People appear to be born to compute. The numerical skills of children develop so early and so inexorably that it is easy to imagine an internal clock of mathematical maturity guiding their growth. Not long after learning to walk and talk, they can set the table with impressive accuracy--one plate, one knife, one spoon, one fork, for each of the five chairs. Soon they are capable of noting that they have placed five knives, spoons, and forks on the table--and, a bit later, that this amounts to fifteen pieces of silverware. Having thus mastered addition, they move on to subtraction. It seems almost reasonable to expect that if a child were secluded on a desert island at birth and retrieved seven years later, he could enter a second-grade mathematics class without any serious problems of intellectual adjustment.
Of course, the truth is not so simple. This century, the work of cognitive psychologists, notably Jean Piaget, has illuminated the subtle forms of daily learning on which intellectual progress depends. Piaget observed children at play as they slowly grasped--or, as the case might be, bumped into---concepts that adults take for granted, as they refused, for instance, to concede that quantity is unchanged as water pours from a short stout glass into a tall thin one. Psychologists have since demonstrated that young children, asked to count the pencils in a pile, readily report the number of blue or red pencils, but must be coaxed into finding the total. Such studies have suggested not only that the rudiments of mathematics are mastered gradually, and with effort, but that the very concept of abstract numbers--the idea of a oneness, a twoness, a threeness that applies to any class of objects and is a prerequisite for doing anything more mathematically demanding than setting a table--is itself far from innate.
This observation draws support from linguistics and anthropology, in particular from the study of cultures that have evolved in isolation from modern society. Anthropologists have found that when a Vedda tribsman, of Sri Lanka, wanted to count coconuts, he would collect a heap of sticks and assign one to each coconut. Every time he added a new stick he said, "That is one". But if asked how many coconuts he possessed, he could only point to the pile of sticks and say, "That many", for the Vedda had no words devoted to expressing quantities. Thus, while capable of a kind of counting--counting in one-to-one correspondence, rather like the child setting the table-- the Vedda apparently had no conception of numbers that exist independently of sticks and coconuts and can be applied to either without reference to the other.
---Denise Schmandt-Besserat