if he were alone, to investigate what she always said “no—no” about if she were in the room. Privately he felt no limits to this business of knowing. He had to know.
One day a new creature came into his knowing. The tall one brought it. It was small and soft, it had four legs, and it made a noise he had not heard before.
“Erh—erh!” the new creature said.
“Dog,” the tall one explained.
But he was afraid of Dog and he drew back and put his hands behind his back.
“Erh—erh—erh,” Dog said.
“See, Rannie’s dog,” the tall one said.
He took Rannie’s hand in his and smoothed Dog.
“Dog,” Rannie said, and was no longer afraid. This was new knowing. Dog had to be examined and his tail pulled. Why a tail?
“No—no,” the mother said. “Don’t hurt Dog.”
“Hurt?” Rannie repeated, puzzled.
She pulled Rannie’s ear sharply. “Hurt, no—no,” she repeated. “See, like this—”
She smoothed dog gently, and Rannie, after watching, did the same. Suddenly Dog licked his hand. He drew back.
“Dog—no, no,” he exclaimed.
The mother laughed. “He likes you—nice dog,” she said.
DAY BY DAY HE WAS LEARNING new words. He did not know that it was unusual to learn words so early. He was only pleased that his parents laughed and clapped their hands often.
By the time he came to his second birthday he could even count. He knew that one following one and another and another and each had a name. He learned these names by accident one day with blocks. He put a block on the floor from a box full of blocks.
“One,” his mother said.
He took out another and placed it beside the one. “Two,” his mother said.
And so he proceeded until she had said “Ten.” Here he went back again to one and repeated the names himself. His mother stared at him, then swept him into her arms in joy. When the father came home at dark, she put out the blocks again.
“Say them, Rannie,” she told him.
He remembered the names easily, and the two looked at each other in gravity and astonishment.
“Isn’t he—”
“It seems so—”
He said them over again very fast and laughing. “One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine— ten!”
They did not laugh. They looked at each other. Then suddenly the father took some small round objects from his pocket.
“Pennies,” he said.
“Pennies,” Rannie repeated. He repeated everything they said to him, remembering afterward which word belonged to each object.
His father put down one penny on the carpet, where he knelt before Rannie.
“One penny,” he said distinctly.
Rannie listened without repeating. It was obvious that this was one penny. His father put down another penny and looked at Rannie.
“Two,” Rannie said.
And so on the game went until ten pennies finished it. They looked at each other, the parents.
“He does understand—he understands numbers,” the father said, astonished.
“I told you,” the mother retorted.
AFTER THIS, OF COURSE, EVERYTHING had to be counted. Apples in a bowl, books on the shelves, plates in the cupboard. But what came beyond ten? He demanded this knowledge of his mother.
“Ten—ten—ten,” he said impatiently. What came after ten?
“Eleven—twelve—thirteen—,” his mother said.
He grasped the idea at once. Counting went on and on. There was no end to it. He counted everything and reached for the innumerable. He began to realize endlessness. Trees in the woods, for example, where they went for picnics—there was no use in counting them once he understood counting, so that it simply became more of the same.
Money, of course, was different from trees or daisies in a field. By the time he was three he knew that money must be given in exchange for what one wanted. He walked with his mother to the grocery store down the street and he saw her give pieces of metal or paper in return for bread and milk, meat and vegetables and fruit.
“What is?” he asked when he came home after the first time. He had found her change purse and, opening it, had laid in a row on the kitchen table the varieties of coins within.
She told him the name of each and he repeated each after her. He never forgot anything he once knew. He asked endless questions and he always remembered the answers. But he did more than remember. He understood the principle. Money was only money. It was nothing unless it was given in exchange for what was wanted. This was its value, this was its meaning.
His mother had looked at him strangely that day when he had repeated after her perfectly the names of the coins.
“You never forget anything, do you, Rannie?” she had said.
“No,” he had replied. “I might need to remember, so I mustn’t forget.”
She often looked at him strangely, as though she were afraid of him.
“Why do you look at me hard, Mama?” he asked.
“I don’t really know,” she had replied honestly. “I think it is because I never saw a little boy like you.”
He thought this over but without understanding it. Somehow it made him feel lonely, but he did not have time to think about it, because he wanted to learn to read.
“Books,” he said to his father one day. “Why are books?”
His father was always reading books. He was a college professor. At night he read books and wrote down words on paper.
“You can learn anything from books,” his father said.
It was a snowy day, a Saturday, when his father was at home reading books.
“I want to read too,” he told his father.
“You’ll learn when you start school,” his father said.
“I want to learn now,” he said. “I want to read all the books in the world.”
His father laughed and put down the book he was reading. “Very well,” he said. “Fetch me a piece of paper and a pencil and I will show you how to begin to read.”
He ran to the kitchen, where his mother was cooking the dinner.
“Pencil and paper,” he said briskly. “I am going to read.”
His mother put down the big spoon with which she was stirring something in a pot on the stove. She went into the study, where his father was reading.
“You aren’t going to teach that baby to read!” she exclaimed.
“He’s no baby,” his father retorted. “If you ask me, he never was a baby. He wants to read. Of course I’ll teach him.”
“I don’t believe in forcing children,” his mother said.
“I’m not forcing him—he’s forcing me,” his father said, laughing. “All right, Rannie—give me the paper and pencil.”
He forgot his mother and she went away and left them. His father printed a line of marks on the paper.
“These are the bricks words are made of—twenty-six of them. They are called letters.”
“All words?” he asked. “All those books full of words?”
