upon the list of world's great painters.



FRA FILIPPO LIPPI

It was winter time in Florence. The tramontana,
that keen wind which blows from over the snow
mountains, was sweeping down the narrow streets,
searching out every nook and corner with its icy
breath. Men flung their cloaks closer round them,
and pulled their hats down over their eyes, so that
only the tips of their noses were left uncovered for
the wind to freeze. Women held their scaldinoes,
little pots of hot charcoal, closer under their shawls,
and even the dogs had a sad, half-frozen look.
One and all longed for the warm winds of spring
and the summer heat they loved. It was bad
enough for those who had warm clothes and plenty
of polenta, but for the poor life was very hard those
cold wintry days.

In a doorway of a great house, in one of the narrow
streets, a little boy of eight was crouching behind
one of the stone pillars as he tried to keep out of
the grip of the tramontana. His little coat was
folded closely round him, but it was full of rents and
holes so that the thin body inside was scarcely
covered, and the child's blue lips trembled with the
cold, and his black eyes filled with tears.