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 a house at last and was "captured" again and carried off to Paris. There he was kept as a kind of show, and was stared at and wondered at; but as he proved after a while to be not at all amusing, people got tired of him. The good priest, Father Itard, saw him at last and took him home, determined to educate him and restore to him his lost humanity.

Perhaps no one ever had a better chance of seeing what it means to have the doors of the lower senses half closed than had Father Itard. It goes without saying that the wild boy had had no human ear and eye training. It was not wonderful that he could not listen to music or human speech, that he observed nothing in his path that was not an obstacle or a fancied beast of prey, that he never walked, but ran or bounded along so that his teacher had to keep flying in the rear when he went out with him. But the most striking thing of all about him was the dullness of the lower senses. He had twenty-six deep wounds in his body, but he did not know how he had come by any of them. He could not feel when a thing was embossed or flat, when it was rough or smooth. As the skin is the organ of temperature this sense—of temperature—was lost with the rest. He would take up burning coals with his fingers, and take boiling potatoes out of the pot