There is a hillock facing my window on which the children of the
place assemble for their games. Although they are far enough away,
I can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get good notes
for this book. Every day my ear deceives me as to their age. I hear
the voices of children of ten; I look and see the height and features
of children of three or four. This experience is not confined to
me; the townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult on this
point, all fall into the same mistake.

This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in
town, brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess,
do not need to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard. As
soon as their lips move people take pains to make out what they
mean; they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately, and by
paying great attention to them the people who are always with them
rather guess what they meant to say than what they said.

It is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman is
not always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very clearly
and loudly what he wants, if he is to make himself understood.
Children scattered about the fields at a distance from their fathers,
mothers and other children, gain practice in making themselves
heard at a distance, and in adapting the loudness of the voice to
the distance which separates them from those to whom they want to
speak. This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not by stammering
out a few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess. So when
you question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer, but what
he says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve as interpreter
for the town child; without her one can understand nothing of what
he is muttering between his teeth. [Footnote: There are exceptions