19. Children's Questions
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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 people, in fact, who may, from time to time, have young children under their care or in their presence. 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 is 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 their disposition to ask questions—to be a fault on their part. But, on the other hand, their disposition to ask questions—is to be encouraged as much as possible.
We must remember that a child, when his powers of observation begin to be developed, finds everything around him full of mystery and wonder. Why are some things hard and some are soft? Why will some things roll and some will not? Why is he is not hurt when he falls on the sofa—and is hurt when he falls on the floor? Why does a chair tumble over when he climbs up by the rounds of it—while the steps of the stairs remain firm and can be ascended without danger? Why is one thing black—and another red—and another green? Why does water all go away by itself from his hands or his dress, while mud will not? Why can he can dig in the ground—but cannot 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 astonishing phenomena constantly observable around him.
'Sometimes his questions are 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 the child 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 pest," or that "you are tired to death of answering his questions," or that he is "a chatter-box who 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 busy—and so cannot attend to him, say to him that you 'wish' you could talk with him and answer his questions—but that you are going to be busy and cannot 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 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 time, it would occasion them very little interruption. These short and simple answers are all that a child requires. A full and detailed explanation of anything 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. 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 pestering 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.
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 anything 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 emerging powers of observation and reflection very deeply—and gives him full occupation for an 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 people 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. Even 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 anything 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—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 scientific 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 interesting, is it not?" says her father. "Yes, father, it is very interesting 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 interesting too." "Yes, very interesting 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 anything 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 scientific phenomenon would be. Understanding 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—the better for all concerned.
'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 which 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 infantile 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, which 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 interaction 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 by 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, because of the superior strength and ampler development which his mental powers will have attained.
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