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
anything like it before, and yet it was but a strange-
looking portrait of the Madonna and Child, scarcely
like a real woman or a real baby at all. Still, it
seemed to them a perfect wonder, and Cimabue was
honoured as one of the city's greatest men.