tle ragged boy, in the old city of Florence.

SANDRO BOTTICELLI

We must now go back to the days when Fra Filippo Lippi painted his
pictures and so brought fame to the Carmine Convent.

There was at that time in Florence a good citizen called Mariano
Filipepi, an honest, well-to-do man, who had several sons. These sons
were all taught carefully and well trained to do each the work he
chose. But the fourth son, Alessandro, or Sandro as he was called, was
a great trial to his father. He would settle to no trade or calling.
Restless and uncertain, he turned from one thing to another. At one
time he would work with all his might, and then again become as idle
and fitful as the summer breeze. He could learn well and quickly when
he chose, but then there were so few things that he did choose to
learn. Music he loved, and he knew every song of the birds, and
anything connected with flowers was a special joy to him. No one knew
better than he how the different kinds of roses grew, and how the
lilies hung upon their stalks.

'And what, I should like to know, is going to be the use of all this,'
the good father would say impatiently, 'as long as thou takest no pains
to read and write and do thy sums? What am I to do with such a boy, I
wonder?'

Then in despair the poor man decided to send Sandro to a neighbour's
workshop, to see if perhaps his hands would work better than his head.

The name of this neighbour was Botticelli, and he was a goldsmith, and
a very excellent master of his art. He agreed to receive Sandro as his
pupil, so it happened that the boy was called by his master's name, and
was known ever after as Sandro Botticelli.

Sandro worked for some time with his master, and quickly learned to
draw designs for the goldsmith's work.

In those days painters and goldsmiths worked a great deal together, and
Sandro often saw designs for pictures and listened to the talk of the
artists who came to his master's shop. Gradually, as he looked and
listened, his mind was made up. He would become a painter. All his
restless longings and day dreams turned to this. All the music that
floated in the air as he listened to the birds' song, the gentle
dancing motion of the wind among the trees, all the colours of the
flowers, and the graceful twinings of the rose-stems--all these he
would catch and weave into his pictures. Yes, he would learn to paint
music and motion, and then he would be happy.

'So now thou wilt become a