the
age, but Verocchio shook his head.

'He is too wonderful,' he said. 'He aims at too great perfection. He
wants to know everything and do everything, and life is too short for
that. He finishes nothing, because he is ever starting to do something
else.'

Verocchio's words were true; the boy seldom worked long at one thing.
His hands were never idle, and often, instead of painting, he would
carve out tiny windmills and curious toys which worked with pulleys and
ropes, or made exquisite little clay models of horses and all the other
animals that he loved. But he never forgot the longing that had filled
his heart when he was a child--the desire to learn the secret of flying.

For days he would sit idle and think of nothing but soaring wings, then
he would rouse himself and begin to make some strange machine which he
thought might hold the secret that he sought.

'A waste of time,' growled Verocchio. 'See here, thou wouldst be better
employed if thou shouldst set to work and help me finish this picture
of the Baptism for the good monks of Vallambrosa. Let me see how thou
canst paint in the kneeling figure of the angel at the side.'

For a while the boy stood motionless before the picture as if he was
looking at something far away. Then he seized the brushes with his left
hand and began to paint with quick certain sweep. He never stopped to
think, but worked as if the angel were already there, and he were but
brushing away the veil that hid it from the light.

Then, when it was done, the master came and looked silently on. For a
moment a quick stab of jealousy ran through his heart. Year after year
had he worked and striven to reach his ideal. Long days of toil and
weary nights had he spent, winning each step upwards by sheer hard
work. And here was this boy without an effort able to rise far above
him. All the knowledge which the master had groped after, had been
grasped at once by the wonderful mind of the pupil. But the envious
feeling passed quickly away, and Verocchio laid his hand upon
Leonardo's shoulder.

'I have found my master,' he said quietly, 'and I will paint no more.'

Leonardo scarcely seemed to hear; he was thinking of something else
now, and he seldom noticed if people praised or blamed him. His
thoughts had fixed themselves upon something he had seen that morning
which had troubled him. On the way to the studio he had passed a tiny
shop in a narrow street where a seller of birds was busy hangin