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When in constant intercourse with children in their everyday life we are in a position to obtain a far better insight into their thought-processes and their general psychological condition than can be arrived at by means of tests; for both when the child is occupied playing with its toys and in general conversation we very often find remarkable instances of thought-activity, extending even to the criticism of others. In Child Psychology, I. p. 117 ff., I have quoted a number of examples of early criticism and doubt; and being as I am of the opinion that the critical sense is of extremely high value, and should therefore be carefully cultivated in education, I have been particularly on the alert to remark any evidence of the same in the case of R. or S.

When R. was four years and three months old she saw four portraits in a book and said: “There are three.” I corrected her, saying: “No, there are four;” whereupon R. continued: “But when one was gone there were three.” She could in other words subtract one from four.

The following day when out on one of our walks I scratched with my walking-stick some lines in the snow, but the grooves were not very deep, R. asked: “Why are the lines so small?” and upon my replying: “Because the snow is hard,” she objected: “No, it’s not; it’s because there’s so little snow (and the hard earth is therefore just beneath).” Nevertheless, at this age the child’s logic is generally very faulty. For example, a few days later R. said: “When I am big, right up to the ceiling, little sister shall have my toys.” She has evidently expected development in herself, but has in this respect been quite lacking in a rational standard of measurement. In the same period the grossest forms of analogy easily satisfied her. Thus she had often seen in the street a poster advertising “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” in which an “emperor” clad only in a shirt, is extending one of his bare legs; and when one day S. stuck one of her bare legs up from the cradle, R. exclaimed: “Look, see Tiny’s emperor-leg.”

The four-year-old child has already a distinct capacity to grasp phenomena. R., four years and three months old, lay one day in bed with a lock, singing “Jutland between two seas....”^[1] Suddenly she said: “Now we put it (the padlock) there ... the Runic stone is laid.... How is a Runic stone laid? How do you lay a Runic stone? ... What is it that is majestic? ... Isn’t it the eagle?” (Danish, ørnen.) R.’s mother explained that it is the mirage of the desert (Danish, ørken) and adds: “The eagle is a bird, but the desert is a waste where there is nothing but sand.” “Yes,” says R., “and no trees and no leaves.” M.: “And no water.” R. then asks: “How big is it? Is it a room?” M.: “No.” R.: “Is it a piece of land?” M.: “Yes.” R.: “How big is it? Is it as big as Frederiksberg Gardens?”

In this conversation we find an interesting transition from satisfaction over an imaginative conception (the lock as a Runic stone) to the desire for an actual truthful conception; and it is interesting also to observe with what perseverance the child seeks to make the unknown clear by comparison with the known: the room, Frederiksberg Gardens.

I remarked an instance of limited understanding of relativity when R. was four years and two months old. She drew a man; and, observing that his head was too large, she said: “That’s a big head. Then he must have big eyes too.” He got them; also a powerful neck to carry the big head. But, nevertheless, she made the body and limbs very slender, especially the body. Her grasp of proportion, in other words, did not extend farther than from the head to eyes and neck.

A quite good line of argument can be followed by a child even at the beginning of its fifth year. When R. was four years and four months old her mother said to her: “Will you look after S.?” But R. was not very enthusiastic, and answered: “Won’t you rather, for you do it better?” This was without doubt correct; but I cannot regard her remark otherwise than as prompted by cunning and indolence. Her high-minded motive was scarcely genuine.

On the other hand, she was probably quite in earnest on the day after, when her mother said to her: “You may go down into the street, but you must not go near the tramway lines.” R. answered: “Then I’d rather stop up here, for I might forget.” Small children not only doubt; they are even self-critical on occasions. They should therefore by no means be regarded and treated as senseless little mannikins fit only to be commanded and drilled. Drill is only polish; but by helping a child to develop its thinking powers we place it in a position to overcome difficulties.

R.’s critical powers were plainly in evidence in the following passage of arms. Her little sister pulled her hair and R. screamed. Her mother said excusingly: “She doesn’t understand,” but R. objected: “Then she could pull her own hair; but she doesn’t do that.” The child’s line of thought was evidently that S. had noticed that it hurt when she pulled her own hair, and therefore preferred pulling R.’s hair. For this reason she declined to accept her mother’s apology for S.

This guarded attitude was again in evidence two days later. R. would not eat her food, and to entice her to do so her mother said: “Very well; now it is my birthday, and you are a strange lady who is paying a call. And so I ask you: “Won’t you have a cup of cocoa?” R. interrupted hurriedly: “No thank you; I have just had lunch at home.”

A real foundation of logic underlies the child’s thought-processes at this stage of development. When R. was four years and five months old she played with great zest with her top, and was especially pleased at being herself able to make it spin. But when the top fell she used to say: “That was because it hit (the floor);” and when sometimes, upon her placing it in position, it would not spin, she would say: “That was because I didn’t pull hard enough (when I turn it round with my fingers).”

This evidence shows, among other things, that the child’s play assists in developing the child’s brain. Had not R., however, “thought aloud” it would not have been shown how she thought at her “work” and learnt from it. In play the child practises its physical and psychical instruments of work, is developed and prepared for the future. But regarding this branch of the subject I must refer to Child Psychology, I. p. 96 ff.

The child can be conscious of its thought-activity. When R. was four years and six months old she said to her mother: “I think best at night; I don’t think in the day.” M.: “I thought you slept at night.” R.: “No, not when it’s light, and before you go to bed.” M.: “What do you think about?” R.: “I think about hoops and things like that.” Suddenly she added: “Yes, but I’m thinking now, too.”

Not without danger is the child’s capacity for reflection when allowed to flow unchecked, for such indulgence often rouses exaggerated expectations. Thus one day when R.’s grandmother had helped the child in some task R. said: “You always do whatever I like, but I only do what I like.” It is unfortunately one of the sorrowful duties of education to be continually clipping the child’s wings, at the risk of cutting them so short that the child when it grows up finds itself unable to fly.

Romance also was criticised sternly by R. at an early period. Her mother was reading Tommelise for her. When R. heard that a large toad came in through the window and picked up a walnut-shell in which Tommelise lay, and disappeared with her, she said; “But that’s only a story; for a toad couldn’t do that really, could it?”

The child is not without understanding of changes caused by growth and development. When R. was four years and six months old she saw some dark-blue columbines with pale buds in a vase, and said: “They (the buds) will be dark blue when they are big.”

The child is even able to expose an actual error of logic. R. one day saw a picture, the name of which was “The Soup.” I explained to her: “They are eating soup,” and thought that all was well; but R. remarked: “They can just as well be eating something else.” She was right. The title had acted upon me suggestively, but not upon her.

A child at the tender age of four and a half years may even practise deception, for the sake of self-preservation. One day, to wit, R. was naughty and answered her grandmother rudely. Grandmother thereupon looked angry. But R., sensing the approaching storm, said: “Oh, you never understand anything, not even when it’s funny.” The little angel had only been trying to be funny!

An extraordinarily conscious recognition of causation was expressed by R. when four years and seven months. She plucked a devil’s bit (Danish, Blaahat—blue hat) and asked its name. When I told her, R. remarked after a pause: “It’s called that because it’s blue and it’s like a hat.”

Of course the child’s critical powers may also find vent in hair-splitting. When R. was four years and seven months old our housemaid said to her: “You mustn’t go in and out like that without wiping your feet. You bring in too much sand.” R. retorted: “I can go out if I like without wiping.” The same day R. and I went for a walk in Tisvilde Wood, where she brought a fir-cone to me and asked: “What’s this?” I did not look carefully at the cone and said: “A spruce-cone,” but R., stepping aside and picking up a spruce-cone, said: “No, this is a spruce-cone; that one there is a fir-cone.” It is not easy to work out the exact thought-process that took place on this occasion. Probably R. has been a little doubtful of the cone’s name and therefore asked me; and when I gave her an incorrect answer she fetched a spruce-cone to compare it and make sure that the other was a fir-cone. But in any case the incident shows that a child which is accustomed to look about, and rely on itself, does not bow even to such a powerful suggestion as its father’s explanation.

An extraordinarily logically exact retort was made by R. later on the same day. Her mother said to her: “If you are ill then you must go to bed, but you mustn’t keep screaming like that; I am quite ill through listening to it.” The child answered to wit: “Yes, but then it’s you who must go to bed when it’s you who are ill.”

One day R. came and told M.: “I’ve seen the little kitten.” M. said: “I have seen its father and mother;” but R., who evidently assumed that the two had not appeared simultaneously, asked: “How could you tell it was not the same (cat each time)?” Fortunately M. was in a position to explain that they were of different colours.

R. was even a little impertinent in her criticism one day when her hair was being combed. She was about five years old. It hurt her and she screamed. M. said: “Now, upon my word, that can’t hurt;” but R. retorted: “It’s not your hair (and so you don’t feel the pain).”

About a month later R. inquired in connection with a picture in “The Great Bastian”^[2]: “Why didn’t the fire burn the red shoes too; for it couldn’t see them? ... And when it burns, it burns everything right up.”

R., aged five years and six months, asked me: “Are there angels in Germany?” I answered evasively: “I didn’t see any when I was there;” but finding this explanation insufficient, she said: “Yes, but you didn’t go everywhere.” This, however, must not of course be taken as indicating that R. has been aware of the logical necessity of examining every place; but she has evidently understood that an entirely negative answer did not suffice.

A month later she displayed similar logic. Her sister was rubbing her eyes, whereupon R. said: “When she does that she’s shy, isn’t she?” M. answered: “Not always.” But to this R. remarked: “But for all that perhaps she is (shy).”

Also the comparatively difficult task of putting oneself in another person’s place and understanding that person’s point of view can be accomplished by a child in its sixth year. In the Zoological Gardens R., five years and six months old, said: “How lucky father’s not a keeper, it’s so boring looking after animals; it’s much better to go out and walk or do something else.” The day after she added: “I think, too, it’s boring—of course—for that man (the keeper).”

Such a reflective child is naturally not easy to deceive; and the attempt was a failure on the following occasion. R., five years and six months old, knocked herself against the corner of the kitchen cupboard, and when her mother, wishing to divert her attention from the pain, said: “What was that; a piece of the cupboard fell off,” R. saw that there was indeed a piece missing, but said nevertheless: “Indeed! That didn’t fall off just now. But where’s the blue piece gone (which you say has just fallen off)?”

Even a well-concealed verbal trap may be avoided by the child. R., when five years and six months old, asked her mother: “How long will you keep that pock-mark?” M. answered: “I shall keep it till I die.” R. said playfully: “Does it go away then?” She has thus detected the involuntary catch underlying the word “till,” and realises that the scar must be there even after death; but at the same time she is obviously quite aware that it will not then be so annoying.

An almost Jesuitical logic was evinced by R., five years and eight months old, one day when she was asked: “Are you going into the water?” She replied: “Yes, I shall.” Miss X.: “Shall you; don’t you want to?” R.: “I shall now.” R. thus corrected the expression “Are you going?” which was not sufficiently exact for her taste, as she was not actually on the way to the water.

Some days later R. and I were picking raspberries; and upon her finding a branch with some dried-up fruit on it, I said: “They are dry.” R., however, corrected me and said: “You mean too dry; for all raspberries are dry when it hasn’t been raining.” The fact that she has thought only of external moisture, and not taken into consideration the fruit’s internal juice, does not affect the stringent accuracy of her criticism.

Her imaginative powers found occasional expression during this period. She saw a butterfly with the back half of its body missing, and asked how that had come about. I said that a bird had perhaps eaten it, to which R. remarked: “That was nasty for the butterfly—but not for the bird.”

Some days later, seeing an old specimen of red toadstool without white spots and two young toadstools covered with spots, she said: “That one has had spots when it was young; I can see that because the others have spots.” I for my part had not said a word about the marking; nor had we seen any toadstools previously that year—and it cannot be supposed for a moment that a little child could remember such a conclusion from the previous year. Besides, the fact that she had understood the relationship between the young and the old toadstools transpired indirectly about a month later. R. plucked on this occasion both an old flower having mauve upper petals and a young but unfolded flower which was almost pure white and yet had a faint tinge of mauve in the upper petals. Concerning the latter she said: “It’s a little blue; it will be like the other when it’s old, for it grows on the same stalk.” This last phrase shows that she is not simply repeating her line of thought with regard to the toadstools; for in the case of the pansy she forms her conclusion from the fact of both flowers growing on the same plant; and therefore she expects the young one to become like the old.

A deliberate ruse may also be employed by a child of this age. R., when five years and ten months old, had been asked by a lady about something or other, and in recording the incident said: “So I laughed; I always do that when I don’t know what to answer.” Naturally it would have been more satisfactory if she had openly acknowledged her ignorance—but that is another matter. Far less engaging, however, was a trap which she laid for her mother a fortnight later. R. asked: “Can you remember that gate down at Mrs. H.’s?” M.: “Yes, I can.” R.: “Can you also remember that gate up on the hill near the steps at K.’s?” M.: “Yes, I can.” R.: “No, you can’t; for there isn’t one;” and she laughed exultantly.

Psychological summing-up of other people as well as of themselves may express itself in young children: R., five years and eleven months old, said to her mother, after I had been dancing the polka with her: “Father can’t dance the polka properly,” and she raised her shoulders contemptuously, or perhaps indulgently, and added: “He thinks he can.” Afterwards, however, she became less cocksure and said: “But perhaps it’s me who can’t.”

Self-observation was proved one day, when her mother had been reading aloud a poem, the subject of which was that if one were true to the best in oneself one would always be happy. R., who had heard it, asked: “What does that mean?” and received the answer: “That if you always do what is right you are always happy.” But to this R. remarked: “Yes——; I’m always happy; but it is not because I do what is right.” M.: “Why is it, then?” R.: “Because I’m happy in any case.” She displays not only correct self-analysis but the child’s natural joie de vivre.

The excellence of the childish reasoning faculty is also shown by the following incident. We had a charwoman, who asked: “Can the writing-table be moved?” As it is very heavy, she received the answer: “No;” but R. objected: “Yes, it can be moved, but it’s too heavy. If it couldn’t be moved, we couldn’t have brought it here with us when we came here.”

Far more subtle logic, however, was displayed by R. some days later. S. did something wrong and R. said: “No, S., I wouldn’t do that if I were you ... but if I were you, then I would have done it.” This can scarcely be interpreted otherwise than that R. has understood that if she had really been S. she would have acted as S. did, while on the contrary S. would presumably have behaved beautifully if she had been R. A cruder form of criticism, however, was shown by R., six years old, one day when I was reading “The Princess and the Pea”^[3] to her. When we came to the place where the pea is mentioned she said: “It must have been a big pea” (implying: otherwise she could not have felt it through the mattress). She quite destroyed the romance of the story by her ruthless critique.

R., six years and two months old, displayed a very intelligent comprehension of the essential, when she asked her mother to set the following copy for her: Mother and I are good friends. R. wrote, but omitted the word “good,” and M. pointed out the error. But R. asked: “What does it mean to be friends?” And upon receiving the answer: “It means that one is fond of the other,” she remarked: “Very well, then, that is enough (with ‘friends’).” The same capacity for understanding was expressed when she was six years and four months old. Her grandmother had once written to R. that she sent her a thousand kisses. The letter was referred to later, and the child remarked: “It was a joke your sending me a thousand kisses; but it wasn’t a joke that you loved me.”

A very interesting progress of thought, even if a trifle irrelevant, is found in the following. R., six years and five months old, said: “I’m thinking that when we die we shall live differently.” M.: “What do you mean by that?” R.: “I don’t mean, when we die, but when the people who are now alive on the earth are dead; then perhaps the chairs will stand with their legs in the air and we shall sleep underneath the beds.” She exaggerates of course mankind’s tendency to change, but the basic thought is correct, and it is an extraordinary flight of fancy for a six-year-old child.

The day after, she displayed a kindred mental process. To her mother she said: “Why don’t boys become ladies, and girls become men.” M. answered: “That never happens.” R.: “No, but if it did, it would be funny, as things are now.” For then it would have the charm of the surprising and the unexpected.

Towards her little sister R., when six years and seven months old, was deliberately dishonest in order to please her. They were playing with Nipsenaal,^[4] and R. allowed S. to win, and praised her incessantly to the great joy of the little one. But to her mother R. whispered: “One of us (S.) is playing seriously and the other (R.) in fun; you can’t do that really” (i.e. it is not the real game). R., six years and eight months old, displayed extremely mature reasoning one day when we were gathering mushrooms. She said of a mushroom which she found: “First of all I took it for a stone, but then I saw that it ended in air” (i.e. that the head of the mushroom was raised off the ground).

Another day, six years and ten months old, she appeared in the rôle of exposer of her little sister’s hypocrisy. S. and R. were going up the servants’ staircase, and the former alleged that she could not remember where they lived. R. then pretended that she also did not know, and began shouting: “Where do we live; where do we live?” and went a story too high up. But S. stopped at the right door; and thereby showed that she was not so ignorant as she had pretended.

Linguistic “howlers” are also comprehended by the child; and R. has on several occasions displayed her knowledge in a neat manner. I said one day to my wife: “I use a little many^[5] (rather many) handkerchiefs in these days.” R., overhearing the incorrect expression, was down on me at once with the remark: “You said: A little many ... I get so often never anything.” About a fortnight later I said to R., upon her forgetting to shut the door after her: “Who shuts the door ... not?” I added “not” lest she should fail to understand my ironical correction. R., however, answered: “Yes, who shuts the door, not?” She had therefore remarked the irregular placing of the negative.

When R. was seven years and three months old her mother told her the story of Helge Rode’s drama The Great Shipwreck. Upon M. relating how the director said to Emil: “Why must you capture me, for then I shall be ruined?” R. said: “Very likely, but it serves him right anyhow.” And upon M. telling her that Hedevig fainted when her husband committed perjury in the court, R. said: “Well, that was because she was so fond of him.” She had no difficulty in understanding that. Similarly, about a month later, she understood the decisive point in a scene of The Wild Duck. M. told her of the studio with chickens and pigeons and the wild duck, and of Hedevig wanting to shoot this wild duck which her father did not like, but which was the most precious thing she possessed. By this means she would make her father happy. Then said R.: “Well, then, she was nicer to her father than to the wild duck, which she liked so much.”

Does not this long list of citations prove that a child in the period under discussion, between four and seven years of age, reasons more and much better than is generally assumed? The objection can of course be raised that the evidence concerns one child only, and that it is not necessarily applicable to others. But when we compare the casual observations with the above-mentioned intelligence-tests, we are forced to another conclusion. The intelligence-tests prove, namely, that R. is not superior to other well-endowed children of the same age. Therefore we may be allowed to conclude that her standard of reasoning is to be found also in the group of similar-aged children with whom she is equal in other respects. But if this is really the fact, it shows, inter alia, how extraordinarily careful in their speech parents and other adults should be in the presence of small children; for the latter understand far better than is generally supposed. Besides, it is evident from the observations what an objectionable practice in education it is to ignore the child’s thinking-powers and treat it as a small, insignificant being lacking comprehension. We should on the contrary humour the child’s need for understanding and set it on the right road to good and sound reasoning. Finally, the above recorded observations of the child’s doubt and criticism show especially of what signal importance it is for educators to avoid weakening or undermining the child’s trust in themselves by stifling the child’s sense of criticism and, when it is roused, by crushing it down without explanation with a trite remark that children must not criticise their elders, or whatever other means of avoiding the issue comes most easily to mind.

[1] A Danish song, “Jylland mellem tvende Have,” which compares Jutland with a Runic wand.

[2] A children’s poem in which a naughty girl who plays with matches catches fire and is burnt up except for her shoes.

[3] One of Hans Andersen’s stories in which the princess is so aristocratic and sensitive that she cannot sleep because of a pea which lies underneath the mattress.—Trans. Note.

[4] See note, vol. ii. p. 94.

[5] Danish, lidt mange.