The sun shone hot, and when Giotto was satisfied that his sheep were all about him, cropping the mosses, he threw himself down in the shade of an ilex-tree, and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic. Below, he could see his home nestling in a forest of sturdy pines, and far down the valley shone the roofs and spires of the village. Southward appeared a glimpse of the public road that threaded its way through the hills to the mighty city of Florence. Giotto had never visited the place, but his father, who every spring carried wool thither to market, had often told him of the splendid bridges, towers, and palaces to be seen there. Great men lived there too, Giotto's father had said, and one of them, a certain Cimabue,[2] painted such pictures as the world had never seen before. Of this painter and his colors the boy was never tired of hearing; and as he lay on the grass under the ilex-tree, he was longing unspeakably for the time to come when he himself might go to Florence and behold the pictures wrought by Cimabue's hand. Musing, his eye fell upon a smooth flat stone near by, and with the sight came a desire that caused him to leap from his lounging position, his face alight with purpose. "Hold still for a little while, Beni!" he said, addressing one of the sheep that nibbled beside the stone; "just be quiet, and I'll play I'm Cimabue, and draw your picture." Giotto reached for a sharp bit of slate that had chipped from the rock above, and carefully studying the woolly face before him, began to draw upon the flat white stone. Patiently, thoughtfully he worked, glancing now up at his placid companion, now down at his flinty canvas, and coaxing Beni back into position with tempting handfuls of grass whenever the animal turned to trot away. The sun rose high, and the boy, bending low over his task, forgot that he was warm, forgot that he was tired, even forgot that he was hungry, until he was roused by a hand upon his shoulder. [Illustration: "He was roused by a hand upon his shoulder."] He sprang up, startled beyond speech by the touch, for he had believed himself alone with the silence and the sheep. Before him stood a man in the robes of a scholar. His manner was stately, his face pale and serious. He was gazing intently downward, not upon the little Tuscan shepherd, but at Beni's picture upon the stone. "Boy, where did you learn to draw?" he exclaimed in a voice of strong excitement. "Learn to draw?" queried Giotto wonderingly. "Nowhere, sir. I haven't learned." "Do you mean me to believe that you have had no teacher, no one to tell you how to use your pencil?" The speaker searched the boy's face earnestly, almost fiercely, in his desire to know whether the child spoke the truth. Giotto, innocent of all but the facts of his simple experience, replied sadly, "My father is too poor to pay for lessons." "Then God Himself has taught you!" declared the stranger, hoarse with agitation. "What is your name?" "Giotto, sir."