One day a traveler was walking through a part of Italy where a great
many sheep were pasturing. Near the top of a hill he saw a little
shepherd boy who was lying on the ground while a flock of sheep and
lambs were grazing around him.
As he came nearer he saw that the boy held a charred stick in his hand,
with which he was drawing something on a flat rock. The lad was so
much interested in his work that he did not see the stranger.
[Illustration]
The stranger bent over him and looked at the picture he had made on
the rock. It was the picture of a sheep, and it was drawn so well that
the stranger was filled with astonishment.
"What is your name, my boy?" he said.
The lad was startled. He jumped to his feet and looked up at the kind
gentleman.
"My name is Giotto," [Footnote: Giotto (_pro_. jot'to).] he answered.
"What is your father's name?"
"Bondone." [Footnote: BON do'na.]
"And whose sheep are these?"
"They belong to the rich man who lives in the big white house there
among the trees. My father works in the field, and I take care of the
sheep." "How would you like to live with me, Giotto? I would teach you
how to draw pictures of sheep and horses, and even of men," said
the stranger. The boy's face beamed with delight. "I should like to
learn to do that--oh, ever so much!" he answered. "But I must do as
father says." "Let us go and ask him," said the stranger.
The stranger's name was Cimabue.[Footnote: Cimabue (_pro_. she ma
boo'a).] He was the most famous painter of the time. His pictures
were known and admired in every city of Italy.
Bondone was surprised when Cimabue offered to take his little boy to
Florence and teach him to be a great painter.
"I know that the lad can draw pictures wonderfully well," he said. "He
does not like to do anything else. Perhaps he will do well with you.
Yes, you may take him."
In the city of Florence [Footnote: Flor'ence.] little Giotto saw some
of the finest pictures in the world. He learned so fast that he could
soon paint as well as Cimabue himself.
One day Cimabue was painting the picture of a man's face. Night came
on before he had finished it. "I will leave it till morning," he said;
"then the light will be better."
In the morning, when he looked at the picture, he saw a fly on the
man's nose. He tried to brush it off, but it remained there. It was
only a painted fly.
"Who has done this?" he cried. He was angry, and yet he was pleased.
Little Giotto came out from a corner, trembling and ashamed. "I did
it, master," he said. "It was a good place for a fly, and I never
thought of spoiling your picture."
He expected to be punished. But Cimabue only praised him for his great
skill. "There are few men who can draw so good a picture of a fly,"
he said.
This happened six hundred years ago, in the city of Florence in Italy.
The shepherd boy became a very famous painter and the friend of many
famous men.