Another thing which I always thought peculiar when I was a
stammerer was the fact that I had practically no difficulty in
talking to animals when I was alone with them. I remember very
well that we had a large bulldog called Jim, which I was very fond
of. I used to believe that Jim understood my troubles better than
any friend I had, unless it was Old Sol, our family driving horse.

Jim used to go with me on all my jaunts--I could talk to him by
the hour and never stammer a word. And Old Sol--well, when
everything seemed to be going against me, I used to go out and
talk things over with Old Sol. Somehow he seemed to understand--he
used to whinney softly and rub his nose against my shoulder as if
to say, "I understand, Bennie, I understand!"

Somehow my father had discovered this peculiarity of my
affliction--that is, my ability to talk to animals or when alone.
Something suggested to him that my stammering could be cured, if I
could be kept by myself for several weeks. With this thought in
mind, he suggested that I go on a hunting and fishing trip in the
wilds of the northwest, taking no guide, no companion of any sort,
so that there would be no necessity of my speaking to any human
being while I was gone.

My father's idea was that if my vocal organs had a complete rest,
I would be restored to perfect speech. As I afterwards proved to
my own satisfaction by actual trial, this idea was entirely wrong.
You can not hope to restore the proper action of your vocal organs
by ceasing to use them. The proper functioning of any bodily organ
is the result, not of ceasing to use it at all, but rather of