Here is an example:

20 + 14? Answer: 34. 24 + 32? Answer: 56. 11 + 15 + 2? Answer: 28

Here again the most surprising thing was the celerity with which the replies were given. I was at first inclined to make her look at the paper attentively, but she would merely glance over it, then came a moment of quick thought—and the answer was ready. (I propose to return to this point again in the chapter on "Seeing.")

In the course of such exercises it is no exaggeration to say that one does actually see, by an alteration in the eye, that the dog is thinking; the gaze is withdrawn, so to speak, as it is in the eye of a person engaged in the process of thinking; and then brightens when the result has been attained. I have often been so absorbed in contemplating this process in Lola that I have almost forgotten to continue the work we were engaged on.

As the lessons progressed it became easy to teach her to read the letters, for she now knew what it was all about, and she soon picked up the figures requisite for any given letter. Personally, I always use the Latin script for writing, and it was therefore more convenient to teach her this form rather than the Gothic, but for the sake of simplicity I made use of the small characters only. I wrote these out on a sheet of paper, taking care to make them very large, and with the equivalent figure under each—thus:

a e i o u au ei 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

and so on.

I then gave a short explanation and stood the sheet on the floor again—just as I had done in the case of the figures.

The next day I questioned her, taking the precaution to write out a few letters on another piece of paper, so as to be able, by comparing the two, to know what the word was at once. In a few instances the right answers were given immediately, but there was still a great deal of uncertainty. I suppose the entire alphabet at one dose had been too much for her! But I tried her again in the afternoon—going over the letters carefully, and set up the card once more, to "jog her memory." And the next morning she knew it nearly to perfection, and was able to follow with her raps such words as—h, o, l, z, (holz = wood), for I took care to separate the letters, fearing she would otherwise get confused. Whenever she seemed in doubt over some letter I had recourse to her alphabet card, and made her look it up herself.

I began to feel that the foundation for all that was most important had now been laid, and that at no distant future I should be able to ask her all kinds of questions, and my joy was great. For now the moment was at hand when I might hope to gain insight into the very being of this dog, get into touch with its thinking and its feeling—all of which was so immeasurably strange to me. Yet what I here anticipated was not to be reached in so short a span of time as had hitherto sufficed for her other studies. For the present Lola spelt out no more than I told her to, and I continued practising her diligently, for I felt sure that as long as it gave her any trouble a more lengthy answer—and more especially, a spontaneous one—would not be forthcoming. It had taken one month of study to accomplish all I have here set down, and I felt both grateful, happy, and not a little awed—and, indeed, I did my best to thank her by my sympathy and consideration. It was only later that I came to see my own inconsistency!

The elementary tuition, the form of which I had tentatively evolved was now at an end; and constant practice in the four modes of arithmetic, as well as in reading and spelling, kept her perfect. But it became important to make occasional experiments of longer or shorter duration; such tests might be either in support of, or in opposition to, each other, and of these I now propose to treat in the following pages, for they represent the "digest" of what had so far been learnt.



SENSE OF TIME

We often hear that dogs whose masters lead a very regular life get to know the time and the hours of the day's routine—such as walks and meals showing this by their behaviour. It might be easy to account for their intimate acquaintance with the hours of meals, since their stomach is practically their clock. But that a dog should know to a "tic" the time for his master's departure from the house—whatever the season of the year, tugging him by his coat—should he not be ready, or fetching his stick—allows of no other explanation than that of a canine sense of time.

This consideration led me to try and teach Lola our divisions of time on the clock in order to make my experiment in this direction. I took a clock on which the figures were inscribed in Arabic, and of which the dial—measuring 5 centimetres across (2 inches), was sufficiently plain to read. I then explained to her that a day and a night were divided into 24 parts: I said to her: "The day-time is light, and people can then go about, and eat and work; at night it is dark, and people and animals sleep—do you understand me?" She replied: "Yes!" (two raps). I said: "Into how many parts are the day and night divided?" and she answered: "24," "These portions," I continued, "are called hours, and one hour is again divided into sixty parts, and these are called minutes; and so as always to know what are the hours, and what are the minutes, people have made a clock—now look here: so as not to make it too big they have written only twelve hours on it and this thick little pointer goes round slowly and points to the number of the hours: now, how often must it go round in a day, if a day has 24 hours?" She replied: "2."

"You see, the little thick pointer is now pointing to nine, so it is 9 o'clock; what time will it be when it points to 4?" She answered: "4." "You remember that I told you that the hour is divided into 60 minutes?" "Yes." "Now—see! the big pointer goes round more quickly and points out the minutes: when that pointer has been round once, 60 minutes are gone—that means one hour. This big pointer starts at 12, and you see that there are five little strokes up to 1, and how many up to 2?" Lola rapped "10." "And where is the big pointer now?" "(At) 14." "What is 14—is it an hour?" "No." "Then what is it called?" "Minute." And after this Lola rested!

In an hour and a quarter I fetched the clock again and said: "Look! what does the little thick pointer say now?" She tapped an uncertain "no." So I explained once more and then said: "Now tell me!" and she answered this time, "50."

I stood the clock on the ground in front of her and questioned her twice more in the course of the day—correct replies being given. I also left the clock standing near her for the rest of the day, for I wanted the flight of time to become impressed on her, and her eye was bound to rest on the dial now and again during the course of the day. Her answers were invariably right now for, by way of test, I inquired: "How many minutes are there in half an hour?" And she replied: "30." And again: "How many minutes has a quarter of an hour—that is, an hour divided by 4?" And she answered: "15." She also showed much interest in all this, for she sat as still as could be, listening attentively to all my explanations. And I kept her interest alive by always telling her "what nice new things Lola would be able to learn," and at this she was visibly pleased.

The next day I made casual remarks as to the time of day out loud, and all this day's answers were equally good. I now saw that she had grasped the essentials—so that I could put the clock away, and there is not another in my rooms, the nearest being a big one standing in the kitchen which is on the ground floor. I never carry my watch, leaving it in a drawer—and generally forgetting to wind it up, so that if I do not ask, I seldom know what the time is. I have no sense of time whatever myself, so that to me it may seem either long or short—according to what I may be doing. I have always envied people who possessed this sense of absolute certainty in guessing the time—it is not a common gift. I make this remark "parenthetically" in my desire for trying to elucidate the causes which lie at the back of the "feeling for time."

On the third day after my first explanations I said to Lola in the course of the morning: "Tell me what time it is. I daresay you know without seeing the clock!" To which she answered "Yes!" "Then tell me the hour first," I said, and she rapped: "10;" "And now the minutes?" "35." I then went downstairs and found that the kitchen clock pointed to 10.30, but I was told that it was not quite exact, so I telephoned to the Post Office, and inquired the correct time—asking again in the afternoon when it was 4.17. I then said to Lola: "Tell me the hour?" "4," said she. "And the minutes?" "18." I made this test several times more, and as the replies were invariably right I could regard this experiment as successful. After this I allowed her to show off her accomplishment to various people, and as long as the novelty appealed to her Lola always told the time correctly and earned much praise. In the presence of Dr. Ziegler and others she gave a most excellent account of herself, and I frequently made practical use of her as my "timepiece." The change-over to "summer-time" created some slight confusion, but this was only temporarily, and was soon overcome. Later, however, she frequently gave the wrong time!—it was only the charm of novelty that spurred her on to her best endeavours!

Since then I have not questioned her as often—perhaps only once a week, and her replies have varied, some being very good. Only to-day (I am writing on 31 December, 1916) I asked her the time; it was very dusk, and I thought it must be nearly 5 o'clock, but Lola rapped out: "4"—"And how many minutes?" I inquired. "No!" came the reply. "Nonsense!" I cried, "there must be some minutes as well?" "No!" she insisted. So I went and assured myself, believing Lola to have been obstinate, but no, it was actually only just four!

It may be taken for granted, I presume, that all dogs have this time-sense in a greater or lesser degree, and not only all dogs, but other animals also, for there are sufficient proofs to justify this assertion. Sportsmen, in particular, will be able to furnish examples in support of the theory. That Lola was able to "tell the time" was, of course, merely a matter of tuition, this having awakened her latent consciousness, and enabled her to master the signs.

In the summer of 1916 I purchased a grey parrot with the object of further studies. This bird, being very tame, was allowed to sit on the back of my chair and enjoy a few tit-bits at meal times. I always, carried him on my hand from his cage to the chair, as he would not come down from the cage—preferring to clamber about without and within. One evening I had been delayed, and did not appear as punctually as usual. My maid told me, however, that the parrot had left his cage at eight o'clock, gone straight to my chair, climbed up, and was even at that moment sitting on the back-rail waiting for me!

How sensibly animals are equipped as to the requisites of life! Probably man was, too—at one time; at a time when he stood nearer to Nature, and before his inventions and manifold accessories had weaned him from so much that was inherent and inborn knowledge.



CALCULATING TIME

At first I proposed to achieve this by building on the foundations I had already laid, on the dog's fairly reliable comprehension of the value of figures, and her knowledge of spelling. So I wrote on a large sheet of paper and in small characters:[14]

1 jar (jahr = year) = 365 days. 7 tage ( = days) = 1 woche ( = week). so for 1 jar = 52 wochen = 365 tage.

The days of the week are called:—

1 montag. 2 dinstag (dienstag). 3 mitwoch (mittwoch). 4 donerstag (donnerstag). 5 freitag. 6 samstag. 7 sontag (Sonntag); no work for Lola!

[14] So as to avoid confusing her I always write the sound only.

This was to be—at the same time—a test of Lola's reading. I placed the chart on the floor where she could look at it, and repeated: "To-morrow you must be able to know this. Now spell the first word to me. And she tapped "jar." I once more went over this new lesson, explaining it all, but put no more questions, only leaving the paper where she could from time to time look at it.

The next day I removed the chart early, and later began my questioning; fully prepared for somewhat crazy results. First I asked:

"How many days are there in a week?" She rapped "7."

"And in three weeks?" "21."

"How many weeks has a year?" "52."

I praised her warmly—her interest seemed roused, for she had rapped her answers with a sort of joyful certainty! So I continued:

"Name the second day in the week?" "dinstag!"

"And what is the day called on which you do no work?" "sontag!"

"And which day in the week is that?" "7."

I then said: "To-day is Tuesday; now remember the days carefully: to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow—and the next you must always tell me the name of the day on which I ask." I then dropped the subject, and tested her on the morrow: "What is to-day?" "Mitwoch!" I next questioned her at random as to the weeks and the year, and all her answers were correct. I was very surprised on this occasion at the short time she had taken—in spite of the rapidity of so much of her earlier work, and I began to feel a sense of certainty as to the possibility of making greater demands on her. Hitherto Lola had always been able to prove to those who have seen her at her performances that she can state the day of the week correctly, yet of late she has no longer taken the same delight in doing so; it has become "a bore"—and for this reason she is now only asked two or three times a month. Four days after she had learnt this accomplishment I tackled the dates. At first it was rather difficult to explain to her why a year, which was already divided into weeks, should be again sub-divided into months—within which, moreover, the weeks could not be disposed of in complete numbers. Once more I made out my chart, and wrote down everything as I had done on previous occasions, but with divisions into twelve parts. Then I wrote out the months and placed the number of days after each, making the addition at the bottom of the chart come to 365. I then explained to her that, besides being divided into weeks, the year was also divided into months, so that each day of the year might be more easily remembered. I told her that for instance—"this day was Saturday; that it was in the month of March, and that to-day was the 13th of March." That "yesterday had been Friday, the 12th of March, and that to-morrow would be the 14th," and so forth. Then I left my chart on the floor again, and did not refer to the subject any more that day.

On Sunday Lola was seldom given anything to do so that the divisions of the week should be firmly planted in her memory. Having, therefore, removed the chart on Sunday, I asked her on Monday:

"How many months has the year?" Answer: "12."

"And what is the second month called?" "February."

She was very eager and giving her undivided attention to the work, so I continued: "What day is to-day?" "Monday." "What number is this day?" "12." Now, this was wrong, so I said: "Yesterday was the 14th, so what is to-day?" And she replied: "15." I said: "How many days has March?" Answer: "31." This last answer seemed to me the most astonishing, especially as I had not really laid much stress on this part of the lesson—fearing I might be expecting too much from her at the beginning. As a matter of fact, I was myself by no means sure as to the number of days in March, and had to verify it first! Up to this day Lola has not forgotten how many days there are in each month, although this question has merely been asked now and again; it has not been put to her now for about nine months. Owing to the regularity of my daily work I take but little heed of dates, so it comes that I have often put the question to her, for when I do ask it is of importance to me to have accurate information, and I have always been able to rely on Lola's quick and steady rap, subsequent reference invariably proving that I can place implicit confidence in her.



SIGHT

A dog's sight hardly plays so important a part in canine life as do scent and hearing; yet, inferior as the eye would seem in some respects, it yet excels in others. It may be observed in the case of any dog that he only recognizes his master or any person he is acquainted with at a distance of—at most—20 metres. If either my old sheep-dog or Lola come to meet me they do not see first at all that there is a person standing on the road. If one moves, the dog will then recognize at a distance of some 50 metres, that a human being is in front of it—the movements being responsible for this. Then, when one gets within 10 or 20 metres, the cautious and critical aspect changes, and the dog will rush forward in joyous welcome. This is enough to show that in comparison to our sight, theirs is inferior; and there are dogs that see even much worse than in the case just cited. To test this it is well to stand against the wind, otherwise the dog scents what it cannot see. It is the same case with game. At the distance, therefore, the canine eye does not seem quick of sight, but it becomes all the sharper at close quarters. Here the swift glance and good memory far out-strip our own equipment.

It was conspicuous from the beginning—both in counting and spelling—that Lola was able to learn and memorize in a surprisingly short time. Lola's charts of figures and letters were written in my none-too-clear handwriting—and yet she could remember combinations of figures amounting to ten in number from one day to the other. She could also recognize persons from their portraits, and pictures of objects familiar to her, a faculty of observation I have tested in numerous little ways. This gift was also possessed by Krall's horses and by Rolf. People seem to have the idea that dogs do not observe much, but there is no valid reason for this. Children in their naivete will show their picture-book to a dog as to a friend: "Look here!" they will cry—it is only the exception when it occurs to a "grown-up" to do the same.

I can only say that I have convinced myself and proved to the astonishment of many that a dog can recognize both the letters of the alphabet and the subject of a picture shown to it.

Not that these abilities exceed those of man, at first sight, but when the matter is probed into deeply they do out-strip ours in one particular, and that is in celerity. For instance, if I write three or four rows of figures, one beneath the other, doing so quickly, without making any calculation myself, and then hold the paper before Lola's eyes, so that I can look into them, I see her glance skim the figures for a second or two, she will then hang her head, in evident calculation—after which she looks out straight in front of her and raps her reply. Rarely does her glance go over the paper a second time. In early days I used to think that, before holding out my hand to receive her answer, I ought to hold her head firmly and oblige her to keep her eyes on the sheet, for it seemed to me she must needs look at it for five minutes—at least. But Lola always tries hard to avoid looking—so I let her have her own way, and am trying to account for the cause of this quick glance by a closer study. It was the same thing when I wrote down a question—her eye flew over the sentence in three or four seconds, and the answer was given without a second glance. People to whom I have not said anything about this have stood behind me during these tests, and have generally been more impressed by the fact of her reading them than by the swiftness with which it was done. But it is the latter that amazed me most of all, for reading she and we have in common—and is indeed so far simpler a matter that there is no reason for a dog not acquiring it—but it is the comprehension of what it is doing, and the speed with which it translates what it has seen into intelligent replies that seem to me the most surprising part of all. Another instance in connexion with what I term the "cursory glance" may throw light upon this curious ability. I had heard of the way in which Rolf was able to count the flowers in a bunch, and so—on the 16 April, 1917, I thought I would try something of the same kind with Lola. For this lesson I took a sheet of paper and peppered it with dots, without any thought at regularity.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lola's first answer after looking at it for about four seconds was "34." "Are you sure?" I asked; "tell me again." She then responded with "32." I took my pencil, scratching out each dot as I went over them—there were just 32!

As she had hesitated in the first test I thought I might have made the dots too small, so taking another bit of paper I proceeded to make dots of a larger size. "How many?" I asked again. Answer: "14." I then checked this reply and found it right. The next day I covered another sheet with dots, but this time of various sizes. Lola rapped "27." "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yes!" So I counted, and there were 23. "Count again!" I commanded. "27," said she. "Lola, I can only make them 23;" "27!" insisted this dog! I could not make out the reason for this, unless, that owing to there being some writing on the reverse side, a few marks may have shown through, and thus account for the wrong answer.

On 19 April I made an attempt with red dots, but she was tired, and rapped out first 25, then 23 and finally 19—there were 19 dots. Then I made some blue dots and she rapped "11." "Are you sure?" Again "11." And this, too, was right.

I put this test several times and it was always successful when the dots were sufficiently large and regular and did not exceed 35; also if the colour was dark—either blue or black. Later on, when I read Krall's book I found that the horses had been submitted to this test with equally good results. Professor Kraemer of Hohenheim attributes the reason for this to the fact of animals having originally lived in herds, and that their "leader" as well as the other horses always knew whether their full complement was present or not. I have had the same experience with clucking-hens. A clucking-hen with twelve chicks knows at once should one be missing, and seeks it even when it cannot utter a sound, and while all the rest of her brood are running about in such confusion that it would seem impossible to count them oneself. How animals manage to do this without a sense of figures and without words always remains a puzzle to me! Now, the measure taken by a dog's eye is almost as accurate as is its sight for near objects, and its swift glance and comprehensive eye for detail. It is true that all these tests have been put to my dog Lola alone, but I venture to say that these facts will be found to apply to all dogs in common, should they belong to a natural and healthy breed of animals, and not to an artificially procured variety.

As to "measuring by eye," this was a test put to her accidentally. About the beginning of June, 1917, for lack of any better idea at the moment, I determined to teach her the use of the yard measure (the metre), and without having any definite object in view. So I fetched the yard-stick and told her the names and the meaning of the divisions three times; but she seemed unable to work up any enthusiasm for the subject, and I therefore did not attempt to question her. Many duties intervened, and so I forgot the whole matter for several weeks. But on 25 July I thought it might be just as well to test her eye for measure, and this reminded me of the yard-stick. So I asked for fun: "Do you remember that I showed you the yard-stick?" "Yes!" was her prompt reply. In astonishment I continued: "How many centimetres are there to the metre?" "100!" "And how many decimetres to twenty centimetres?" "2." "And how many decimetres in two and a half centimetres?" "25." Now, for the joke of the thing, I determined to test the accuracy of her eye, for I had not yet fetched the yard-stick, and she had, in fact, not seen it for many weeks. So I pointed to the outside edge of a small picture-frame that I—at a guess—took to be about twenty-two centimetres in length. At the same time I must own that I have never exercised my judgment in this line to any very great extent. "How long is this lower edge?" I asked her, "from here to here?" (pointing): her answer was, "25." I then tested it by the stick; it was twenty-six! I pointed to a larger frame, putting the same question, she answered "50." I measured, and found it to be 75. Again I showed her a smaller picture, and she rapped "19." Then I showed her a piece of chocolate—"7" was her reply—it was seven and a half. Later on, when she was in the mood she became able to guess within half a centimetre at a distance of about thirty centimetres and at greater distances—up to one metre; I estimated the difference to vary from about one to ten centimetres. Of late I have not given her much practice of this kind, for from the beginning she has not cared much for it. But I have made the experiment of seeing whether she can distinguish colours in the same way we do. To make this test I daubed some of the most important colours on a sheet of paper, writing the name beneath each, and the next day I daubed the same colours on another piece of paper—but in different sequence, and without adding their names. The ready response to my questions gave further proof as Lola's good memory as well as of her perfect ability to differentiate.

I next questioned her on more practical subjects. I said: "What is the colour of the stove in this room?" at the same time looking out of the window to make sure that she knew what a "stove" was. "Green," was her answer—and quite right too, for the stove is built of green porcelain tiles. I asked her a few more questions relating to flowers and to articles in daily use until I had no further doubt as to her being competent to tell one colour from the other. Coming generations may, perhaps, laugh at these numerous tests, instead of crediting animals with this ability as a matter of course!



HER PERFECT SENSE FOR SOUND

In my quest for further tests as to canine abilities, the idea occurred to me that it might be as well to arrive at a greater degree of certainty with respect to sound, that is, inquiring into a dog's memory for sound, and their powers of differentiating one tune from another. In the case of my old dog, I had already observed many things such as inclined those to whom I had related my experiences, to be of opinion that these had to do with the dog's ear. For instance, if I had been away, and returned (either driving or on foot), conversing in low tones with another person, this dog would scream for joy. His voice on such occasions was of quite a special quality, and everybody about the court-yard knew that I must have already passed the tree known as the "Abend Eiche," which stands some hundred metres distant, and the dog was always at that time confined, though in the open. Our conversations on such occasions were always quiet ones, and yet the dog recognized my voice at a distance of a hundred metres. If I happened to return alone and on foot, after an absence of about two days, his cries would start when I had reached half that distance—therefore, at fifty metres—and Lola would then also hear my step. And here is another example—one about which I was at first doubtful, not knowing to which sense it should be attributed. I always knew from Lola when I might expect a certain friend of mine—a friend to whom, by the way, she was really more attached than to me! I used to know by the heavy raps of her tail against the floor. The room in which we would be at such times was on the second floor and lay towards the front of the house. But when those anticipatory raps began my friend was still on her way, coming by a path which lay in the rear of the house, and, moreover, she always came alone. When the dog was present she could never take me by surprise.

My next ventures were of a musical nature, as I thought it might be easiest to achieve something in this direction. Lola knew the letters that are associated with the different tones (c, d, e, f, g, a, h[15], e), having learnt these in her alphabet, so I only had to strike the keys (and I confined myself to the white ones, as involving fewer difficulties), telling her their names. I began by saying: "Lola, you are going to learn something quite new and very beautiful; you must listen to these sounds and tell me the names of each." Then I played the notes over several times from c to c, saying clearly and slowly: "c, d, e, f, g, a, h." Then I paused and played them over again—both the ascending and descending scale.

[15] h is the term used in Germany for the note we call b.

Then I struck "c," saying, "What note is that?" She answered "c." I struck "e," but she rapped "no." I therefore played from c to e, accentuating e in particular. "Do you know now?" I asked, and she replied, "yes: e." I struck "a," and the answer came at once, "a." This seemed enough for one day, for I wished to keep her interest fresh. So we then went over some arithmetic. The next day I played only once from c to c, asking the names of the notes out of their order, and Lola was right in all her replies with the exception of "h," and this she soon identified after a comparison with the other notes. I tried whether she could recognize the number of notes in a chord. First I struck two, asking her the number; she replied "2." I then struck four—and she replied "4" without any hesitation. Then I struck five together, c being associated with them twice. At this Lola rapped "4," so I said: "You are to tell me every note I strike," at the same time putting down the chord again, after which she replied "5." This had been an experiment for which I had made few preparations and I marvelled at such obvious evidences of musical comprehension. But I felt that I should nevertheless test her more closely still, and so I told my experiences to a friend, a woman composer of great professional distinction. This lady was both interested and surprised, and seating herself at the piano, she struck some notes. I placed myself so as not to see the keyboard and tried to guess their pitch, yet I have no "ear" in this way. I had in 1915 attended a course of Delcroze lessons (given at Stuttgart by Fraeulein Steiner) and had tried to acquire the faculty to distinguish the basic tone of any chord given at random—for this can be acquired if one is to some extent musical, yet could I but seldom succeed. I would hover in doubt between c and d, and so on, without sensing any connexion with the other tones. Here, too, with one single note being struck I was unequal to the test, but Lola's replies were excellent, yet was it again the novelty that gave zest to the affair, for later on her answers were good only when she was inclined to take trouble. But in the beginning she had been most obviously delighted with the whole matter and leapt up at me in her joy and excitement whenever I said: "Lola, listen to sounds!" I have interested and amused many friends with this little exhibition, for it came as a surprise to many, especially as the sense of "pitch" is a comparatively rare one in most people.



SCENT

The keenness of a dog's nose is, of course, proverbial, and I have only put a few tests to Lola in this particular, yet, such as they are (proving perhaps no more than is already known) I will here set down. I put the first of these tests to her on the 17 April, 1916. I showed her a book belonging to my father and said:

"Whose book is this?" She answered—"Father!" Then I showed her a glove and she told me it was mine. On 20 April, I showed her another glove belonging to a lady who was commonly known among us as "Mama" and Lola instantly replied with—"Mama!" This was followed by an important test in the afternoon of the same day. Four ladies, who were strangers to her had come to my father's place at Hohenheim, and in helping them take off their wraps I did not particularly notice where the different articles of clothing were laid. Lola was in the room at the time, I introduced the ladies to her singly and by name and later on sent her to fetch one of the hats. She fetched it and then sat expectantly before me. "To whom does this hat belong?" I asked. The answer was: "Sibol." I then asked Fraeulein Sibold who was present if it really was her hat and she said—"yes." Lola had remembered the name quite well but had left out the final "d"—an omission due to the fact that I am in the habit of "swallowing" that letter when saying the name. On 29 December, 1916, I gave Lola a biscuit and she seemed more than usually delighted with its smell—as if there was something familiar about it. "Why ever are you so pleased?" I asked, to which she replied—"Mama!" And it had actually been sent by the aforementioned lady familiarly known as "Mama." I then showed her another biscuit, saying "Is this too from Mama?" but she answered "no!" "Do you dogs always know by smell?" I said—and she rapped "yes!" On this same day another test failed owing to the impossibility of ascertaining the true name of the article in question.

I had a new jacket trimmed with fur—a variety unknown to me, it was grey and slightly woolly. Lola could simply not tear herself away from it—the smell was so fascinating. I said to her: "Tell me what is delighting you so to-day?" She replied—"mederesf." Unable to make any sense of the letters I set them down in writing before her and asked her if any of them were wrong; to this she replied: "yes:" "Which?" asked I—she said: "2." (the second) "What should it be?" I queried; she rapped "n." "How many of these letters belong to the first word?" I continued. "2." "And to the second?" She gave a wavering six—(though it may have been five). So the words purported to be "ne deresf." I could make nothing of it and asked her again—"What is deresf?" to which she gave the explanation: "ein tir." (tier = animal) "An animal? but I don't know the name! have you heard of it?" "Yes!" "Have we seen this animal?" "Yes!" "Where did we see it?" "Maulburg."[16] "In the house?" "No." "In the woods?" "Yes!" "Spell the name again!" "d r e s f." "And what is n e?" "dran" (a contraction of daran = on it). "On the jacket?" "Yes!" "Then you want to say that 'dresf' is on the jacket?" "Yes...." And Lola looked at me with the most imploring eyes as though I ought to see that she was right—as though I ought to know it.

[16] Maulburg, near Schopfheim, in Baden, where Lola had visited relations of mine.

"Are you sure of the name?" I persisted—and she replied: "mittel."[17] Here we ended—and unfortunately I have not been able to ascertain so far what this particular variety of fur is!

[17] Mittel = unbestimmt (uncertain; from Mitte = middle.)

There have been more recent tests of this nature, about which I do not as yet feel in a position to give a definite opinion. They may possibly come into line with the theories held by Professor Gustav Jaegar, M.D., of Stuttgart and, if so, would place the subject in a new perspective. I will now only add what has so far come to my notice accidentally:

On 4 October, 1916, I said: "Lola, do you like to smell people?" "Yes!" "All people?" "No!" "How do I smell to-day?" "Tired." "Lola," I said, "do I sometimes smell horrid?" "Arger Eifersucht!" ( = great, or strong jealousy) "So you smell what I feel and when it changes?" "Yes." "With every one?" "Yes." "With horses too?" "No." "With dogs?" "Yes! yes!!"

On 5 October I asked: "Lola, do I smell the same?" "No!" "How do I smell?" "Angst" ( = fear, or anxiety). She evidently meant that I was uneasy on account of the amount of work.

"Lola," I continued, "how does Betty smell?" "Nach Angst" ( = of anxiety) "And anything more?" "Auch mued" ( = also tired). [N.B. Betty had held out the palms of her hands to the dog.] "And anything more?" "Ja—traurig" ( = yes—sad.) And I found later that this had been the true state of Betty's feelings at the time.

Lola was bright and fresh and this encouraged me to continue:

"What does Magda smell like?" "Afe." "Is that right?" "No—a f." "And what more?" "g e r e g t" "afgeregt? Isn't one letter wrong?" "Yes." "Which?" "1" "Then what should it be?" "Au." "Then you mean aufgeregt?" (excited) "Yes!"

6 October. "Lola, do I smell different to-day?" "Yes—strong" "Yes! go on?" "O w e." "We?" (weh = pain) "Like pain?" "No." "You meant like the exclamation—'O weh'?" "Yes!" "But what do I smell of?" "Of surogat" (!) The use of this word by Lola seemed to be abnormal and mysterious, so I said "I am sure you have never heard that word from me!" and she replied "No!" "Tell me the name of the surogat?" "1"—(which stands for "I will not tell!") "Tell me! for you know the word for it!" I insisted. "Yes!" "Please tell me?" "1"—"I will not be angry," I pleaded, "I will give you a biscuit." But Lola returned again a reluctant "1." "What is this 1 to mean, Lola—is it yes or no?" "4" ( = mittel). She would not look at me and while seemingly desirous of "insinuating" something, was yet not quite ready to make a frank acknowledgment of the implication. "Lola, tell me!" I exclaimed, and she rapped "Luigen." "Luegen?" (lying) "Ja—nein." "Lola! I won't be angry; do I smell of lies?" "Yes." "Here at home?" "Minchen." (Muenchen = Munich.) And then it suddenly dawned on me; an hour earlier I had told the dog that I was going to Munich and that perhaps she might go with me. Yet at the same time I was by no means so sure that this could be managed, and thought therefore of taking her to Stuttgart. People may smile when they read these things—indeed I have often smiled myself, but I cannot help it if Lola chooses to give such answers! Probably the future may bring me further enlightenment! There were many more occasions on which I was able to test Lola's quick nose in taking up the scent of human beings as well as of game and also the smell attaching to different articles. I need not particularize these, for anyone possessing a dog with a keen nose may know this as well as I do—or, even better.



SENSITIVENESS OF THE SKIN

The time at my disposal has unfortunately not been sufficient to enable me to engage on any very careful tests as to the sensitiveness of Lola's skin. Yet I have made certain preliminary notes as to what I hope to do in this connexion, and have also begun with a few tentative attempts. I first tried her sensibility to various degrees of warmth by teaching her the use of the thermometer. I made a drawing of a thermometer—according to its actual size—and added principal numbers and figures and also

at 100 deg., water becomes air = hot. at 0 deg., water becomes hard = cold.

and beneath this I wrote:

from 1-100 upwards, it becomes always hotter, from 0-40 downwards, it becomes always colder,

and I concluded with a few more verbal elucidations, and then fetched an actual thermometer on which I made her read me the temperature of the room. The next day I repeated this lesson and she read the thermometer again. After this I tested her as to whether she could give the temperature by the "feel," as it were, or whether the impression of the temperature was associated more immediately with a sense of comfort. She has so far always given the right temperature when asked, though I should add that I have only put the question to her about twenty times—and then when she has been in good health, so that I feel that the matter has not yet been sufficiently put to the proof, and I cannot, therefore, make any very definite statements with regard to this particular faculty. But I must add, that to two questions put to her on different days, she answered that she "liked her food best at 6 deg. of warmth!" Now this chimes with the advice given in many a book on the care of dogs; "do not give them their food too hot"—and Lola's remark reminded me of this, though I might consider that "degree of heat" practically cool ... yet it appeared to be what she desired. Nevertheless, this preference turned out shortly to have been erroneous and, as the result of a practical trial, Lola changed her mind and voted for anything "between 12 deg.—16 deg.!" Here is one more test I put with regard to her susceptibility to touch: I got someone else to trace figures with their fingers on the dog's back, placing myself so that I could not see what was being described; then I put the questions, and each time her replies tallied almost invariably. One put to her in this manner was: "2 + 3?"; and "5" was given at once. While "7 + 4?" elicited a prompt "11." Then a number was described and I said: "Twice this number makes?"; to which she replied "8," four having been traced on her back. We only tried this new test for a few days so that I can give no more exact details about it—excepting this, that on that particular day, she would only understand the figures if inscribed in this manner on her back! It evidently amused her immensely, and we could see that she seemed to "transfer her attention," as it were, elsewhere. But though this test had been so successful with numerals, it failed entirely with letters. This was incidentally an attempt on quite a small scale at carrying out the tests which had been successfully so put to the blind horse Bertho, by Karl Krall.

These experiments as to her susceptibility to touch, or pressure, led to one slightly different, and which cannot as yet be said to have gone beyond its initial stages. I took a set of weights of 5, 10, 20, 30, 100, 200, 400, and 500 grammes, and also others of 1 and 2 kilo, and told Lola she must learn to know how heavy a thing could be. Then I placed the weights separately between her two shoulder-blades, naming them beforehand somewhat as follows—and having first written out a chart for her which set forth in a plain and easy form what I was going to say:

125 grammes = 1/4 lb. 250 grammes = 1/2 lb. 500 grammes = 1 lb. 1000 grammes = 1 kilogramme 100 lb. = 1 zentner

I then explained this carefully and questioned her at once:

"How many pounds are 375 grammes?" Answer: "3/4."[18] "How much are 1,000 grammes?" Answer: "2." I had intentionally refrained from putting questions as to figures that were on her chart which I had left lying before her; and after she had given her replies in accordance with the pressure she had felt between her shoulders, I tested her ability at guessing where greater differences of weight were in question. On two occasions she gave the right answers, namely "1 pound" and "2 pounds," I having put the question so as to obviate superfluous spelling. I then showed her the weights, placing them in a row before her, naming them again and saying: "Which is the heaviest?" She answered "4." As a matter of fact, the heaviest of these weights, the two-pound one, was actually standing fourth. I continued: "And now?" (I had for this question transposed the weights—unseen by Lola.) Answer: "1." Which was quite right! Then—"Where is the 100 grammes?" "3." "Where is 50 grammes?" "2," and "Where is one pound?" "5." Her answers, as will be seen, were perfect; she had learnt to understand what was expected of her in this test with great rapidity.

[18] Fractions will be touched on in a later chapter on "Advanced Arithmetic."

Indeed, more elaborate tests might have been undertaken but, unfortunately, I had little leisure at the time, and was without the assistance of any educated person who might have helped me in the work. As, however, the "spade-work" in this particular field of experiment seems now to have been accomplished, many additional and interesting details might result—given the right opportunity.

It may, perhaps, be a matter of surprise, that I should have undertaken these three separate tests, and left them in their initial stages, instead of working persistently at one in particular, and thus, maybe, putting the time to better use. The reason was the old and troublesome one which was always cropping up and causing me no little worry: Lola's interest must not be allowed to flag. In the course of a fortnight or three weeks, for instance, I have not dared to embark on more than one test, not even continuing that one for as many as five consecutive days. This is why the three tests, above narrated, followed close one upon the other, while I took care to turn Lola's attention from them in between, making her go over all sorts of sums and spelling exercises. Should I have persisted in fixing her attention I should only have defeated my true object, and made her stale for future undertakings. In fact, I only engaged in these three, by way of giving a greater sense of completeness to the idea, and also in order to fire the ambition of others embarking upon work of a similar nature.



FORECASTING THE WEATHER

On 2 May, 1916, at a season, therefore, when farmers are generally somewhat exercised as to the coming hay-harvest, and may well wish they had some contrivance—or knew of some method whereby they could ascertain, at all events, a few days in advance what the weather is going to be, a thought flashed into my mind. At first it raised a smile, it seemed so ridiculous and impracticable, yet there could be no harm in trying. I knew that most animals, such as birds, game, etc., sensed the approach of rain at least several hours before it began to fall. But the subject is one that has not yet come sufficiently under notice, so that we do not know whether they may not sense the atmospheric changes over an even longer period. We humans are not in a position to discover how animals come by their knowledge, we can only conclude that Nature has equipped them with more delicate "chords," so to speak, and that upon these highly strung chords she can sound a warning of her impending changes, since these, our humbler brethren, stand in more imminent need thereof. It is common knowledge that animals sense earthquakes long in advance of the actual shock, and this can only be accounted for in some such way. At the time of the earthquake in 1912, Rolf, at Mannheim, crept into a corner several hours before it took place, and on being questioned, replied: "Lol hat angst, weiss nid vor was." (Lol is frightened; doesn't know at what.) It was quite useless trying to get further particulars as to his fears, for an earthquake was an entirely new experience to him; at a repetition of the event his remarks would, doubtless, be of greater interest and importance. Now as the weather is a matter that concerns animals, and with which they are also familiar, I determined to see how far I could get with Lola on this subject. So I taught her as follows:

For sun = s. For rain = r. For some rain = b (ein Bischen = a little).

and to test her in this matter, I questioned her as to the last few days—here she answered correctly. Then I began:

"What about to-day?" Lola replied: "b" ( = it is raining a little). I now felt sufficiently encouraged to ask her concerning the days ahead, and received the following answers:

For 3 May = s (sun). For 4 May = s (sun). For 5 May = b (some rain). For 6 May = nein (no = don't know).

I told these forecastings of Lola's to several friends who, like myself, were watching the weather with anxiety. Rightly enough! the sun shone on 3 May; on that very day therefore I continued putting my questions—and Lola again prophesied:

For 6 May = r (rain). For 7 May = b (a little rain).

On the next day, 4 May, the sun shone once more—as she had said it would, and in the afternoon I asked her: "How do you come to know the weather, Lola? How do you do it?" "Raten" (guessing). In astonishment I said: "From whom have you got that word?" "Dir" (from you) "Have you heard me say it?" "Yes!" On the 5th there were a few drops of rain, and on the 6th two hours' heavy downfall, but on the 7th it was dry and sunny, so that it may be that I had taxed her powers of anticipation beyond their limit, for I had asked her far in advance of the 3rd. From time to time she then continued to give me "advance information" as to the kind of weather to expect, two days or, at most, three days were the test put, and for some time I was able to fully rely on her forecasts, and would arrange my work accordingly, being careful not to cut or mow when Lola had prophesied rain, etc.

One morning, the sort of day when one cannot be sure of what it means to do, rain or clear, I again sought my dog's advice! It was very important to me that the hay should be carried, while the weather was dry, but I should have preferred having it loaded up towards evening, as the carts were wanted for other work—if only I knew what to expect! Lola decided for "r" (rain) in the afternoon, so I had the hay carried at eleven—at three the rain began, but my loads were saved! A long period of wet weather followed; after this had continued for a fortnight—a beautiful morning broke, fine and clear, so that every one about the farm said—"at last it's going to be fine again!" I enquired of Lola—"Will there be sun to-day?" "No!" she said: "Then tell me what the weather will be to-day?" I urged. "r." I was loth to believe her, yet, by eleven, the rain had begun again. Now all this seemed very nice, and I was quite delighted, for the importance of such accuracy in agricultural work was incalculable, but I soon found that I was "reckoning without my host!" After she had—as I have shown—gone on rapping out useful and correct replies for some time, she got sick of it, began to rap out all sorts of nonsense; indeed, I knew at once from her listless and unfriendly manner that her interest was falling off, and that the replies she was giving were false. It seemed to me, indeed, that she was doing this obstinately and on purpose, so as to put me off asking any more questions! And—if so—she certainly gained her point. The lesson of this, is that one has to bear in mind that one is not dealing with a machine, but with a living being—and with one that is in many respects exceedingly "unreasonable" and particularly "self-willed."

I had been devoting myself to this work for some months, and had lost some of my earlier interest, but I started again three days ago so as to have another test to set down here. Lola proved to be up to the mark again, seemed interested, and I did my best to encourage her by saying: "You will be pleased when you know this!" ... "This is nice!" ... "See how much more a dog knows than many a man!" and so on. And as a result she announced on 5 January, 1917.

For 6 January = b (a little rain). For 7 January = r (rain). For 8 January = r (rain).

On 6 January, there was half a degree of cold, and snow fell later in the day. This answer was near enough, for she had not been taught "snow," yet the equivalent might doubtless be found in a little "rain," i.e. wet. On 7 January, we had a heavy fall of snow, and another on 8 January. So that this test succeeded, if we discount the snow instead of rain, a change occasioned by the colder atmosphere.



ADVANCED ARITHMETIC

As the reader will now know, Lola was already acquainted with the simpler modes of arithmetic—such as addition, subtraction, multiplication and division; and we continued practising these forms for some time, even though my mind was already busy planning other and more ambitious tests. Arithmetic had of late only been taken as a corollary to her other studies, but the time seemed to have come when further advance in this too, might be deemed desirable. Her ability to "reckon" had already proved itself of practical use in facilitating her other accomplishments, and I determined now to try and put it to a still more objective test, first of all in such simple forms as: "How many people are there here?" Answer: "7." "How many of them are women?" Answer: "6." "How many dogs are there in this room?" Answer: "1." "And who is that?" "Ich" (I). A little later I said: "Listen to me, Lola! There are thirty cows in the stalls; ten of those cows go to graze, and two cows have been killed, how many cows remain in the stalls?" Answer: "18." Then I said: "Six oxen are in the stalls—how many legs have six oxen?" Answer: "24." and so we continued, the right reply being generally given after this exercise had been repeated a few times.

In May, 1916, Lola learnt the big multiplication-table, doing so easily and quickly. She was at first slightly inaccurate in the higher numbers, for rapping out the "hundreds" with the right paw and the "tens" with the left—and then again the "ones" with the right gave her some trouble in the beginning. Yet such questions as: 3 + 14, 2 + 17, 4 + 20, were given without hesitation, since these did not come within the region of the hundreds. But in time she got used to the hundreds too—and even to thousands, and to these latter she applied her left paw, rapping the date 1916 thus: left paw 1; right paw 9; left paw 1; right paw 6.

Towards the end of May I thought I would teach her fractions, and she apparently understood what I meant, but for a beginning I could only put questions, such as: "How many wholes are there in 20/4, 12/4, or 11/2" etc. Indeed, I was at first at a loss as to what form of expression I should use here—so as not to come into collision with those already resorted to, thus giving rise to confusion. At first I thought it might be more convenient to let her rap out the denominator with her right paw and the numerator with her left—but I soon came to see that even with 3/16, this method could no longer be maintained. At length I let her simply rap out the numerator—then I would ask for the denominator, and let her rap this, so that in the case of 3/16 she rapped the 3 first with her right paw; then gave the denominator, i.e. 1 rap with her left paw and 6 again with her right. This mode or procedure came quite naturally to her, and so it was retained. The questions were practised in the following manner:—"How do you rap 3/8, 12/6?" etc., and I followed this up with easy exercises such as: "How much is 2/8 + 1/4?" the simplified answer being "1/2." I had, as may be imagined, already given her repeated and detailed explanations on the subject before she was capable of giving such answers as "1/2," to the above question. Simplifying was also practised separately thus: "Simplify 20/16!" Answer: "1-1/4." this being given with "1 r" (pause) "1 r" (another pause); "and the denominator?" "4 r." To anyone following her actions, the meaning would appear quite distinct. I now determined that she should add together numbers having different denominators—as, for example: 1/4 + 1/3, and here I had myself to cogitate as to how this ought to be done, for at school, my enthusiasm for arithmetic had never been great and much of what I had then learnt has been forgotten. So I talked the question over with a friend—in Lola's presence and out loud—and finally arrived at the solution. As she had been listening most of the time while we sought, found, and discussed the solution, I soon ventured to put a few tests to her, and the answers proved that she had actually been listening while our conversation was going on, and that what we had talked about had lingered in her memory. By the way, it is reported of Jean Paul Richter, that when on some occasion a friend came to him desirous of talking over some matter, the nature of which none other was to know, Jean Paul said to his poodle, who was under the table: "Go outside, we want to be alone!" The dog vacated, and the poet remarked: "Now, sir, you can talk, for no one will hear us!"

Lola solved the following problems:

"1/5 + 1/3 = ?" A. "8/15." "1/7 + 5/8 = ?" A. "43/56."

"1/2 + 1/3 = ?" A. "5/6." "1/4 + 2/5 = ?" A. "13/20."

As the problems always took me longer than they did her I never checked them at the time, but went over them later, after she had given all her answers. I did this moreover, so that she should have no opportunity of tapping my thoughts and thus rely on me; indeed, I really forced her to do her own thinking. For even if I did begin to calculate I did it so slowly, that she was rapping out her reply long before I was done. I say all this to my own shame, for Lola must have her due—and I never had a head for arithmetic myself!

When she knew how to calculate time, I put the following question to her: "How many minutes are there in an hour and a half—less thirty minutes?" Answer: "60." "How many hours are there in 240 minutes?" Answer: "4." By this time Lola had also learnt the value of money. About the end of April, 1916, she could distinguish between such coins as 5 Pfennige, 10 Pfennige, 50 Pfennige; 1 Mark, 2 Mark, and 5 Mark, and could compute the value of the Mark in Pfennige. When showing my friends what she could do in the way of arithmetic, her money sums were a special feature and delighted everybody. Here is an example, the date being 31 May: I put the question: "12 Mark less 4 Mark 10 Pfennige?" adding—"Tell me the Mark!" Answer: "7." "And the Pfennige?" "90" (i.e. 7 Mark 90 Pfennige.) Question: "What coins do you know?" Answer: "5, 10, 50; 1, 2." "And what are they all?" "Fenig." (i.e. Lola's mode of spelling Pfennig.) "Lola, how much of a Mark are 50 Pfennige? The answer has to do with fractions." Answer: "1/2." "How much are 225 Pfennige?" "2-1/4." "And 20 Pfennige?" "1/5." "And 60?" "3/5." "And 3/20 Mark, how many Pfennige?" "20." "No! "8/20 Mark?" Answer: "15." Towards the close of 1916 I taught her to raise numbers to various powers. At this she was slow in the beginning, but ultimately mastered it fairly well. She could soon answer such questions as—"3^3 = ?" with "27." And—"4^2 = ?" with "16," doing so, moreover, with ease; but up to now I have not been able to take her any further in the matter of extracting roots; in the first place I have had little time to give to it, and secondly, I am by no means on very sure ground there myself! I might, of course, have rubbed up my own rusty arithmetic had my interest in this particular accomplishment of Lola's been greater. But—for my own part, I attach greater importance to the psychological side of this question, and would far rather probe and delve within the depths of her dog-soul, exploring the extent of her other abilities, since arithmetic has already some brilliant exponents in, for instance, Krall's horses.



WORKING WITH OTHER PERSONS.

As may readily be imagined, it is by no means easy to induce an animal to work with any person it does not regard as its accepted teacher. On such occasions, it will behave like a small child, and be restless and even intractable. Often, too, while apparently willing, there may be something unfamiliar in the way in which a question is put (a matter for which no one can be blamed!), this resulting in the impossibility of getting an answer. Sometimes, too, the hand proffered to receive the replies is not held either straight or flat enough, or may not have the right slant that will enable the paw to rap without slipping off. Or, again a hand will be held too high, and thus cause much inconvenience to the animal. Then too, questions are carelessly worded, and seem strange to the method of thought to which its regular instructor has accustomed it, fresh explanations being then required to achieve any results at all. And so it comes, that only those can work successfully with animals who have already been frequently present at the teaching, and are then willing to try their luck, calmly and tranquilly—and quite alone with the animal, so as to carefully develop their own aptitude, as well as gain the confidence of their charge. It is true that in the case of the horses, others, besides Herr Krall, frequently did work with them. Indeed, my father got excellent answers from them, although he had to do with them for only a short time. But the matter seems rather more difficult with dogs; for one thing, they do not stand in front of a board—independently, so to speak—as do the horses; nor are they, from the beginning of their career as habitually accustomed to a variety of persons about them, at least, not to the extent that horses are. And yet they are sometimes quite ready to work with others, this being the case with Lola when I took her to Stuttgart, on a visit to a lady she already knew—Fraeulein M. D., and who had put a few questions to her when here at the farm, questions which she had answered quite correctly. At Stuttgart there was a larger circle of listeners, and Lola sat in their midst upon a table. Fraeulein M. D. stood beside me, and I asked her to put the question. I do not now remember what the question was, but I had extended my hand for the reply. Lola, however, turned to the speaker, and tapped the correct answer on that lady's arm, giving the second—and equally good one on Fraeulein M. D.'s proffered hand. Lola is also in the habit of answering my people with either "yes" or "no" as the case may be, and on one occasion—when I was away from home, having gone to Munich for three weeks—she remained with Frau Kindermann at Hohenheim, and during that time, gave replies to all kind of questions put to her by that lady, as the following report will show:

"REPORT OF FRAU PROFESSOR KINDERMANN IN HOHENHEIM

"On my asking Lola: 'Where is your mistress?' she answered—'minchen!' (Muenchen). When I showed her the portrait of my son Karl and asked—'Of whom is this a picture?' Lola at once replied 'Karli.' On 28 October, I received a hamper of vegetables from my mother—known to Lola as 'Mama,' to whom she had been on a visit at Easter. Lola sniffed all the hamper over, then jumped about and wagged her tail joyfully—so I inquired: 'Do you know who the hamper is from?' 'Yes!' 'Then tell me!' 'Mama!' She did a few sums with me every day; told the time; the days of the week, and the temperature. Several acquaintances bore witness to the good work she did—and Lola told them her age—after she had been given the year of her birth. If I happened to be absent minded, Lola knew at once how to deceive me, for she seemed then, instinctively aware that I was not a match for her."

* * * * *

Lola also solved many little sums set her by my friend, Fraeulein M. D. (at the time that lady had been staying with me on the farm to gain first-hand experience in the work), and on one occasion when Fraeulein M. D. said, "Where is your mistress?" Lola spelt out that I was in the "segenhaus," which was quite true, I having told her shortly before that I was going there. To the great amusement of the maids, Lola sometimes elected to work in the kitchen, with the little seven-year-old son of the housekeeper, and it is reported that her answers were frequently right. I feel sure, in fact, that Lola would work with anyone who was adapted to work with her, and that she would give as good an account of herself, with them, as she does with me.



THE QUESTION OF POSSIBLE INFLUENCE

Eighteenth May, 1916. Lola, who since the middle of April has been accustomed to giving her own independent, and often lengthy, answers, was now rapping very well. Her replies were to the point, decidedly apt, and often quite unexpected. Moreover she usually stuck obstinately to her own way—should I happen to think that something was incorrect, until—on giving in—I sometimes had to acknowledge that she had been right after all. Now, on the 18 May I said to her: "Lola, you must write to my father and thank him for the biscuits, he will then send you some more. This is the way to write a letter, one begins—'dear Father,' or just 'dear,' and then one tells what one is thinking about, you must, therefore, thank him—and when the letter is finished—you must put 'love from Lola'." Now then—begin. Lola started rapping out without further delay, and continued rapidly and "fluently"—so to speak—her letter running as follows: "lib, nach uns kom, ich una ..." (here I interrupted her, believing her about to say "ich und Henny") and asked "is this right?" She said it was: "but, Lola," I urged, "be sure you are careful! ought this not to be a 'd'?" "No!" she said. I was at a loss to make out where this "a" came in, but told her to go on—and Lola rapped: "... artig eben, oft we, kus ich!" So the "una" had been part of "unartig"! ( = "dear, come to us, I have just been naughty, often pains, kiss (you) I." Here she showed that she was quite certain in her own mind, and that in spite of my suggestions as to the form her letter should take, she was yet bent on following her own ideas, since there was no trace of "thanks!" Besides which, instead of concluding with "Lola," as I had proposed her doing, she elected to assert herself by putting ich = "I!") "Naughty" referred, probably to a strafe she had had about a quarter of an hour earlier for chasing the game, and the "often pain" to headache and to being tired. Anyway, this letter seems a brilliant proof of "independent thinking," and I shall be able to give several more equally fresh and original replies in a later chapter.[19]

[19] Chapter XVIII, "Spontaneous Answers."

Up to this time, it had only been in the matter of replies that I had been able to obtain independent communications, but, on 27 May, there was a new development to record: I had avoided asking her any questions for several days, for I had noticed that she seemed extremely tired. But by this day I thought she would probably be fit to do a reasonable amount of work: I have always abstained from this if she showed signs of evident fatigue. So I now asked her: "Lola! how is it you always know when my friend is coming? you knew it before she entered the house this morning!" "Gehoert," ( = heard) was the reply. "Then, if you know hers—do you know the sounds made by every one?" "No." "Only those whom you know well?" "Yes." Then Lola began wagging her tail near to the door, so I asked: "Who was outside?" Lola gave a "g," and then corrected it with "no." From her delight, I was inclined to think that it had been Frieda, a young girl who had been studying farming with me, and that this was the name Lola was about to rap out. So I discounted the "g" and the "no" and said: "It should be 'f'—shouldn't it?" (note: g = 17, f = 16.) Whereupon Lola continued and rapped—Frieda. I then looked out and saw to my astonishment that it was Guste, a new maid who had been in the house about a week. I said to Lola at once: "You were wrong, it was not Frieda, but the new maid—what is her name?" Lola began again——" ... "and again added "no ..." "Don't you know her name?" I inquired—but Lola replied "yes!" I turned the matter over in my mind, wondering how she had come to rap "Frieda" instead of "Guste," and finally said to her: "Why did you give me a wrong answer, saying Frieda when it was Guste?" and Lola responded with, "You think!" "What?" said I, "did you feel what I was thinking?" "Yes." "And do you always feel what I think?" "Yes."

This was something quite new, but I explained it to myself, and my view has proved to be correct in all subsequent tests undertaken by me. It is this: Dogs are susceptible to thought-transference—also, that they are more particularly open to this when tired and when lazy. Further—they are open to such thought-transference even when not actually aware of the question—as for instance, in the present case, where it was a matter of the new servant's name, for here Lola had been able to "tap" my thoughts with respect to what was familiar to her—(i.e. the name of the other maid) but (and this is the most important point)—a dog cannot receive impressions in respect of matters of which it has no knowledge!

For example, here Lola could not spell "Guste" in spite of the fact that I was expecting it quite as intently as I had looked for "Frieda" in the first instance; and what is more—I cannot get the dog to "take up" a new thought should she have already "made up her mind" about a matter, as on the occasion when she had been "naughty." It has constantly happened that Lola has held out against me in the matter of some figure in her sums and that—later on—I have found myself to have been at fault, this showing that the numerals "pictured" in my mind can have made no impression on hers; yet, on the other hand, it has also happened that she has accepted my inaccuracies—simply because she was tired, and did not want the trouble of "thinking for herself." Indeed, I could see as much in her eyes—there would be a sense of inertia about her, which indicated that she was only waiting to "guess" by means of feeling—a willing receptacle, as it were, ready to receive my thoughts. I have often made the attempt at "thinking" new things into her head—but have found this quite impossible.

Shortly after what has here been related, Lola became a "slacker" in the matter of thinking, and kept this up for days. As this pose made it impossible for me to put a serious test, I had recourse for some time to questions only, and—moreover—to questions as to which I could not be sure of the answer, without some trouble or calculation on my own part, for I felt that I might otherwise have really lost my patience with her—unless I had kept on strenuously suggesting the answer—as, for instance: "the stove is green!" Nor did I feel that I could have entirely relied on the inactivity of my subconsciousness, while thus intently thinking. So I kept to such questions as—"What will be the day of the week on such and such a date?" (Naming a date about three weeks ahead.) This precluded any possibility of thought-transference, for I simply ignored reckoning out the days myself. By the way, it is astounding that dogs should be receptive to thought-transference, though there are, of course, many proofs of a dog's acute and delicate susceptibility in relation to the thoughts of human beings, as well as a certain comprehension for a particular situation in which these may be placed. Yet such comprehension can only evince its true force when animals shall have learnt how to give expression to that of which they are aware. With reference to the incident which I have just cited, the thought that presented itself to me first, was that the entire process might possibly be no more than a matter of "suggestion." Yet, on probing further into the question, as well as by drawing comparisons, the conclusions arrived at only further confirmed what I have above stated. That this is so, will, I think, seem absolutely certain to anyone who reads through the whole of this book carefully—indeed, they will arrive at that conclusion without my labouring the question.

It was only by degrees that Lola became amenable to thought-transference, and, in fact, this was only in accordance to the extent to which she became mistress of the human tongue. Now this trait might have degenerated into a serious failing, but, owing to the measures to which I resorted so as to obviate any evil results, it has almost entirely ceased. I now remain quite passive, while she is answering, trying to suppress any "thinking with her," so that, when she tires, her own individuality may not be disturbed.



ALTERATIONS AND MEMORY

As I have endeavoured to make clear—Lola was, especially during the first month of tuition, exceedingly attentive at her lessons. Indeed, her rapid progress can only be ascribed to this, and to her good memory. Nor did she only evince this alertness at her studies, but noticed everything that went on round about her, even to the following of our conversations, her keenness was surprising. It is probable that every lively and intelligent dog follows what is being said in its presence, and notes our play of feature—this accounting for the demonstrations of sympathy, and other symptoms of partisanship or of aversion they so constantly show. In general, however, such intuitive response is due rather to the dog's memory, and can only be brought to the surface and recognized where the "Spelling Method" has become a familiar mode of expression. Indeed, it may be said that its attentiveness begins then to extend over a far greater field of interest.

On the 19 April, 1916, several ladies—as yet unknown to Lola—were in the room with me. She was sitting near the window and dividing her attention between what was going on outside and in the room. After about half an hour she did some sums and some spelling, acquiting herself very well. For fun she was then asked the name of one of my guests (N.B. the lady's name was really Fraeulein Herbster.) (Herbst = autumn, so we usually call her Spring) "What's the name of this girl?" I said: "Fruehling" ( = Spring) was her reply at once—so that she must most obviously have been listening to us while we were talking.

On the 25 April of the same year, I went on a visit to Hohenheim, taking Lola with me. While there I showed her a picture painted by Ferdinand Leeke and said: "That was done by 'Uncle' who came to stay with us at the farm, at the time when Lola was allowed to go for her first drive in the carriage with the two horses." (This event having made a great impression on her.) "Do you remember 'Uncle's' name?" I added. "Yes!" "What is it?" "leke!" The visit had taken place quite three weeks ago.

On the 20 May I took Lola to tea at S——. She did her work there excellently—both in viva voce arithmetic, as well as in the written tests put to her, and also counted dots, etc. After this the conversation became general, and Lola was not noticed. But in the course of the afternoon I told my friends that I had been to Hagenbeck's Circus a few days before, and that I had seen a monkey dressed as a man, and that it had eaten most daintily, cycled, and done other tricks. This had been a mere casual remark, and in about an hour's time I had returned home with Lola. But that same evening, when I was sitting reading, Lola came and rapped my hands—inquiring—"wer afe?" ( = who monkey?) I was at the moment so absent minded that I did not grasp what she was after—but she repeated "afe!" Then it suddenly flashed into my mind—and I did my best to illustrate the performance to her entire satisfaction. I gave an earlier conclusive proof of her memory when I mentioned her recollection of the yard-stick after the very brief explanation I had given her on the subject two months previously. Spontaneous remarks have been allotted a special chapter in this book, and may assist in proving what has already been stated, but I should like here to add an example of how animals put a matter "to themselves," as it were, when the thing heard has not been mentally digested, so to speak—or may even be quite incomprehensible to them.

On 26 July, 1916, I said: "Lola! now you think of something to ask me!" "Yes!" "Well, what is it to be?" "Yes, o h o." "What is the question? What am I to do with that word; the sentence is not complete, is it?" "What means?" "You want to know what oho means?" "Yes, yes!"

If we but consider the manner in which a dog will listen—with ears erect—to every word we say, the question Lola put to me will seem most natural! It even "comes naturally" to her to use words which are "above her head," so to speak, as for instance, when she said "surogat"—and in the case of Rolf, who referred to the "Urseele!" ( = the primeval soul!) Words such as these are "picked up" by them much in the way that children use words they do not know the meaning of: there may be something in the sound that attracts them, but sometimes they make a guess at the meaning, and in the case of animals, the guess is often a very good one. In Lola this "Art of Guessing" almost led to a sort of Romance!

In my Protocol of 14 December, I have the following entry: Yesterday I asked Lola to tell me why dogs prefer being with human beings rather than with other dogs—and I asked her the same question again to-day. Lola answered: "eid" ( = oath). "What is that? you were to answer me to-day: say something properly!" "ich eid." "Oh! I don't understand this! tell me nicely!" "Eid fuer hunde." "What is oath to mean?" "Zu schweigen!" ( = to be silent) "What? have you promised that to each other?" "Yes." "Who told you that?" "Frechi." (This was one of the dogs on the farm.) "Frechi? and what has that to do with you? Nonsense, had you told me so yesterday I should have known now! Say 'we are happy' otherwise I shall think you are telling me stories: now why?" "Wegen iren augen und iren sorgen one ruhe" ( = because of their eyes and their sorrows without ceasing). Lola was very tired when she had finished, but it had all been rapped out clearly and carefully, without a single correction. Later I said: "Lola, do you like being with me?" "Yes." "Why?" "ich gut ura?" Now this was quite incomprehensible, so I said: "What do dogs feel when they look at the eyes and see the sorrows of people?" "No." "Yes, tell me?" Then with hesitation: "libe...." (Liebe = love) and to this day I feel touched at these answers. How often in trouble and in sorrow have we not found relief in a dog's sympathy, and been glad to call it a friend in our sufferings? How often has not a dog's eye filled with understanding when its master has sat alone and lost in grief—coming, perhaps, and gently laying its head upon his knees—fixing its faithful gaze on him until at length he might be moved to smile, feeling that—after all—he was not alone? Dogs! may this not be your true vocation? Indeed, this thought possessed me for a long time. This sensitive aspect had not been so apparent to me until now ... I had been so keen on the objective tests and on all that they meant—and now I was almost ready to reproach myself, for had I not centred my love and intelligence on science alone: and only in a secondary sense upon the dog?...

16 December, 1916. On this date I returned to the subject, and said to Lola: "Why do dogs go to people when they see them in sorrow—what is it they then want?" "tresten" (troesten = to console).

"Tell me, Lola, of all the people you know, who has the most sorrows?" "herni ..." But she hesitated, and then turned the "r" into an "n," so that I saw she meant me (Henny)—and yet the spelling had been done with some uncertainty, so I said: "I thought you would have named someone else, whom all dogs love—do you know who I mean?" "Yes."

"Did you mean my friend?" "No." "Who then?" "her zigler!" (Herr Dr. Ziegler) "Then why did you tell a story just now? Did you think I should be pleased to think you meant me?..."

Later in the afternoon Lola was in a state of great depression; "What is the matter?" I asked. "er in or ist aus!" I questioned her more closely, so as to get at the meaning of this enigmatical remark: "What 'in ear'?" (or being meant for Ohr = ear). She replied: "eid zu sagen" ( = oath to tell—or to say) adding "ich auch aus" ... ( = I also done for). She looked absolutely miserable, and dropped down in a limp heap between rapping out each word, as though bereft of all will-power. I was beginning to feel quite distracted about her: "Lola!" I cried, "Is there no way of putting it right again? Oh, there must be!" "Yes." "Then I will help you!" but again she rapped: "er ist aus!" (Ehre ist aus = honour is gone). She could only answer concerning something she had in her head, and she did so restlessly—though quite distinctly. The whole thing seemed quite incredible! "Lola!" I urged, "how can it be put right?" "e zu...." and here Lola cowered down miserably, and remained so for the rest of the day.

17 December. To-day Lola ran away, returning at length as depressed as ever and bleeding. After I had bathed the wounds on her neck and ears I was glad to find that they were after all, no more than deep scratches. "How did this happen?" I asked. "ich one er." "How did it happen? did you run against a tree?" "Dog." "What dog?" "az...." "Tell me properly!" "kuhno." (Kuhno was a fox-terrier in a building near by.) "And were people present?" "Yes." "Who?" "wilhelm." (And this, as I later ascertained, was the case.)

18 December: Lola looked as if she had been crying, so again I said: "What is the matter, Lola?" "No." "Lola! do tell me?" "zu rechnen" ( = her mode of expression when making evasive remarks). "No, Lola! tell me why you have been crying?" "zu sagen swer" ( = schwer: difficult to tell). "No! tell me and I will help you!" I urged (I had incidentally drawn her attention to the above mistake—the "s" instead of the "sch"). "Why difficult?" "wegen er." After a pause I asked again: "Why are you getting so thin, Lola?" (for she had lost flesh considerably during the last three days). "ich so wenig er." "Wenig essen?" ( = you have eaten little?) I suggested—"no"—"Say the last word again." "er!" She kept harping on the same word—Ehre = honour: there could be no further doubt about this, for the missing "h" was of no importance since I had taught her to spell all words according to their sound only—as there would have been no object in teaching her our orthography, embodying, as it does, so much that is cumbersome and superfluous.

21 December: Lola was still in the same broken condition: she had been off after the game since about mid-day on the 20th, and had only returned home in the evening. I addressed her with evident displeasure in my voice, saying: "Have you any excuse to make for such behaviour?" "Yes." "Then what is it?" "ich one er." ( = I am without honour). "But, Lola! you are only making things worse—if you are naughty and go off like this after the game!" "zu schwer zu leben!" ( = too difficult to live!). "Lola! how can honour be made good again?" "wen ich sterbe!" ( = if I die!) ... and here the "romance" ended (but not Lola's life!). After a few days she got better and soon became as lively as ever—the wild and excitable creature she is by nature, whom none would take to be the mother of four children—and a "learned dog"—into the bargain! The thing is—could the dog have caught up an impression from some human mind—something she had heard said in conversation, and which she had—in some mysterious way—assimilated and applied to her own life? I cannot tell, but I almost feel as if this must have been the case. There can be no doubt that animals have a sense of honour, yet it would seem unlikely for it to function in the manner above narrated. Yet how much remains still unaccounted for within a dog's soul—how many attempts at unravelling will have to be made before the right clues have been touched, which shall lead us to our goal within this labyrinth. There is so much which it is impossible to bring into co-ordination with the human psyche, for though there are many fundamental impulses, common to both man and beast, we cannot approach the subject, nor yet measure it according to our human standards, where the psychology of a dog is in question. Another thing: in educating these dogs specially reared for experimental work—we should be careful on no account to suppress those instincts, which are natural to them as dogs—i.e. their "dog-individuality," transforming this—either by praise or blame. Just as certain conceptions and feelings, held by different peoples differ fundamentally, so too, has every animal a something which is its very own, an innate something, and this—in order to successfully accomplish our ends—must be held inviolate. Now, this is, of course, very difficult—since to instruct and educate an animal is, of itself, an infringement on its true nature—and, indeed, the same might be said respecting the life it leads among human beings. Yet I believe that where an animal feels that its own inner nature is left unmolested we may often succeed in "hearing the animal speak within the animal" (if I may so put it), rather than its "human connexion." That sentence of Lola's: "wegen ihren Augen und Sorgen ohne Ruhe" ( = because of their eyes and their sorrows without ceasing) certainly "rang true"—one could feel it as the answer was being given—yet—where the meaning is dubious, as in some of her replies which followed this one, decision becomes difficult indeed!



THE CONNEXION OF IDEAS

The ability to definitely connect one idea with another is clearly apparent in the animal mind, and may be attributed to its excellent memory and powers of attention. In everyday-life this becomes apparent as the reflex of their experiences, the impressions of which, having once impinged on their sensibility have left their mark, so to speak, and this experience thus practically acquired, shows itself at times as the shrewdest of wisdom, even though we may now know how their "power of reasoning" was arrived at—without words. We need only think of the way in which animals have time and again rescued their masters—going for assistance in the most intelligent way—this being but one of the many examples which occur to my mind. Nevertheless, a combination of thoughts, such as is carried out purely on the mental plane is only possible in the case of an animal that has been trained. I had a very pretty example of this on 14 September, 1916. I had taken Lola with me to a neighbouring estate. The rain was coming down in torrents, and we sat beneath the sheltering roof of the balcony and gazed out at this flood. "Where does the rain come from—Lola?" I asked; "uzu," she replied. "And what does that mean?" I queried. "heaven." "And what is the water wanted for?" She hesitated and tapped—"ich zu taun!" "What does taun mean? tell me differently!" (as I thought she was evading a direct answer). "funo!" "Nonsense!" "yes!" "I want to know what taun means!" "when I don't hear!" "Nonsense! 'when you don't hear!'—there is some letter wrong!" "yes." "What should it be?" "b." "Taub?" ( = deaf). "yes."

A week earlier I had explained "eyes" and "ears" to her, and the meaning of blindness and deafness, and yet could not make out why she was now using the word "taub" in this connexion.

"Did you mean that you did not understand me?" "no." "Then why did you say that?" "ich er (rather reluctantly) ... or ..." "Well——? and what more?" "I won't say!" "You won't tell me?" "yes!" The next day I returned to this question, for I could not make out why she gave me such answers, and made such excuses. She well knew how determined I could be in the matter of "catechising," and that I will stand no "nonsense" when she begins her little game of rapping "1!"—the meaning of which, she had once informed me, was "I won't tell!" and the sequel to which I generally found to be that she would put me off with any word that might just happen to come into her head. But why had this remark occurred to her yesterday? I wanted to get to the bottom of it, so returning to the attack, said: "Why wouldn't you tell me yesterday what water is good for?" "I thought of ear!" "What has water to do with 'ear'?" "water in ear horrid!" Here, then, was the reason! In her very fear she had not been able to bring forth her true answer—for, owing to me, the water had got into her ears—and made this lasting and unpleasant impression—when she was being bathed—or when I threw her into a stream! The reader may already have noticed other instances where a direct connexion of ideas has occurred. I have purposely abstained from pointing to the obvious in each case, believing that anyone who is keenly interested will do so quickly enough for himself, and I am loth to weary my Public by needless repetitions.



SPONTANEOUS REPLIES

Spontaneous replies provide a special proof of this ability to form independent thoughts, and is found both among horses and dogs. Such a reply is indeed the sudden and evident utterance of some thought, and of a thought which—to it—transcends all other thoughts at the moment: one which regardless of all other questions which may at the time be put to it, looms largest, and the animal will therefore utter this remark, asked or unasked—and quite independently of any question, but more after the manner of "making an observation." Such a thought may have nothing to do with the subject in hand, and persons who are participating in this conversation a deux, can only arrive at the inference of ideas after having carefully thought the matter over—it may also be that they will fail to see any association of ideas at all. Now, it is indisputable that such replies belong to the most important category—for they may serve as proofs to those who themselves have not worked with animals for any length of time, and who, therefore, cannot become sincerely convinced as to the truth of the matter by travelling the longer road of personal test and experience. The teacher of any horse or dog of good parts does not need this proof: there are thousands of small instances which in their sum total prove important—trivial and uncertain though each one may be, when regarded by itself. It would be difficult to know how to convey these to anyone in words: glances, movements, a certain "live appeal"—it would require a poet to catch and fix—in short—to idealize—telling us the true inwardness, so that we might indeed comprehend ... and even then he would, I fear, make for weariness, when grappling with what well may seem interminable.[20] Here are a few examples:

[20] The poet, Hans Mueller, has touched most eloquently on the power to think latent in animals in his book, "Die Kunst sich zu freuen."

16 May, 1916: Lola was doing arithmetic and I had given her some new sums. Suddenly, instead of calculating, she gives—"not reckon." I asked her the date, she replied "16"—adding of herself "too little to eat." In the course of the afternoon, Lola, who had gone with me to tea at B. L.'s, was shown some pictures: "What is that?" she was asked. "re," (ein Reh = a deer) "segen haus, ich wenig nur arbeite." "Will you do more here?" "yes." "Arithmetic?" "Yes, yes!" (very joyfully) and excellent replies followed.

3 January, 1916: On this date I began teaching her the capital letters of the Latin alphabet; A = a, B = b, and so on, when she suddenly "butted in" with "go out." As she had worked very well up to that moment I opened the door and let her out. But in five minutes she was back, looking anything but pleased; "Well, didn't you like it?" I asked; "no!" "Why?" "come too!" I venture to think that I have here given good proof in the matter of "spontaneous" utterances, the best, perhaps, being the one given at B. L.'s, where she complained of having done insufficient work, for her fault-finding was generally the other way round! But she has always loved to show off in that particular circle, sensing no doubt the friendly interest taken in her there.



WRONG AND UNCERTAIN ANSWERS

If Lola is tired she will either not work at all, or—at most—work badly, which is but natural! Yet there is another and even more frequent reason than fatigue for her indifferent work. The dog may to all appearances be bright and fresh—leading me to expect the very best results, and yet—with everything seemingly in her favour, she may that day be an utter failure. This is particularly unpleasant if on one of these occasions visitors happen to be present, and more especially should there be sceptics among them. For this failure to respond where the subject happens to be one in which she has repeatedly given brilliant proofs of what she really can do, is embarrassing and humiliating, for then those who are only too ready to scoff merely feel their case strengthened. Indeed, it needs some determination to keep one's temper on such occasions, yet to "let oneself go" even for one moment—would mean weeks of painful and laborious uphill work in order to regain the dog's confidence. One is often entirely at a loss as to the reason of this "inward withstanding," which may even elude long and careful investigation. Now and again the answers may not be forthcoming when one is alone with her, and behold—! a stranger enters the room, and she becomes all friendly eagerness to do her best: then again, the exact reverse of this may be the case, or on some days she may be useless both alone and before company. There have been times when she has been delightful and engaging in every way—till work was mentioned ... when the whole expression of her face would change, and she would assume her "stupid look," deliberately, so it would seem, rapping out the simplest answer wrongly! The very act of rapping is at such times a mere careless dragging of her paw—as though it had nothing to do with the rest of her body. Pleading, threats, the nicest of tit-bits—all are then unavailing, and she remains seemingly idiotic—the mere sight of her being enough to drive one wild!—for low be it spoken—it is the sheerest impudence!!! Indeed, the visitor who does not know her, and happens to "strike" on one of these bad days, would have to be dowered with more than his share of amiability and imagination, should he be able to mentally visualize anything approaching "brilliant accomplishments" in the face of one of these fiascos. Whether these "turns" be due to sudden obstinacy, to some feeling of injury inflicted either by myself or the onlooker—to what on earth such tempers be due I cannot tell! but I have put up with this sort of thing for two hours at a stretch sometimes, keeping my self-control till at length I have had to rush out of the room—relinquishing every hope of victory for that day, and with a feeling of what seemed almost hatred against this unreasonable beast! although I must say that such feelings do not last very long—for I am not a good "hater"—and then ... Lola would soon try to "make it up again" in some touching way!

I may say that for the first four months she worked splendidly before strangers, and quite as well with me, but from that time onward her work was equally uncertain—both in the presence of others and when alone with me. I know of no cause for this, I can only say that I often seemed to "sense" about her a feeling as though she considered these labours superfluous; as though she had become in a manner "disillusioned" as to the "results" accruing from her work. Was the praise, or were the rewards inadequate? the fact remains, that on such days utterly senseless answers were the most one could get after constant and persuasive questioning, while the solutions of her sums would be completely wrong. When once the novelty was gone, indifference and lack of interest soon took its place, and this applies to everything she learnt. In the beginning, close attention, and keen alertness—resulting in ready and intelligent replies, then a sudden slackening, so that it would seem useless for me to pursue the same subject again for weeks. This tiresome trait (which, by the way, I can in part appreciate) may, I fear, in time attack her spelling too—and then everything will be over, as far as Lola is concerned. Not that she will be getting more stupid with increasing age! indeed, as she grows older, she will probably be better than ever able to understand what is said to her, but she will no longer find it worth her while to pull herself together so as to do decent work. I shall, of course, do all I can as far as trying to influence her so as to put off the evil moment—but the fact is that one has here to do with a remarkably sensitive and obstinate living-creature, and one that is quite able—though in a passive way—to maintain its own standpoint.