GIOTTO, THE PAINTER. 33

 

ian painters of that day. ‘‘ You have
made quite a fair picture of the old
sheep,” he repeated, laughing. “ Now,
little fellow,” he added, ‘would you
like to know who I am?”

“Indeed I would,” said Giotto.

“ Have you ever heard of Cimabue ?”
asked the gentleman.

“What! the painter?”

“Yes, the painter.”

“To be sure I have heard of him.”

“Well, that’s my name.”

Giotto blushed now, more than ever,
when he looked at the rude picture he
had made on the flat stone, with the