t will do towards making thee a better child.'

Then he took the boy by the shoulders and led him to a little dark
cupboard under the stairs, and there shut him up for three whole days.

There was no kicking or beating at the locked door. Leonardo sat
quietly there in the dark, thinking his own thoughts, and wondering why
there seemed so little justice in the world. But soon even that wonder
passed away, and as usual when he was alone he began to dream dreams of
the time when he should have learned the swallows' secrets and should
have wings like theirs.

But if there were complaints about Leonardo's dislike of the boys and
the Latin grammar, there would be none about the lessons he chose to
learn. Indeed, some of the masters began to dread the boy's eager
questions, which were sometimes more than they could answer. Scarcely
had he begun the study of arithmetic than he made such rapid progress,
and wanted to puzzle out so many problems, that the masters were
amazed. His mind seemed always eagerly asking for more light, and was
never satisfied.

But it was out on the hillside that he spent his happiest hours. He
loved every crawling, creeping, or flying thing, however ugly. Curious
beasts which might have frightened another child were to him charming
and interesting. There as he listened to the carolling of the birds and
bent his head to catch the murmured song of the mountain-streams, the
love of music began to steal into his heart.

He did not rest then until he managed to get a lute and learned how to
play upon it. And when he had mastered the notes and learned the rules
of music, he began to play airs which no one had ever heard before, and
to sing such strange sweet songs that the golden notes flowed out as
fresh and clear as the song of a lark in the early morning of spring.

'The child is a changeling,' said some, as they saw Leonardo tenderly
lift a crushed lizard in his hand, or watched him play with a spotted
snake or great hairy spider.

'A changeling perhaps,' said others, 'but one that hath the voice of an
angel.' For every one stopped to listen when the boy's voice was heard
singing through the streets of the little town.

He was a puzzle to every one, and yet a delight to all, even when they
understood him least.

So time went on, and when Leonardo was thirteen his father took him
away to Florence that he might begin to be trained for some special
work. But what work? Ah! that was the rub. The bo