would be as much of a miracle as a Centaur, or a Pegasus, or a Unicorn. All these creatures belong, and with equal obviousness, to the world of fable; and the one falls as far outside the realm of actual psychology as does the other escape the ken of the zoologist. If one is inclined to regard that so obvious a proposition would at once command assent, he need only overhear the talk of those who come away from these 'marvelous' performances to be assured that the calculating horse and the unicorn are in popular estimation horses of very different colors. The latter is at once put aside as belonging to the world of myth; but the former, though not to be met with in every stable, is regarded as falling within the occasional possibilities of mundane horsedom.
If we forget for the moment that there is absolutely nothing in a horse's life that would supply the least occasion for developing so remarkable a talent as is needed for counting or spelling, we may bring ourselves to consider what kind of a miracle the calculating horse would stand for. An extravagant admirer of the Berlin horse, in maintaining that 'Hans's' education is about on a par with that of a boy (even a Berlin boy) of twelve years, has at least the courage of his convictions; nothing less would suffice to fit that genius of a horse to handle numbers and words and the abstract relation of things as his friends allege. And if a Zulu or an Esquimau were, after an equally brief schooling, to turn out a Newton or a Darwin, it would be rather less of a marvel.
To gain a common-sense view of the matter, observe a bright child of three years of age: note how it gives a hundred evidences for every hour of its waking existence, of a ceaselessly busy occupation with all sorts of ideas and little mental problems; how it sets up in its play one situation after another, sees new relations, devises a new use for an old toy, and creates a little world of its own imagining, for which it makes rules and breaks them, pretends that things are happening and gives reasons for their doing so; and so hour after hour proves itself possessed of a very acute little mind to which ideas and relations and situations are very interesting and familiarly handled mental tools or playthings. It is very true that much of this we know only because the child keeps up a constant chatter in its play, and speaks for itself as well as its toy or dolls, reveals its inventions in words, and thus tells the story, which without the explanation we could in our grown-up remoteness from such occupation but feebly understand. But the very possibility of learning all this language and of using it is itself a direct tribute to the intelligence that animates the little brain and reveals its finer quality, its greater possibilities. Language helps, most decidedly helps, the mind to grow in scope and power; but it does not create the capacity which its use requires. We have, moreover, some very interesting accounts of the cleverness of young children, who from early infancy were both deaf and blind, and who from their dark
