ed it to the clear pure mountain air in which
he was born, just as he owed his love of carving stone to the
unconscious influence of his nurse, the stone-cutter's wife.

As the boy grew up he clearly showed in what direction his interest
lay. At school he was something of a dunce at his lessons, but let him
but have a pencil and paper and his mind was wide awake at once. Every
spare moment he spent making sketches on the walls of his father's
house.

But Lodovico would not hear of the boy becoming an artist. There were
many children to provide for, and the family was not rich. It would be
much more fitting that Michelangelo should go into the silk and woollen
business and learn to make money.

But it was all in vain to try to make the boy see the wisdom of all
this. Scold as they might, he cared for nothing but his pencil, and
even after he was severely beaten he would creep back to his beloved
work. How he envied his friend Francesco who worked in the shop of
Master Ghirlandaio! It was a joy even to sit and listen to the tales of
the studio, and it was a happy day when Francesco brought some of the
master's drawings to show to his eager friend.

Little by little Lodovico began to see that there was nothing for it
but to give way to the boy's wishes, and so at last, when he was
fourteen years old, Michelangelo was sent to study as a pupil in the
studio of Master Ghirlandaio.

It was just at the time when Ghirlandaio was painting the frescoes of
the chapel in Santa Maria Novella, and Michelangelo learned many
lessons as he watched the master at work, or even helped with the less
important parts.

But it was like placing an eagle in a hawk's nest. The young eagle
quickly learned to soar far higher than the hawk could do, and ere long
began to 'sweep the skies alone.'

It was not pleasant for the great Florentine master, whose work all men
admired, to have his drawings corrected by a young lad, and perhaps
Michelangelo was not as humble as he should have been. In the strength
of his great knowledge he would sometimes say sharp and scornful
things, and perhaps he forgot the respect due from pupil to master.

Be that as it may, he left Ghirlandaio's studio when he was sixteen
years old, and never had another master. Thenceforward he worked out
his own ideas in his giant strength, and was the pupil of none.

The boy Francesco was still his friend, and together they went to study
in the gardens of San Marco, where L