quickness with which he learned anything that he
cared to know.

Every one who saw his work declared that he
would be the wonder of 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