Mind you I do not honestly believe that my logic is at fault. I believe that there is usually a flaw in the reasoning of the child. But you cannot very well say to an infant of three, "You are now being guilty of an undistributed middle or a _petitio elenchi_ or whatever it is." She would do what I have heard even older women do in like circumstances. She would change the subject at once. Perhaps the MONTESSORI system ... But let us take a typical case. I found her sitting at a large table by the dining-room window, in a high chair that left her red shoes eighteen inches from the ground, a complete doll's tea service in front of her and a small stuffed lamb on her right-hand side. The tea-pot appeared to contain real water and the sugar-basin real sugar, and although she was supremely busy watering and sugaring and rearranging her cups and jugs and spoons she greeted me with the composure of an experienced _châtelaine_. Our conversation went something like this:-- _She._ Will you have any cup of tea? _I_ (_having drunk a small cup of water with a very little real sugar and a large quantity of real grit in it_.) Thank you. How delicious! But I must go and have my breakfast now. _She_ (_taking no notice at all and offering me a small fragment of moist toast_). Will you have any piece of cake? _I._ Thank you. What lovely plum-cake! _She_ (_with infinite scorn_). Ho! that isn't _plum_-cake. There isn't any plums in it. It's _choclat_ cake. _I_ (_humiliated_). Oh, well, I don't think I will have any more tea, thank you. _She_ (_coldly_). I'm going to give my lamb tea now. [_The method of giving tea to a lamb, in case it is not generally known, is to plaster the lamb's nose with spoonfuls of sugar and then lick off the sugar with one's tongue. At least that is the way Priscilla does it._] _I_ (_reprovingly from the breakfast-table_.) What a funny way to give your lamb tea, Priscilla. _She._ My lamb says he likes having his tea like this. (_A longish pause._) Please will you draw me a picsher? _I._ What kind of a picture? _She._ A picsher of a house. _I._ What kind of a house? _She_ (_in one long breath_). A purple house with a yellow roof and blue curtains and a green door and rose-trees with red roses and hollyhocks and a dear little pussy-cat and a motor-car coming up the drive. [_This is executed in coloured crayons with a rapidity born of hunger and long practice, and passed to the Hanging Committee for inspection._] _She_ (_examining it critically_). Ho! that isn't a _door_. _I._ Yes, it is, Priscilla. It's a very nice _door_. _She._ It isn't a door. It hasn't any knocker. [_After all, when_ is _a door not a door? I finish the joinery job and carry on with my bacon._] _She_ (_suddenly_). There isn't any sun. [_I sketch in the regulation pattern of circular sun, with eyes, a nose and a smile complete._] _She._ That isn't a sun. It hasn't any hair. _I._ The sun doesn't have any hair, Priscilla.