Then there was Grandfather John, the brave old man who, half a century before, had fought in the ranks of the Haidemaki who so nearly broke the Polish power. On a Sunday the wondering family would listen to the mighty voice ringing out in the little home—telling of ancient battles for freedom.
When Taras was seven years of age he lost his mother. His father was left with six children, and thought to improve matters by marrying a widow with three. Thereafter the miseries increased for little Taras who was hated by his stepmother.
The father lived a few years longer, and to him Taras owed the knowledge of reading, for though they were serfs and lined in a wretched hovel, the Shevchenko's prided themselves on having retained some elements of culture.
Our little hero, however, had a strange passion for drawing and painting and also for singing, and found some employment among the drunken painters, and church-singers of the village.
Later his master tried to make him work, but found the lad hopeless for anything but his beloved painting. Finally, he reached Petrograd in the suite of his master's son, where he was apprenticed to a decorator.
