ees shone in the sunlight, or the tender
green of the shooting corn made the valley beautiful in early spring.
In summer there was little shade from the blazing sun as it rode high
in the blue sky, and the grass which grew among the grey rocks was
often burnt and brown. But, nevertheless, it was here that the sheep of
the village would be turned out to find what food they could, tended
and watched by one of the village boys.

So it happened that when Giotto was ten years old his father sent him
to take care of the sheep upon the hillside. Country boys had then no
schools to go to or lessons to learn, and Giotto spent long happy days,
in sunshine and rain, as he followed the sheep from place to place,
wherever they could find grass enough to feed on. But Giotto did
something else besides watching his sheep. Indeed, he sometimes forgot
all about them, and many a search he had to gather them all together
again. For there was one thing he loved doing better than all beside,
and that was to try to draw pictures of all the things he saw around
him.

It was no easy matter for the little shepherd lad. He had no pencils or
paper, and he had never, perhaps, seen a picture in all his life. But
all this mattered little to him. Out there, under the blue sky, his
eyes made pictures for him out of the fleecy white clouds as they
slowly changed from one form to another. He learned to know exactly the
shape of every flower and how it grew; he noticed how the olive-trees
laid their silver leaves against the blue background of the sky that
peeped in between, and how his sheep looked as they stooped to eat, or
lay down in the shadow of a rock.

Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then with eager hands he
would sharpen a piece of stone, choose out the smoothest rock, and try
to draw on its flat surface all those wonderful shapes which had filled
his eyes with their beauty. Olive-trees, flowers, birds and beasts were
there, but especially his sheep, for they were his friends and
companions who were always near him, and he could draw them in a
different way each time they moved.

Now it fell out that one day a great master painter from Florence came
riding through the valley and over the hills where Giotto was feeding
his sheep. The name of the great master was Cimabue, and he was the
most wonderful artist in the world, so men said. He had painted a
picture which had made all Florence rejoice. The Florentines had never
seen anyt