Chico: the Story of a Homing Pigeon | Page 8

might prove somewhat of a responsibility.
"Don't worry," was the comforting response as Paolo nodded his wise old head; "he may not be able to shift for himself, but I am willing to wager he will manage to eat whatever you offer him. You see this particular kind of infant food only lasts a few days; after that the milk gradually thickens and becomes mixed with bits of grain. Almost before he knows it, Baby Pigeon is independent of his parents and eats quite as if fully grown."
With that the old caretaker held out a piece of cracked wheat to the fledgling who devoured it greedily and opened his beak for more.
The children laughed aloud and clapped their hands in glee, continuing to feed him until Paolo declared the bird had had a royal breakfast and carefully replaced him in the nest.
Then, with Andrea on one side and Maria holding tightly to the other hand, he led them out of the shed and into the bright sunshine.
They stopped for a moment under the window for a lingering glance upward while Paolo called their attention to the dry-goods box he had placed on end for their special convenience.
"By standing on this," he explained, "you can get on a level with the nest without being dependent on me."
All the morning the children hung around the shed, delighted when there was an occasional sound from the nest above, and from time to time they clambered up to whisper soft nothings to the sharp ears of Baby Pigeon.
At noon, when eating their luncheon, they plied the old caretaker with questions some of which, it must be confessed, taxed all his ingenuity to answer satisfactorily.
"How long will it be before I can begin to train him?" interrupted Andrea, on fire with his desire at once to realize his ambition.
Paolo laughed. "One question at a time. I notice some soft down already beginning to show, so I fancy it will not be many weeks until he can boast as much in the way of fine clothes as his own father and mother. As for his training, it's quite too soon to think of that; so, my boy, you will have to possess your soul in patience for a while longer. By the way, your bird should have a name. Have you any in mind?"
"Not yet, although I've been thinking about that very thing," Andrea answered meditatively; "no name seems good enough."
"I think 'bambino' would be nice," suggested Maria; "he's such a darling baby."
"Si, but he will soon be grown up" put in Andrea; "I was wondering how Marco would do."
"Well, I don't say it wouldn't do," Paolo answered reflectively; "but it seems to me something like 'caro' or 'amato' [Footnote: Dear--beloved] might be appropriate for such a pet."
Andrea shook his head. And, after again racking his brain in an effort to suggest a really appropriate name, the old man finally slapped his hand on his side:
"It just comes to me this instant, something I heard one of those touristas call a little curly dog by. At the time it occurred to me that it sounded more like a name for a pigeon."
"What was it?" Andrea inquired eagerly.
"Chico," Paolo answered, lingering on the first syllable, exactly as the tourista had done--"Chee-ko."
Andrea was charmed, agreeing that there was something about it that seemed to suit a saucy pigeon, and, vastly pleased, he repeated over and over, "Chico, Chico," while Maria echoed softly "Chee-ko."

CHAPTER V
THE MEANEST CAT IN VENICE
It is hard to imagine a more forlorn experience in the life of a young bird than to be suddenly pushed from the nest and find himself alone on a hard pavement. It is bad enough when it happens as the result of premeditation on the part of an unfeeling parent who has made up his mind that his offspring are quite able to shift for themselves, but, when it occurs from accident, it is nothing short of tragic.
Poor Chico, this was what had happened to him, and he had huddled, shivering, close to the column of St. Theodore and tried in vain to reason everything out in his pigeon mind. Many things had happened of late that he had not been able to understand. His mother, hitherto most attentive to his sister and himself, had suddenly ceased feeding them with the nice soft food they loved so well, at the same time refusing to cuddle them under her warm breast.
He remembered vaguely hearing her impatiently coo to his father, that he would have to look out for the fledglings, her duty was to the eggs. At the time he hadn't understood what she meant by eggs, although once or twice he had caught a glimpse of two white oval things under her breast which she seemed to be dreadfully proud of.
It