In her interesting study of individual psychology, Dr. Caroline Miles informs us that out of ninety-seven answers to the question, "Did you express yourself in any art-form before eighteen years of age?" fourteen stated that the person replying used verses alone, fourteen used stories and poetry, three used poetry and drawing or painting, two used poetry and painting. Dr. Miles notes that "those who replied 'no' seemed to take pride in the fact that they had been guilty of no such youthful folly." This is in line with the belief parents sometimes express that the son or daughter who poetizes early is "loony." Some who were not ashamed of these child-expressions volunteered information concerning them, and we learn: "Most interesting was one who wrote a tragedy at ten, which was acted on a little stage for the benefit of her friends; from ten to thirteen, an epic; at thirteen, sentimental and religious poems" (310. 552, 553). Dr. H. H. Donaldson, in his essay on the _Education of the Nervous System_, cites the fact that of the musicians whose biographies were examined by Sully, 95% gave promise before twenty years of age, and 100% produced some work before reaching thirty; of the poets, 75% showed promise before twenty, and 92% produced before they were thirty years of age (216. 118). Precocity and genius seem to go together. CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHILD AS TEACHER AND WISEACRE. The child is father of the man,--_Wordsworth_. And wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine.--_Whittier_. And still to Childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns.--_Whittier_. _Wisdom of Childhood_. In his beautiful verses--forming part of one of the best child-poems in our language-- "And still to childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns,"-- Whittier has expressed that instinctive faith in the wisdom of childhood that seems perennial and pan-ethnic. Browning, in _Pippa's Song_, has sounded even a deeper note:-- "Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought above me, nought below, My childhood had not learned to know: For, what are the voices of birds --Aye, and of beasts,--but words, our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun. But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the seven and one, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me-- Suddenly God took me."