Chico: the Story of a Homing Pigeon | Page 7

home on the steamer Andrea held tightly to the dried starfish he had found on the sand, while Maria was the happiest child in Venice, with a brooch made from the pearl shell of the Lido, which Luisa called "fior di mare," or flower of the sea.
As they stumbled sleepily across the Square in the darkening twilight, holding fast to the hands of their mother and father, their ears failed to catch the faint cheep of a baby bird in distress, and they reached home entirely unaware of the tragedy that had happened in pigeon-land.

CHAPTER IV
CHICO
When Paolo called for the children Monday morning, there was an air of mystery about him that was distinctly puzzling. Then, too, he walked unusually fast, so that Andrea found it difficult to keep up with him, and finally demanded curiously, "What's the matter?" without, however, receiving any answer.
"What's the matter?" echoed Maria, falling behind after a futile effort to keep up, Paolo slackened his pace with a laconic "Wait and see," that was even more mystifying.
On reaching the Piazza, his manner showed still greater excitement.
"Venite!" [Footnote: "come here"] he exclaimed, leading the way to a small shed back of the church where he was accustomed to keep his tools.
"Venite!" he repeated, entering by a rear into the gloomy interior.
It was several moments before the eyes of the children became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to really see what was being pointed out. High above their heads was a small window, close to which had been placed a wooden box.
The old man stopped a moment, listened, reached up his hand, then drew it back with an air of satisfaction, while the youngsters, fascinated, watched without in the least surmising what it was all about.
With a finger on his lips to enjoin silence, he suddenly seized Andrea and raised him to the level of the window ledge.
"There!" he cried, "don't be afraid. Put your hand into the box."
As the boy timidly obeyed, he went on, "Now tell me, what do you feel? Speak!"
The frightened look on Andrea's face gave way, first to one of mystification, then to an expression of joy as his hand touched something warm:
"L'uccello!" [Footnote: The bird.] he cried; then, in an ecstasy of delight, "Is it mine?"
Paolo nodded, and, after putting the boy down on the floor, gently lifted Maria so that she, too, might put her fingers into the nest he had made for the fledgling he had found on the pavement the evening before.
"It's a baby pigeon," she softly murmured.
"Si! Si!" the old caretaker declared, delighted at the sensation he had caused, "I came across him all huddled up by yonder column."
"And may I really have him?" queried Andrea, finding it hard to realize that he had gained his heart's desire.
"Why not? I doubt if the old birds will even notice he has gone. You know when the mother has other eggs to take her attention, she gives the fledglings into the care of the father bird, and it isn't very long before he pushes them out to shift for themselves. There is no reason why this particular one should not belong to you: in fact, I imagine he's a bit lonesome in this strange place, though, to be sure, I did all I could to make him comfortable, with a wisp of hay and a few dried sticks, but, at best, I'm not much of a nest-maker. Come now, would you like to have a look at him?"
"Si! Si!" the children cried together. And with that Paolo, after lighting a bit of discarded candle and giving it to Andrea to hold, stretched up and took the pigeon from the nest.
In the flickering light the children bent lovingly over the little fluttering thing in the old man's hand; they had never before seen a young bird at such close range and they looked with wonder at the soft, shapeless body, the big eyes, the ugly bill, wide open in insistent demand for food.
"May I give him a crumb to eat?" asked Andrea in an odd tone.
"Si," was the ready assent; "I expect he's hungry enough, with no one to wait on him. By the way, did you ever see a baby pigeon fed?"
The children shook their heads and listened most eagerly as the old man went on:
"This is a matter in which both father and mother take a hand, and the first food is a liquid secreted in their crops and called 'pigeons' milk.' When mealtime comes, the parents open wide their beaks, the little birds thrust in their bills, and the fun begins. I tell you it takes a great deal of effort and bobbing of heads for Baby Pigeon to get a satisfactory meal."
"How can we--ever--feed him?" Andrea anxiously interrupted, as if he felt that his charge