own studies to copy, and one day Michael Angelo brought
the artist one of the studies which he had himself corrected by adding a
few thick lines. Beyond all doubt the picture was improved. It was hard,
however, for the master to be corrected by his own apprentice, and soon
after that the boy's stay in the studio came to an end. Fortunately his
friend Granacci had already interested the great patron, Lorenzo de'
Medici, in the young Buonarotti and he was now invited to join the band
of youths of talent who made the Medici's palace their home.

In Lorenzo's palace young Michael Angelo was very happy. He was fond of
the Medici's sons, boys nearly his own age; like almost all the rest of
Florence he worshiped the citizen-prince whose one desire seemed to be
that Florence should be beautiful; and he was happiest of all in the
chance to study his own beloved art.

In May of each year Lorenzo gave a pageant, and the spring in which
Michael Angelo came to the palace Lorenzo placed the carnival in charge
of the boy's friend, Francesco Granacci. Day by day the boys planned for
the great procession. At noon they were free from their teachers, and
then they would scatter to the gardens.

One such May noon, when the sun was hot, a group of them ran out from
the palace, and threw themselves on the grass in the shade of a row of
poplars. They were all absorbed in the one subject; their tongues could
scarcely keep pace with their nimble fancies.

"What shalt thou go as, Paolo?" said one. "I heard Messer Lorenzo say
that thou shouldst be something marvelously fine; but what can be so
fine as Romulus in a Roman triumph?"

"I am to be the thrice-gifted Apollo, dressed as your Athenians saw him,
with harp and bow, and the crown of laurel on my head. That will be a
sight for thee, Ludovico mio, and for the pretty eyes of thy Bianca
also." Paolo laughed as one who well knew the value of his yellow locks
and blue eyes in a land of brown and black. "What art thou to be in
Messer Lorenzo's coming pageant, Michael?"

The young Michael, a slim, black-haired youth, was lying on his back,
his head resting in his hands, his eyes watching the circling flight of
some pigeons.

"I?" he said dreamily. "Oh, I have given little thought to that, I shall
be whatever Francesco wishes; he knows what is needed better than any
one else."

As he spoke a tall youth came into the garden and sat down in the middle
of the group. He had curious, smiling eye