whenever it was possible he would squeeze one into
a corner of his pictures. He was sixty years old
when he designed this wonderful tower and cut
some of the marble pictures with his own hand,
but you can see that the memory of those old days
when he ran barefoot about the hills and tended his
sheep was with him still. Just such another little
puppy must have often played with him in those
long-ago days before he became a great painter and
was still only a merry, brown-faced boy, making
pictures with a sharp stone upon the smooth rocks.

Up and down the narrow streets of Florence now,
the great painter would walk and watch the faces
of the people as they passed. And his eyes would
still make pictures of them and their busy life, just
as they used to do with the olive-trees, the sheep,
and the clouds.

In those days nobody cared to have pictures in
their houses, and only the walls of the churches
were painted. So the pictures, or frescoes, as they
were called, were of course all about sacred subjects,
either stories out of the Bible or of the lives of the
saints. And as there were few books, and the poor
people did not know how to read, these frescoed
walls were the only story-books they had.

What a joy those pictures of Giotto's must have
been, then, to those poor folk! They looked at the