man does it, after his fashion, but he has to have a trolley
to do it with. The man seems to prefer, as a rule, to use things
outside to get what he wants inside. He has a way of making everything
outside him serve him as if he had it on his own body--uses a whole
universe every day without the trouble of always having to carry it
around with him. He gets his will out of the ground and even out of
the air. He lays hold of the universe and makes arms and legs out of
it. If he wants at any time, for any reason, more body than he was
made with, he has his soul reach out over or around the planet a
little farther and draw it in for him.

The grasshopper, so far as I know, does not differ from the man in
that he has a soul and body both, but his soul and body seem to be
perfectly matched. He has his soul and body all on. It is probably the
best (and the worst) that can be said of a grasshopper's soul, if he
has one, that it is in his legs--that he really has his wits about
him.

Looked at superficially, or from the point of view of the next hop, it
can hardly be denied that the body the human soul has been fitted out
with is a rather inferior affair. From the point of view of any
respectable or ordinarily well-equipped animal the human body--the one
accorded to the average human being in the great show of
creation--almost looks sometimes as if God really must have made it as
a kind of practical joke, in the presence of the other animals, on the
rest of us. It looks as if He had suddenly decided at the very moment
he was in the middle of making a body for a man, that out of all the
animals man should be immortal--and had let it go at that. With the
exception of the giraffe and perhaps the goose or camel and an extra
fold or so in the hippopotamus, we are easily the strangest, the most
unexplained-looking shape on the face of the earth. It is exceedingly
unlikely that we are beautiful or impressive, at first at least, to
any one but ourselves. Nearly all the things we do with our hands and
feet, any animal on earth could tell us, are things we do not do as
well as men did once, or as well as we ought to, or as well as we did
when we were born. Our very babies are our superiors.

The only defence we are able to make when we are arraigned before the
bar of creation, seems to be, that while some of the powers we have
exhibited have been very obviously lost, we have gained some very fine
new invisible ones. We are not so bad, w