CHILDREN'S QUESTIONS.
The disposition to ask questions, which is so universal and so strong a
characteristic of childhood, is the open door which presents to the mother
the readiest and most easy access possible to the mind and heart of her
child. The opportunities and facilities thus afforded to her would be the
source of the greatest pleasure to herself, and of the greatest benefit
to her child, if she understood better how to avail herself of them. I
propose, in this chapter, to give some explanations and general directions
for the guidance of mothers, of older brothers and sisters, and of
teachers--of all persons, in fact, who may, from time to time, have young
children under their care or in their society. I have no doubt that some of
my rules will strike parents, at first view, as paradoxical and, perhaps,
almost absurd; but I hope that on more mature reflection they will be found
to be reasonable and just.
_The Curiosity of Children not a Fault_.
1. The curiosity of children is not a fault, and therefore we must never
censure them for asking questions, or lead them to think that we consider
the disposition to do so a fault on their part; but, on the other hand,
this disposition is to be encouraged as much as possible.
We must remember that a child, when his powers of observation begin to be
developed, finds every thing around him full of mystery and wonder. Why
some things are hard and some are soft--why some things will roll and some
will not--why he is not hurt when he falls on the sofa, and is hurt when he
falls on the floor--why a chair will tumble over when he climbs up by the
rounds of it, while yet the steps of the stairs remain firm and can be
ascended without danger--why one thing is black, and another red, and
another green--why water will all go away of itself from his hands or his
dress, while mud will not--why he can dig in the ground, but can not dig
in a floor--all is a mystery, and the little adventurer is in a continual
state of curiosity and wonder, not only to learn the meaning of all these
things, but also of desire to extend his observations, and find out more
and more of the astonishing phenomena that are exhibited around him. The
good feeling of the mother, or of any intelligent friend who is willing
to aid him in his efforts, is, of course, invaluable to him as a means of
promoting his advancement in knowledge and of developing his powers.
Remember, therefore, that the disposition of a child to ask questions is
not a fault, but only an indication of his increasing mental activity,
and of his desire to avail himself of the only means within his reach of
advancing his knowledge and of enlarging the scope of his intelligence in
respect to the strange and wonderful phenomena constantly observable around
him.
_Sometimes, perhaps, a Source of Inconvenience_.
Of course there will be times when it is inconvenient for the parent to
attend to the questions of the child, and when he must, consequently, be
debarred of the pleasure and privilege of asking them; but even at such
times as these the disposition to ask them must not be attributed to him as
a fault. Never tell him that he is "a little tease"--that "you are tired
to death of answering his questions"--that he is "a chatter-box that would
weary the patience of Job;" or that, if he will "sit still for half an
hour, without speaking a word, you will give him a reward." If you are
going to be engaged, and so can not attend to him, say to him that you
_wish_ you could talk with him, and answer the questions, but that you are
going to be busy and can not do it; and then, after providing him with some
other means of occupation, require him to be silent: though even then you
ought to relieve the tedium of silence for him by stopping every ten or
fifteen minutes from your reading, or your letter-writing, or the planning
of your work, or whatever your employment may be, and giving your attention
to him for a minute or two, and affording him an opportunity to relieve the
pressure on his mind by a little conversation.
_Answers to be short and simple_.
2. Give generally to children's questions the shortest and simplest answers
possible.
One reason why parents find the questions of children so fatiguing to them,
is that _they attempt too much_ in their answers. If they would give the
right kind of answers, they would find the work of replying very easy,
and in most of their avocations it would occasion them very little
interruption. These short and simple answers are all that a child requires.
A full and detailed explanation of any thing they ask about is as tiresome
for them to listen to as it is for the mother to frame and give; while a
short and simple reply which advances them one step in their knowledge of
the subject is perfectly easy for the mother to give, and is, at the same
time, all that they wish to receive.
For example, let us suppose that the father and mother are taking a ride on
a summer afternoon after a shower, with little Johnny sitting upon the seat
between them in the chaise. The parents are engaged in conversation with
each other, we will suppose, and would not like to be interrupted. Johnny
presently spies a rainbow on a cloud in the east, and, after uttering an
exclamation of delight, asks his mother what made the rainbow. She hears
the question, and her mind, glancing for a moment at the difficulty of
giving an intelligible explanation of so grand a phenomenon to such a
child, experiences an obscure sensation of perplexity and annoyance, but
not quite enough to take off her attention from her conversation; so she
goes on and takes no notice of Johnny's inquiry. Johnny, accordingly, soon
repeats it, "Mother! mother! what makes the rainbow?"
At length her attention is forced to the subject, and she either tells
Johnny that she can't explain it to him--that he is not old enough to
understand it; or, perhaps, scolds him for interrupting her with so many
teasing questions.
In another such case, the mother, on hearing the question, pauses long
enough to look kindly and with a smile of encouragement upon her face
towards Johnny, and to say simply, "The sun," and then goes on with her
conversation. Johnny says "Oh!" in a tone of satisfaction. It is a new and
grand idea to him that the sun makes the rainbow, and it is enough to fill
his mind with contemplation for several minutes, during which his parents
go on without interruption in their talk. Presently Johnny asks again,
"Mother, _how_ does the sun make the rainbow?"
His mother answers in the same way as before, "By shining on the cloud:"
and, leaving that additional idea for Johnny to reflect upon and
receive fully into his mind, turns again to her husband and resumes her
conversation with him after a scarcely perceptible interruption.
Johnny, after having reflected in silence some minutes, during which he has
looked at the sun and at the rainbow, and observed that the cloud on which
the arch is formed is exactly opposite to the sun, and fully exposed to his
beams, is prepared for another step, and asks,
"Mother, how does the sun make a rainbow by shining on the cloud?"
His mother replies that it shines on millions of little drops of rain in
the cloud, and makes them of all colors, like drops of dew on the ground,
and all the colors together make the rainbow.
Here are images presented to Johnny's mind enough to occupy his thoughts
for a considerable interval, when perhaps he will have another question
still, to be answered by an equally short and simple reply; though,
probably, by this time his curiosity will have become satisfied in respect
to his subject of inquiry, and his attention will have been arrested by
some other object.
To answer the child's questions in this way is so easy, and the pauses
which the answers lead to on the part of the questioner are usually so
long, that very little serious interruption is occasioned by them to any
of the ordinary pursuits in which a mother is engaged; and the little
interruption which is caused is greatly overbalanced by the pleasure which
the mother will experience in witnessing the gratification and improvement
of the child, if she really loves him, and is seriously interested in the
development of his thinking and reasoning powers.
_Answers should attempt to communicate but little Instruction_.
3. The answers which are given to children should not only be short and
simple in form, but each one should be studiously designed to communicate
as small an amount of information as possible.
[Illustration: "MOTHER, WHAT MAKES IT SNOW?"]
This may seem, at first view, a strange idea, but the import of it simply
is that, in giving the child his intellectual nourishment, you must act as
you do in respect to his bodily food--that is, divide what he is to receive
into small portions, and administer a little at a time. If you give him too
much at once in either case, you are in danger of choking him.
For example, Johnny asks some morning in the early winter, when the first
snow is falling, and he has been watching it for some time from the window
in wonder and delight, "Mother, what makes it snow?" Now, if the mother
imagines that she must give any thing like a full answer to the question,
her attention must be distracted from her work to enable her to frame it;
and if she does not give up the attempt altogether, and rebuke the boy for
teasing her with "so many silly questions," she perhaps suspends her work,
and, after a moment's perplexing thought, she says the vapor of the water
from the rivers and seas and damp ground rises into the air, and there at
last congeals into flakes of snow, and these fall through the air to the
ground.
The boy listens and attempts to understand the explanation, but he is
bewildered and lost in the endeavor to take in at once this extended
and complicated process--one which is, moreover, not only extended and
complicated, but which is composed of elements all of which are entirely
new to him.
If the mother, however, should act on the principle of communicating as
small a portion of the information required as it is possible to give
in one answer, Johnny's inquiry would lead, probably, to a conversation
somewhat like the following, the answers on the part of the mother being so
short and simple as to require no perceptible thought on her part, and
so occasioning no serious interruption to her work, unless it should be
something requiring special attention.
"Mother," asks Johnny, "what makes it snow?"
"It is the snow-flakes coming down out of the sky," says his mother. "Watch
them!"
"Oh!" says Johnny, uttering the child's little exclamation of satisfaction.
He looks at the flakes as they fall, catching one after another with his
eye, and following it in its meandering descent. He will, perhaps, occupy
himself several minutes in silence and profound attention, in bringing
fully to his mind the idea that a snow-storm consists of a mass of
descending flakes of snow falling through the air. To us, who are familiar
with this fact, it seems nothing to observe this, but to him the analyzing
of the phenomenon, which before he had looked upon as one grand spectacle
filling the whole sky, and only making an impression on his mind by its
general effect, and resolving it into its elemental parts of individual
flakes fluttering down through the air, is a great step. It is a step which
exercises his nascent powers of observation and reflection very deeply, and
gives him full occupation for quite a little interval of time. At length,
when he has familiarized himself with this idea, he asks again, perhaps,
"Where do the flakes come from, mother?"
"Out of the sky."
"Oh!" says Johnny again, for the moment entirely satisfied.
One might at first think that these words would be almost unmeaning, or, at
least, that they would give the little questioner no real information. But
they do give him information that is both important and novel. They advance
him one step in his inquiry. Out of the sky means, to him, from a great
height. The words give him to understand that the flakes are not formed
where they first come into his view, but that they descend from a higher
region. After reflecting on this idea a moment, he asks, we will suppose,
"How high in the sky, mother?"
Now, perhaps, a mother might think that there was no possible answer to be
given to such a question as this except that "she does not know;" inasmuch
as few persons have any accurate ideas of the elevation in the atmosphere
at which snow-clouds usually form. But this accurate information is not
what the child requires. If the mother possessed it, it would be useless
for her to attempt to communicate it to him. In the sense in which he
asks the question she _does_ understand it, and can give him a perfectly
satisfactory answer.
"How high is it in the sky, mother, to where the snow comes from?" asks the
child.
"Oh, _very_ high--higher than the top of the house," replies the mother.
"As high as the top of the chimney?"
"Yes, higher than that."
"As high as the moon?"
"No, not so high as the moon."
"How high is it then, mother?"
"About as high as birds can fly."
"Oh!" says Johnny, perfectly satisfied.
The answer is somewhat indefinite, it is true, but its indefiniteness is
the chief element in the value of it. A definite and precise answer, even
if one of that character were ready at hand, would be utterly inappropriate
to the occasion.
_An Answer may even be good which gives no Information at all_.
4. It is not even always necessary that an answer to a child's question
should convey _any information at all_. A little conversation on the
subject of the inquiry, giving the child an opportunity _to hear and to use
language_ in respect to it, is often all that is required.
It must be remembered that the power to express thoughts, or to represent
external objects by language, is a new power to young children, and, like
all other new powers, the mere exercise of it gives great pleasure. If a
person in full health and vigor were suddenly to acquire the art of flying,
he would take great pleasure in moving, by means of his wings, through
the air from one high point to another, not because he had any object in
visiting those high points, but because it would give him pleasure to find
that he could do so, and to exercise his newly acquired power. So with
children in their talk. They talk often, perhaps generally, for the sake of
the _pleasure of talking_, not for the sake of what they have to say. So,
if you will only talk with them and allow them to talk to you about any
thing that interests them, they are pleased, whether you communicate to
them any new information or not. This single thought, once fully understood
by a mother, will save her a great deal of trouble in answering the
incessant questions of her children. The only essential thing in many cases
is to _say something_ in reply to the question, no matter whether what you
say communicates any information or not.
If a child asks, for instance, what makes the stars shine so, and his
mother answers, "Because they are so bright," he will be very likely to be
as well satisfied as if she attempted to give a philosophical explanation
of the phenomenon. So, if he asks what makes him see himself in the
looking-glass, she may answer, "You see an _image_ of yourself there. They
call it an image. Hold up a book and see if you can see an image of that in
the glass too." He is pleased and satisfied. Nor are such answers useless,
as might at first be supposed. They give the child practice in the use of
language, and, if properly managed, they may be made the means of greatly
extending his knowledge of language and, by necessary consequence, of the
ideas and realities which language represents.
"Father," says Mary, as she is walking with her father in the garden, "what
makes some roses white and some red?" "It is very curious, is it not?" says
her father. "Yes, father, it is very curious indeed. What makes it so?"
"There must be _some_ cause for it" says her father. "And the apples that
grow on some trees are sweet, and on others they are sour. That is curious
too." "Yes, very curious indeed," says Mary. "The _leaves_ of trees seem to
be always green," continues her father, "though the flowers are of various
colors." "Yes, father," says Mary. "Except," adds her father, "when they
turn yellow, and red, and brown, in the fall of the year."
A conversation like this, without attempting any thing like an answer to
the question with which it commenced, is as satisfactory to the child, and
perhaps as useful in developing its powers and increasing its knowledge
of language, as any attempt to explain the phenomenon would be; and the
knowledge of this will make it easy for the mother to dispose of many a
question which might seriously interrupt her if she conceived it necessary
either to attempt a satisfactory explanation of the difficulty, or not to
answer it at all.
_Be always ready to say "I don't know_."
5. The mother should be always ready and willing to say "I don't know," in
answer to children's questions.
Parents and teachers are very often somewhat averse to this, lest, by
often confessing their own ignorance, they should lower themselves in the
estimation of their pupils or their children. So they feel bound to give
some kind of an explanation to every difficulty, in hopes that it may
satisfy the inquirer, though it does not satisfy themselves. But this is
a great mistake. The sooner that pupils and children understand that the
field of knowledge is utterly boundless, and that it is only a very small
portion of it that their superiors in age and attainment have yet explored,
the better for all concerned. The kind of superiority, in the estimation of
children, which it is chiefly desirable to attain, consists in their always
finding that the explanation which we give, whenever we attempt any, is
_clear, fair_, and _satisfactory_, not in our being always ready to offer
an explanation, whether satisfactory or not.
_Questions on Religious Subjects._
The considerations presented in this chapter relate chiefly to the
questions which children ask in respect to what they observe taking place
around them in external nature. There is another class of questions and
difficulties which they raise--namely, those that relate to religious
and moral subjects; and to these I have not intended now to refer. The
inquiries which children make on these subjects arise, in a great measure,
from the false and puerile conceptions which they are so apt to form in
respect to spiritual things, and from which they deduce all sorts of
absurdities. The false conceptions in which their difficulties originate
are due partly to errors and imperfections in our modes of teaching them
on these subjects, and partly to the immaturity of their powers, which
incapacitates them from clearly comprehending any elements of thought that
lie beyond the direct cognizance of the senses. We shall, however, have
occasion to refer to this subject in another chapter.
In respect, however, to all that class of questions which children ask in
relation to the visible world around them, the principles here explained
may render the mother some aid in her intercourse with the little learners
under her charge, if she clearly understands and intelligently applies
them. And she will find the practice of holding frequent conversations
with them, in these ways, a source of great pleasure to her, as well as
of unspeakable advantage to them. Indeed, the conversation of a kind
and intelligent mother is far the most valuable and important means of
education for a child during many years of its early life. A boy whose
mother is pleased to have him near her, who likes to hear and answer his
questions, to watch the gradual development of his thinking and reasoning
powers, and to enlarge and extend his knowledge of language--thus
necessarily and of course expanding the range and scope of his ideas--will
find that though his studies, strictly so called--that is, his learning to
read, and the committing to memory lessons from books--may be deferred,
yet, when he finally commences them he will go at once to the head of his
classes at school, through the superior strength and ampler development
which his mental powers will have attained.