e!"

The next day, in the first lonely moment he had, the little boy found a pencil and, on the white side of one of the pictures, tried to copy the drawing of the metal pig, and he succeeded! It was a little crooked, a little one-sided, with one leg thick and the other thin, but it was recognizable, and it delighted him. The pencil wouldn't go as straight as it should, he realized. Next day another pig stood beside the first one, and this was a hundred times better; and the third one was so good anyone could tell what it represented.

But the glovemaking went badly, and he ran errands slowly; for he had learned from the metal pig that any picture may be put on paper, and the city of Florence is a complete picture book, if you only turn the leaves.

In the Piazza della Trinità stands a slender column, and on top of it stands the blindfolded Goddess of Justice with the scales in her hand. Soon she also stood on paper, and it was the little apprentice glovemaker who put her there. His collection grew, though they were still only copies of inanimate objects; but one day Bellissima came bouncing toward him. "Stand still!" he said. "I'll make a beautiful portrait of you to have among my pictures!"

But Bellissima wouldn't stand still, so he had to tie her up. He tied her head and tail, and Bellissima barked and jumped about, straining at the cord. Then the signora came in.

"You wicked boy! That poor animal!" was all she had time to say. She flung the boy aside, kicked him, called him the most ungrateful, worthless, and wicked child, and turned him out of the house; and crying, she kissed the little half-strangled Bellissima.

At that moment the painter came up the stairs and - but this is the turning point of the story.

In 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts in Florence. Two paintings, hung side by side, attracted much attention from the public. The smaller of them showed a happy little boy sitting at a table drawing; his model was a closely clipped little white poodle that was tied with string by the head and tail because it wouldn't stand still. The painting was so animated and true to life that it couldn't fail to interest all the spectators. The painter was, it was said, a young Florentine who had been found in the streets when a little child, had been raised by an old glovemaker, and had taught himself to draw. A now famous artist had discovered his talent just as he was about to be turned out of the house for having tied up his mistress' beloved little poodle to be his model. The glover's boy had become a great painter, as the picture clearly showed. But the larger picture was a still greater proof of his genius. There was just a single figure in it, a handsome ragged boy leaning, fast asleep, against the metal pig of the Via Porta Rossa. All the spectators knew that spot very well. The child's arm rested on the pig's head, and he slept sweetly, with the lamp before the near-by Madonna throwing a strong light on his pale, handsome face. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame surrounded it, and a wreath of laurel was fastened to one corner of it; but a black ribbon was entwined in the green leaves, and long, black streamers hung down from it. The young painter had just died!

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