways, for example, stimulate the instinct to appropriate, to master. The little thinker must try at least to bring the new odd thing into some recognisable relation to his familiar world. And what is more natural than to go to the wise lips of the grown-up person for a solution of the difficulty? The fundamental significance of the ‘why?’ in the child’s vocabulary, then, is the necessity of connecting new with old, of illuminating what is strange and dark by light reflected from what is already matter of knowledge. And a child’s ‘why?’ is often temporarily satisfied by supplying from the region of the familiar an analogue to the new and unclassed fact. Thus his impulse to understand why pussy has fur, is met by telling him that it is pussy’s hair.

It is only a step further in the same direction when the ‘why?’ has to be met by supplying a general statement; for to refer the particular to a general rule is a more perfect and systematic kind of assimilation. Now we know that children are very susceptible to the authority of precedent, custom, general rule. Just as in children’s ethics customary permission makes a thing right, so in their logic the truth that a thing generally happens may be said to supply a reason for its happening in a particular case. Hence, when the much-abused nurse answers the child’s question, ‘Why is the pavement hard?’ by saying, ‘Because pavement is always hard,’ she is perhaps less open to the charge of giving a woman’s reason than is sometimes said.^[39] In sooth the child’s queries, his searchings for explanation, are, as already suggested, prompted by the desire for order and connectedness. And this means that he wants the general rule to which he can assimilate the particular and as yet isolated fact.

From the first, however, the ‘why?’ and its congeners have reference to the causal idea, to something which has brought the new and strange thing into existence and made it what it is. In truth this reference to origin, to bringing about or making, is exceedingly prominent in children’s questionings. Nothing is more interesting to a child than the production of things. What hours and hours does he not spend in wondering how the pebbles, the stars, the birds, the babies are made. This vivid interest in production is to a considerable extent practical. It is one of the great joys of children to be able themselves to make things, and this desire to fashion, which is probably at first quite immense, and befitting rather a god than a feeble mannikin of three years, naturally leads on to inquiry into the mode of producing. Yet from the earliest a true speculative interest blends with this practical instinct. Children are in the complete sense little philosophers, if philosophy, as the ancients said, consists in knowing the causes of things. This discovery of the cause is the completed process of assimilation, of the reference of the particular to a general rule or law.

This inquiry into origin and mode of production starts with the amiable presupposition that all things have been hand-produced after the manner of household possessions. The world is a sort of big house where everything has been made by somebody, or at least fetched from somewhere. This application of the anthropomorphic idea of fashioning follows the law of all childish thought, that the unknown is assimilated to the known. The one mode of origin which the embryo thinker is really and directly familiar with is the making of things. He himself makes a respectable number of things, including these rents in his clothes, messes on the tablecloth, and the like, which he gets firmly imprinted on his memory by the authorities. And, then, he takes a keen interest in watching the making of things by others, such as puddings, clothes, houses, hayricks. To ask, then, who made the animals, the babies, the wind, the clouds, and so forth, is for him merely to apply the more familiar type of causation as norm or rule. Similarly in all questions as to the ‘whence?’ of things, as in asking whether babies were bought in a shop.

The ‘why?’ takes on a more special meaning when the idea of purpose becomes clear. The search now is for the end, what philosophers call the teleological cause or reason. When, for example, a child asks ‘Why does the wind blow?’ he means, ‘What is its object in blowing?’ or ‘Of what use is the blowing of the wind?’

The idea underlying the common form of the ‘why?’ interrogative deserves a moment’s inspection. A child’s view of causation starts like other ideas from his most familiar experiences. He soon finds out that his own actions are controlled by the desire to get or to avoid something, that, to speak in rather technical language, the idea of the result of the action precedes and determines this action.

I have lately come across a very early, and as I think, remarkable illustration of this form of childish thought. A little girl already quoted, whom we will call M., when one year eleven months old, happened to be walking with her mother on a windy day. At first she was delighted at the strong boisterous wind, but then got tired and said: ‘Wind make mamma’s hair untidy, Babba (her own name) make mamma’s hair tidy, so wind not blow adain (again)’. About three weeks later this child was out in the rain, when she said to her mother: ‘Mamma, dy (dry) Babba’s hands, so not rain any more’. What does this curious inversion of the order of cause and effect mean? I am disposed to think that this little girl, who was unusually bright and intelligent, was transferring to nature’s phenomena the forms of her own experience. When she is disorderly, and her mother or nurse arranges her hair or washes her hands, it is in order that she may not continue to be disorderly. The child is envisaging the wind and the rain as a kind of naughty child who can be got to behave properly by effacing the effects of its naughtiness. In other words they are both to be deterred from repeating what is objectionable by a visible and striking manifestation of somebody’s objection or prohibition. Here, it seems unmistakable, we have a projection into nature of human purpose, of the idea of determination of action by end: we have a form of anthropomorphism which runs through the whole of primitive thought.

It seems to follow from this that there is a stage in the development of a child’s intelligence when questions such as, ‘Why do the leaves fall?’ ‘Why does the thunder make such a noise?’ are answered most satisfactorily by a poetic fiction, by saying, for example, that the leaves are old and tired of hanging on to the trees, and that the thunder giant is in a particularly bad temper and making a noise. It is perhaps permissible to make use of this fiction at times, more especially when trying to answer the untiring questioning about animals and their doings, a region of existence, by the way, of which even the wisest of us knows exceedingly little. Yet the device has its risks; and an ill-considered piece of myth-making passed off as an answer may find itself awkwardly confronted by that most merciless of things, a child’s logic.

We may notice something more in this early mode of interrogation. Children are apt to think not only that things behave in general after our manner, that their activity is determined by some end or purpose, or that they have their useful function, their raison d’Être as we say, but that this purpose concerns us human creatures. The wind and the rain came and went in our little girl’s nature-theory just to vex or out of consideration for ‘mamma’ and ‘Babba’. A little boy of two years two months sitting on the floor one day in a bad temper looked up and saw the sun shining and said captiously, ‘Sun not look at Hennie,’ and then more pleadingly, ‘Please, sun, not look at poor Hennie’.^[40] The sea, when the child C. first saw it, was supposed to make its disturbing noise with special reference to his small ears. We may call this the anthropocentric idea, the essence of which is that man is the centre of reference, the aim or target, in all nature’s processes. This anthropocentric tendency again is shared by the child with the uncultured adult. Primitive man looks on wind, rain, thunder as sent by some angry spirit, and even a respectable English farmer tends to view these operations of nature in much the same way. In children this anthropocentric impulse is apt to get toned down by their temperament, which is on the whole optimistic and decidedly practical, into a looking out for the uses of things. A boy, already quoted, once (towards the end of the fourth year) asked his mother what the bees do. This question he explained by adding: “What is the good of them?” When told that they made honey he observed pertinently enough from his teleological standpoint: “Then do they bring it for us to eat?” This shrewd little fellow might have made short work of some of the arguments by which the theological optimists of the last century were wont to ‘demonstrate’ the Creator’s admirable adaptation of nature to man’s wants.

The frequency of this kind of ‘why?’ suggests that children’s thoughts about things are penetrated with the idea of purpose and use. This is shown too in other ways. M. A. Binet found by questioning children that their ideas of things are largely made up of uses. Thus, asked what a hat is, a child answered: “Pour mettre sur la tÊte”. Mr. H. E. Kratz of Sioux City sends me some answers to questions by children of five on entering a primary school, which illustrate the same point. Thus the question, ‘What is a tree?’ brings out the answers, ‘To make the wind blow,’ ‘To sit under,’ and so forth.

Little by little this idea of a definite purpose and use in this and that thing falls back and the child gets interested more in the production or origination of things. He wants to know who made the trees, the birds, the stars and so forth. Here, though what we call efficient, as distinguished from final, cause is recognised, anthropomorphism survives in the idea of a maker analogous to the carpenter. We shall see later that children habitually envisage the deity as a fabricator.

All this rage of questioning about the uses and the origin of things is the outcome, not merely of ignorance and curiosity, but of a deeper motive, a sense of perplexity, of mystery or contradiction. It is not always easy to distinguish the two types of question, yet in many cases at least its form and the manner of putting it will tell us that it issues from a puzzled and temporarily baffled brain. As long as the questioning goes on briskly we may infer that a child believes in the possibility of knowledge, and has not sounded the deepest depths of intellectual despair. More pathetic than the saddest of questions is the silencing of questions by the loss of faith.

It is easy to see that children must find themselves puzzled with much which they see and hear of. The apparent exceptions to rules don’t trouble the grown-up persons just because as recurrent exceptions they seem to take on a rule of their own. Thus adults though quite unversed in hydrostatics would be incapable of being puzzled by C.’s problem: why my putting my hand in water does not make a hole in it. Similarly, though they know nothing of animal physiology they are never troubled by the mystery of fish breathing under water, which when first noted by a child may come as a sort of shock. The little boy just referred to, in his far-reaching zoological interrogatory asked his mother: “Can they (the fish) breathe with their moufs under water?”

In his own investigations, and in getting instruction from others, the child is frequently coming upon puzzles of this sort. The same boy was much exercised about the sea and where it went to. He expressed a wish to take off his shoes and to walk out into the sea so as to see where the ships go to, and was much troubled on learning that the sea got deeper and deeper, and that if he walked out into it he would be drowned. At first he denied the paradox (which he at once saw) of the incoming sea going uphill: “But, mamma, it doesn’t run up, it doesn’t run up, so it couldn’t come up over our heads?” He was told that this was so, and he wisely began to try to accommodate his mind to this startling revelation. C., it will be seen, was much exercised by this problem of the moving mass of waters, wanting to know whether it came half way up the world. Probably in both these cases the idea of water rising had its uncanny alarming aspect.

It is probable that the disappearance of a thing is at a very early stage a puzzle to the infant. Later on, too, the young mind continues to be exercised about this mystery. Our little friend’s inquiry about the whither of the big receding sea, “Where does the sea sim (swim) to?” illustrates this perplexity. A child seems able to understand the shifting of an object of moderate size from one part of space to another, but his conception of space is probably not large enough to permit him to realise how a big tract of water can pass out of the visible scene into the unseen. The child’s question, “Where does all the wind go to?” seems to have sprung from a like inability to picture a vast unseen realm of space.

In addition to this difficulty of the disappearance of big things, there seems to be something in the vastness, and the infinite number of existent things perceived and heard about, which puzzles and oppresses the young mind. The inability to take in all the new facts leads to a kind of resentment of their multitude. “Mother,” asked a boy of four years, “why is there such a lot of things in the world if no one knows all these things?” One cannot be quite sure of the underlying thought here. The child may have meant merely to protest against the production of so confusing a number of objects in the world. This certainly seems to be the motive in some children’s inquiries, as when a little girl, aged three years seven months, said: ‘Mamma, why do there be any more days, why do there? and why don’t we leave off eating and drinking?’ Here the burdensomeness of mere multiplicity, of the unending procession of days and meals, seems to be the motive. Yet it is possible that the question about a lot of things not known to anybody was prompted by a deeper difficulty, a dim presentiment of Berkeley’s idealism, that things can exist only as objects of knowledge. This surmise may seem far-fetched to some, yet I have found what seem to me other traces of this tendency in children. A girl of six and a half years was talking to her father about the making of the world. He pointed out to her the difficulty of creating things out of nothing, showing her that when we made things we simply fashioned materials anew. She pondered and then said: “Perhaps the world’s a fancy”. Here again one cannot be quite sure of the child-thought behind the words. Yet it certainly looks like a falling back for a moment into the dreamy mood of the idealist, that mood in which we seem to see the solid fabric of things dissolve into a shadowy phantasmagoria.

The subject of origins is, as we know, beset with puzzles for the childish mind. The beginnings of living things are, of course, the great mystery. “There’s such a lot of things,” remarked the little zoologist I have recently been quoting, “I want to know, that you say nobody knows, mamma. I want to know who made God, and I want to know if Pussy has eggs to help her make ickle (little) kitties.” Finding that this was not so, he observed: “Oh, then, I s’pose she has to have God to help her if she doesn’t have kitties in eggs given her to sit on”. Another little boy, five years old, found his way to the puzzle of the reciprocal genetic relation of the hen and the egg, and asked his mother: “When there is no egg where does the hen come from? When there was no egg, I mean, where did the hen come from?” In a similar way, as we shall see in C.’s journal, a child will puzzle his brains by asking how the first child was suckled, or, as a little girl of four and a half years put it, "When everybody was a baby—then who could be their nurse—if they were all babies?" The beginnings of human life are, as we know, a standing puzzle for the young investigator.

Much of this questioning is metaphysical in that it transcends the problems of every-day life and of science. The child is metaphysician in the sense in which the earliest human thinkers were metaphysicians, pushing his questioning into the inmost nature of things, and back to their absolute beginnings, as when he asks ‘Who made God?’ or ‘What was there before God?’^[41] He has no idea yet of the confines of human knowledge. If his mother tells him she does not know he tenaciously clings to the idea that somebody knows, the doctor it may be, or the clergyman—or possibly the policeman, of whose superior knowledge one little girl was forcibly convinced by noting that her father once asked information of one of these stately officials.

Strange, bizarre, altogether puzzling to the listener, are some of these childish questions. A little American girl of nine years after a pause in talk re-commenced the conversation by asking: “Why don’t I think of something to say?” A play recently performed in a London theatre made precisely this appeal to others by way of getting at one’s own motives a chief amusing feature in one of its comical characters. Another little American girl aged three one day left her play and her baby sister named Edna Belle to find her mother and ask: “Mamma, why isn’t Edna Belle me, and why ain’t I Edna Belle?”^[42] The narrator of this story adds that the child was not a daughter of a professor of metaphysics but of practical farmer folk. One cannot be quite sure of the precise drift of this question. It may well have been the outcome of a new development of self-consciousness, of a clearer awareness of the self in its distinctness from others. A question with a much clearer metaphysical ring about it, showing thought about the subtlest problems, was that put by a boy of the same age: “If I’d gone upstairs, could God make it that I hadn’t?” This is a good example of the type of question: ‘Can he make a thing done not to have been done?’ which according to Erasmus was much debated by theologians.^[43]

With many children confronted with the mysteries of God and the devil this questioning often reproduces the directions of theological speculation. Thus the problem of the necessity of evil is clearly recognisable in the question once put by an American boy under eight years of age to a priest who visited his home: “Father, why don’t God kill the devil and then there would be no more wickedness in the world?”

All children’s questioning does not of course take this sublime direction. Along with the tendency to push back inquiry to the unreachable beginning of things we mark a more modest and scientific line of investigation into the observable and explainable processes of nature. Some questions which a busy listener would pooh-pooh as dreamy have a genuinely scientific value, showing that the little inquirer is trying to work out some problem of fact. This is illustrated by a question put by a little boy aged three years nine months: “Why don’t we see two things with our two eyes?” a problem which, as we know, has exercised older psychologists.

When this more definitely scientific direction is taken by a child’s questioning we may observe that the ambitious ‘why?’ begins to play a second rÔle, the first being now taken by the more modest ‘how?’ The germ of this kind of inquiry may be present in some of the early questioning about growth. “How,” asked our little zoologist, “does plants grow when we plant them, and how does boys grow from babies to big boys like me? Has I grown now whilst I was eating my supper? See!” and he stood up to make the most of his stature. Clearer evidence of a directing of inquiry into the processes of things appears in the fifth and sixth years. A little girl of four years seven months among other questionings wanted to know what makes the trains move, and how we move our eyes. The incessant inquiries of the boy Clark Maxwell into the ‘go’ of this thing or the ‘particular go’ of that illustrate in a clearer manner the early tendency to direct questioning to the more manageable problems to which science confines itself.

These different lines of questioning are apt to run on concurrently from the end of the third year, a fit of eager curiosity about animals or other natural objects giving place to a fit of theological inquiry, this again being dropped for an equally eager inquiry into the making of clocks, railway engines, and so on. Yet through these alternating bouts of questioning we can distinguish something like a law of intellectual progress. Questioning as the most direct expression of a child’s curiosity follows the development of his groups of ideas and of the interests which help to construct these. Thus I think it a general rule that questioning about the make or mechanism of things follows questioning about animal ways just because the zoological interest (in a very crude form of course) precedes the mechanical. The scope of this early questioning will, moreover, expand with intellectual capacity, and more particularly the capability of forming the more abstruse kind of childish idea. Thus inquiries into absolute beginnings, into the origin of the world and of God himself, indicate the presence of a larger intellectual grasp of time-relations and of the processes of becoming.

Our survey of the field of childish questioning suggests that it is by no means an easy matter to deal with. It must be admitted, I think, by the most enthusiastic partisan of children that their questioning is of very unequal value. It may often be noticed that a child’s ‘why?’ is used in a sleepy mechanical way with no real desire for knowledge, any semblance of answer being accepted without an attempt to put a meaning into it. A good deal of the more importunate kind of children’s questioning, when they follow up question by question recklessly, as it seems, and without definite aim, appears to be of this formal and lifeless character, an expression not of a healthy intellectual activity, but merely of a mood of general mental discontent and peevishness. In a certain amount of childish questioning, indeed, we have, I suspect, to do with a distinctly abnormal mental state, with an analogue of that mania of questions, or passion for mental rummaging or prying into everything, “Grubelsucht” as the Germans call it, which is a well-known phase of mental disease, and prompts the patient to put such questions as this: “Why do I stand here where I stand?” “Why is a glass a glass, a chair a chair?” Such questioning ought, it is evident, not to be treated too seriously. We may attach too much significance to a child’s question, labouring hard to grasp its meaning, with a view to answering it, when we should be wiser if we viewed it as a symptom of mental irritability and peevishness, to be got rid of as quickly as possible by a good romp or other healthy distraction.^[44]

To admit, however, that children’s questions may now and again need this sort of wholesome snubbing is far from saying that we ought to treat all their questioning with a mild contempt. The little questioners flatter us by attributing superior knowledge to us, and good manners should compel us to treat their questions with some attention. And if now and then they torment us with a string of random reckless questioning, in how many cases, one wonders, are they not made to suffer, and that wrongfully, by having perfectly serious questions rudely cast back on their hands? The truth is that to understand and to answer children’s questions is a considerable art, including both a large and deep knowledge of things, and a quick sympathetic insight into the little questioners’ minds, and few of us have at once the intellectual and the moral excellences needed for an adequate treatment of them. It is one of the tragi-comic features of human life that the ardent little explorer looking out with wide-eyed wonder upon his new world should now and again find as his first guide a nurse or even a mother who will resent the majority of his questions as disturbing the luxurious mood of indolence in which she chooses to pass her days. We can never know how much valuable mental activity has been checked, how much hope and courage cast down by this kind of treatment. Yet happily the questioning impulse is not easily eradicated, and a child who has suffered at the outset from this wholesale contempt may be fortunate enough to meet, while the spirit of investigation is still upon him, one who knows and who has the good nature and the patience to impart what he knows in response to a child’s appeal.

37. Works, vol. iii., p. 396.