Chico: the Story of a Homing Pigeon | Page 3

in his shabby gondola on the Grand Canal, and on the way they would beg to stop for just a moment at the famous well with two porphyry lions. Andrea was tall enough to clamber by himself after the manner of young Venetians, and nothing would do but Paolo must lift Maria, so she, too, would proudly straddle one of the fierce figures. There they would sit while the old caretaker would count the pigeons bathing and splashing in the water.
But, better than anything else, the children liked to snuggle close to their companion while he told them wonderful stories until it was time for him to go back to work.
While they watched with fascinated eyes, he would trace a diagram in the pavement to show how the Grand Canal, in its wanderings, exactly describes the letter "S." His eyes would glow as he told of the grandeur of Venice in the time of the Doges, or cause the children to shudder at gruesome accounts of how, in the olden time, the prisoners were thrown from the Bridge of Sighs, into the water below.
Perchance, he would tell of the wedding of the Adriatic and call Venice the Bride of the Sea, or give a vivid account of how the body of St. Mark was brought there in the long ago.
In fact, his tales were so realistic, that it almost seemed as if he must have been an eyewitness of every incident he narrated.

CHAPTER II
ANDREA'S WISH
Of all the old man's tales, there was not one the children liked so well as the story of St. Mark's pigeons.
It was strange that, as soon as he began to talk about them, there would be heard the whirr, whirr of wings, and in an instant, countless birds would light on every possible ledge, nestling among the statuary and filling the air with the soft music of their coos.
On this special day of which I am going to tell you, three of the very prettiest flew straight into Maria's lap and settled there, to her delight, with an air of proprietorship, while one particularly striking fellow perched inquisitively on Andrea's shoulder.
"See, Paolo," the boy cried, "isn't he--GREAT?" This was a new word that he had caught from one of the American tourists and he was immensely proud of having mastered its pronunciation. As he spoke, he pointed to the fine glossy wings and the bill that arched so delicately at the point.
"See," he cried again, calling attention to the iridescent colors, shining green and purple in the sunshine, then sighed disconsolately. "I do wish he belonged to me." And he stroked lovingly the feathered head. "I never have had a pet of any kind."
"Is it, then, a matter of such grief?" questioned the old caretaker, surprised at the lad's desire.
"Si," [Footnote: Yes.] he answered passionately, "I wish--oh, how I wish that I might have one for my very own!"--and he held the captive pigeon close against his cheek. "Do you understand?"
Paolo's answer came slowly. He had not forgotten an incident in his own boyhood when he had made a pet of a certain fledgling. It had been injured in some way and would have died had it not been for the careful nursing his rescuer bestowed. His eyes grew misty and, somewhat angrily, he hastily drew his coarse sleeve over them that the children might not perceive his weakness. It had been foolish enough to have grieved, as a child, because a pet pigeon had been shot by some heartless fellow for a pot-pie, but, after a lapse of over sixty years--He cleared his throat, then patted Andrea's dark hair.
"There is no reason why you should not have your wish. Patience! and the next fledgling that falls from the nest shall be yours."
"Grazie!" the boy cried joyfully; "mil grazie!" [Footnote: Thanks! A thousand thanks!] And in a paroxysm of delight, he seized one of his good friend's hands.
Laughing, Paolo turned to Maria who had sat quietly all the while, fondling the feathered creatures in her lap.
"How about you, little one? Would you, too, like a pigeon of your own?"
"No," she answered shyly, "I love them all too much." And the soft coo, coo-oo-oo from the lapful of birds seemed appreciative of her words.
"Very well, my dear, it shall be as you wish, and now that I have it all straight in my old head, what pleases each of you best, what say you, shall I begin the story?"
"Si! Si!" they cried in unison, settling back against the wall, anxious not to lose a single syllable.
"It was in the time of the Doge, Enrico Dandolo," he began, bending a questioning look at his eager listeners; "of course, you know that in the long ago, Venice was ruled by men who bore the title of Doge?"
The children