CHICO

THE STORY OF A HOMING PIGEON

By LUCY M. BLANCHARD

The Riverside Literature Series

1922

DEDICATED TO ALL WHO LOVE VENICE

FOREWORD

As is well known, the time for haphazard reading in the schools has passed. The carefully selected lists compiled by those who make the education ofchildren their life work are adapted to the needs of every grade. 

It is not enough that a book possess story interest and that it be worthwhile from a literary point of view. The great consideration is itsinfluence upon the mental and moral development of the child. It must bestimulating and present to the pupil such ideals as will have a permanentinfluence upon the formation of character. 

In CHICO, THE STORY OF A HOMING PIGEON, I believe present-day requirementshave been met, and that the book will prove of real value as asupplementary reader in the primary grades. 

It has been my aim to depict accurately the Italian atmosphere and to giveinformation in such a way that children unconsciously will learn much ofthe country form a true idea of the scenes described. 

Explanations of Italian words and phrases have been given when needed. 

I believe that the book will be found particularly valuable from thestandpoint of visual education, and well adapted also for silent readingand topical recitations. 

The story was written out of a full heart, with the hope that it mightfoster the love and appreciation of birds, and that the boy's sacrifice ofhis precious homing pigeon to his country at a time of peril might carry anethical appeal to every young reader. 

THE AUTHOR

 CONTENTS

 I. OLD PAOLO

 II. ANDREA'S WISH

 III. MARIA'S BIRTHDAY

 IV. CHICO

 V. THE MEANEST CAT IN VENICE

 VI. TRAINING

 VII. DANGER AHEAD!

 VIII. A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE

 IX. "COO-OO, COO-OO-OO. RUK-AT-A-COO"

 X. A GALA DAY

 XI. A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD

 XII. THE BLUE ROSETTE

 XIII. AND ALL FOR ITALY!

 XIV. EVVIVA VENEZIA! EVVIVA ITALIA!

 XV. THE HERO OF THE SQUARE

[Illustration: CHICO]

CHAPTER I

OLD PAOLO

Some years before the Great War, there lived in a little house on one ofthe side canals of Venice, an honest workman and his family. GiovanniMinetti, for such was his name, was employed in a certain glass factory inMurano, while, in all Venice, there was no one with fingers more deft inthe making of beautiful lace than Luisa, his wife. 

At the time of our story, Andrea, the elder child, was nearly eight, andhis little sister, Maria, two years younger. 

Consigning the children to the care of her uncle (old Paolo, the caretakerof St. Mark's), Luisa would go each morning to the lace factory, returningjust in time to prepare the simple dinner, at eventide. 

Those were wonderful days for the children, for though they missed theirfather and mother, they were always happy with old Paolo. 

"Buon giorno" [Footnote: Good-morning. ] they would shout every morning whenhe stopped for them on his way to the famous church, and Maria, holdingtight to one of the old man's hands, would trot along by his side, whileAndrea, more independent, would run on ahead in his eagerness to thread thenarrow streets catch the first glimpse of the Piazza, as St. Mark's Squareis called. 

Then, while the old man cleaned and dusted, the children wandered aboutthe dusky interior, touching the gold mosaic figures with awed fingers, orgazing reverently at the great altar front of silver gilt. 

After a little, hand in hand, they would scamper out into the brightsunshine where they never tired of the many wonderful objects that make St. Mark's Square a fairyland for young and old alike. 

"'Roglo!" little Maria would cry, as she pointed upward to the great clockwith its dial of blue and gold. It was the nearest she could come topronouncing "orologio, " the Italian word for clock. Then she would listenas hard as ever she could, hoping the bronze figures would strike the houron the bell. 

But Andrea loved best the horses that stood above the entrance of thechurch. In his little soul he almost worshiped the fiery steeds and lovedto fancy himself seated on their backs. He even went so far as to plan toscale the wall in order to satisfy his ambition. 

"Sometime, I will do it, " he used to say, as he struck a determinedattitude, and Maria would look at him with adoring eyes. How venturesome hewas! He was taller than she by half a head, and his added two years gavehim a place in dignity far above her. 

It was no wonder the boy should be so crazy over the great bronze steedswhen one remembers that Venice is practically horseless and that they werealmost the only ones he had ever seen. 

Perchance, even, as they talked, they would hear the flutter of wings, andsome half-dozen pigeons, with soft coos, would light on their shoulders. Then Maria would laugh aloud with delight, and Andrea would forget his wilddreams as they stroked the glossy wings and admired the bright eyes, allthe while feeding them dried peas or grain with which their mother neverforgot to see their pockets were supplied. 

If, by chance, they flung a handful on the ground, in a second there wouldbe a whole flock of pigeons, lighting on the pavement. 

Then Maria would clap her hands, and Andrea would have all he could do tosee that no bird, greedier than the rest, got more than its share. 

The children would be so absorbed that they would become quite unconsciousof the tourists that would gather to watch the pretty group, for Venice wasfull of tourists in those days--people who came, even from far-off America, to see the wonderful St. Mark's Square, and hard-hearted, indeed, was theman or woman who could turn away without buying at least one bag of grainfrom insistent vendors and join the children in feeding the pigeons. 

But I have not yet begun to tell the wonders of St. Mark's Square. This wasin June, 1910; the Campanile was being built to replace the old one thathad fallen in 1902, and to little Maria and Andrea, there was a fascinationin watching the workmen lift the great stones into place from the confuseddebris at its base. 

If the Piazza was wonderful, so, too, was the piazzetta with the DucalPalace with the golden staircase and the two columns, the one surmountedby the winged lion of St. Mark, the other by St. Theodore, standing on acrocodile. 

Sometimes, after having wandered to the edge of the Grand Canal and lookedaway to the blue dome of the church of Maria della Salute, they would runback to the Square and, hand in hand, go window-wishing among the shopsthat line its sides. No one who has never seen these shops of Venice canform any conception of how fascinating they are with their strands ofglittering beads or yards upon yards of marvelous laces. 

Often Andrea would exclaim, as they flattened their noses against theglass, "When I am a man, I will work in the glass factory as my fatherdoes, and, perhaps, who knows, I shall discover some new glaze which shallmake all the world amazed?" He had never forgotten the day when his fatherhad taken him to the factory and shown him the molten glaze and the workmenblowing the glass into marvelous shapes. That day he had decided upon hisfuture career. 

But little Maria cared more for the laces, and would shyly point to someespecially beautiful piece and say softly:

"Perhaps, it was the madre who made that. "

Once she followed an American woman into the shop and stood by her sidewatching her bargain for an exquisite collar. So intently she looked thatthe woman turned and met her gaze, remarking to her companion:

"Even the children have it in them--I mean the love for beautiful things;and did you see her fingers?--any one could tell they were meant forlace-making. "

Sometimes the children lingered so long in this way that the bronze figureswould strike twelve, and they would have to hurry back so as not to keepold Paolo waiting for his noonday lunch. 

Then, in some little recess around the corner of the church, with countlesspigeons waiting for the crumbs, they would sit with him, sharing his frugalmeal. When they had finished, he would sometimes take them for a ride inhis shabby gondola on the Grand Canal, and on the way they would beg tostop for just a moment at the famous well with two porphyry lions. Andreawas 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 proudlystraddle one of the fierce figures. There they would sit while the oldcaretaker would count the pigeons bathing and splashing in the water. 

But, better than anything else, the children liked to snuggle close totheir companion while he told them wonderful stories until it was time forhim to go back to work. 

While they watched with fascinated eyes, he would trace a diagram in thepavement to show how the Grand Canal, in its wanderings, exactly describesthe letter "S. " His eyes would glow as he told of the grandeur of Venicein the time of the Doges, or cause the children to shudder at gruesomeaccounts of how, in the olden time, the prisoners were thrown from theBridge of Sighs, into the water below. 

Perchance, he would tell of the wedding of the Adriatic and call Venice theBride of the Sea, or give a vivid account of how the body of St. Mark wasbrought there in the long ago. 

In fact, his tales were so realistic, that it almost seemed as if he musthave 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 asthe story of St. Mark's pigeons. 

It was strange that, as soon as he began to talk about them, there would beheard the whirr, whirr of wings, and in an instant, countless birds wouldlight on every possible ledge, nestling among the statuary and filling theair with the soft music of their coos. 

On this special day of which I am going to tell you, three of the veryprettiest flew straight into Maria's lap and settled there, to her delight, with an air of proprietorship, while one particularly striking fellowperched inquisitively on Andrea's shoulder. 

"See, Paolo, " the boy cried, "isn't he--GREAT?" This was a new word that hehad caught from one of the American tourists and he was immensely proudof having mastered its pronunciation. As he spoke, he pointed to the fineglossy wings and the bill that arched so delicately at the point. 

"See, " he cried again, calling attention to the iridescent colors, shininggreen and purple in the sunshine, then sighed disconsolately. "I do wish hebelonged to me. " And he stroked lovingly the feathered head. "I never havehad 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 wishthat I might have one for my very own!"--and he held the captive pigeonclose against his cheek. "Do you understand?"

Paolo's answer came slowly. He had not forgotten an incident in his ownboyhood when he had made a pet of a certain fledgling. It had been injuredin some way and would have died had it not been for the careful nursing hisrescuer bestowed. His eyes grew misty and, somewhat angrily, he hastilydrew his coarse sleeve over them that the children might not perceive hisweakness. It had been foolish enough to have grieved, as a child, because apet pigeon had been shot by some heartless fellow for a pot-pie, but, aftera lapse of over sixty years--He cleared his throat, then patted Andrea'sdark hair. 

"There is no reason why you should not have your wish. Patience! and thenext fledgling that falls from the nest shall be yours. "

"Grazie!" the boy cried joyfully; "mil grazie!" [Footnote: Thanks! Athousand thanks!] And in a paroxysm of delight, he seized one of his goodfriend's hands. 

Laughing, Paolo turned to Maria who had sat quietly all the while, fondlingthe 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 allstraight in my old head, what pleases each of you best, what say you, shallI begin the story?"

"Si! Si!" they cried in unison, settling back against the wall, anxious notto lose a single syllable. 

"It was in the time of the Doge, Enrico Dandolo, " he began, bending aquestioning look at his eager listeners; "of course, you know that in thelong ago, Venice was ruled by men who bore the title of Doge?"

The children nodded assent, and he went on, impressively:

"Dandolo was a great man. He was eighty years old at the time he came intothe office, and blind, as well, but he was not too old to undertake mightyenterprises. "

"When was it he lived?" asked Andrea meditatively. 

"Oh, many, many years ago--I am inclined to think it must have been atleast five or six hundred. "

"Five or six hundred years ago!" repeated Andrea incredulously, hischildish mind refusing to compass so great a lapse of time. 

"Well--thereabouts, " Paolo resumed, somewhat disturbed at the interruption;"it was in the time of the crusades. Have you ever heard of the crusades, my dear?" And he softly touched Maria's chin. Before she could reply, herbrother put in, proudly, "I know, they were wars to rescue the holy landsfrom the--" he paused. 

"Infidels, " supplied Paolo approvingly. "That's right. " And any one seeingthe old man would surely have thought that he had himself fought againstthe infidels, such fire shot from his eyes, and so tense became hismuscles. "It was in the Fourth Crusade that Venice played so mighty apart. "

"Was Dandolo the leader?" asked Andrea, sitting bolt upright in hisexcitement, and forgetting the pigeon which, loosed by the sudden movement, escaped, and soared, with a quick spiral curve, to the blue sky. 

Regretfully, the child watched the flight, but settled back as Paolo wenton:

"Old though he was, he was the hero of the whole expedition. Even theFrench had no general to compare with him. And tell me, both of you, didyou ever see a picture of a Doge of Venice?"

"I have!" Maria cried; "and he wore a coat all red and gold and a cap--"

"Si! si!" the old man interrupted, almost beside himself with excitement;"those were his robes of state, but in armor, and on horseback before thewalls of Constantinople! Ah, then he must have been magnifico!"

"On horseback, did you say?" repeated Andrea, and his eyes wandered to thebronze steeds the manes of which glistened in the sunlight. 

Paolo nodded, "And I have no doubt but that the one great Dandolo rode waslike those very horses; and, by the way, my lad, did you ever hear thatthey were part of the spoils he brought from the East in triumph and placedabove our own St. Mark's?"

Without allowing Andrea time to comment on the amazing fact, he went on, still more excitedly;

"It is said that Dandolo, great as he was, would not have been able totake the city had it not been for a messenger pigeon that brought him mostimportant information. Nor is that all the part the brave birds played atthis great time, for it was no other than some of our own fine homers thatconveyed the first news of glorious victory to Venice. Hence it was, thatwhen the Doge returned, in triumph, he issued a proclamation that thepigeons should evermore be held in reverence. "

Paolo paused, well-nigh exhausted by his enthusiasm, and, reaching over, laid his withered hand on the birds that still cooed contentedly in Maria'slap. 

"It's no wonder they're so tame when every one has been loving them for thelast five or six hundred years!" she murmured. 

"Paolo!" Andrea suddenly asked, with sparkling eyes, "do you suppose thatwe can teach my pigeon to carry messages?"

"I shouldn't be surprised, " replied the old caretaker, entering into thelad's enthusiasm; "they're as intelligent now as they ever were. All theyneed is the training. It's funny how their little heads can hold so much. "

Reaching over, he took one of the birds from Maria's lap and pointed to thebulge just above the tiny ear:

"Some people say that's where their sense of direction is located, but youcan't convince me it isn't in their hearts. It's the love they havefor their homes that makes 'em fly from any distance straight to theirnesting-places. I've noticed that a good homing pigeon has bright eyes, anda stout heart, not to mention a keen sense of direction, and strong wingsto carry him long distances, but more than all else, there must be the loveof home. "

Andrea had lost not a syllable of what the old man said. For a long timehe had secretly cherished the desire to own one of the pretty flutteringcreatures, but not, until now, had the possibility occurred to him that hemight teach one to carry messages. 

Long after Paolo had returned to his duties in the church, the boy satwatching the clouds of pigeons circling above, or flying double (bird andshadow), against the walls of the church. 

He had made up his mind that as soon as Paolo fulfilled his promise, hewould begin to train his fledgling. 

"There's no knowing, " he cried eagerly to Maria, "what important messagesmy bird will carry!"

In reply she only smiled--it was enough for her that the pigeons loved tohave her stroke them as they nestled in her lap. 

CHAPTER III

MARIA'S BIRTHDAY

Andrea was so possessed with his idea that he ran every step of the wayhome that afternoon, climbed up the narrow dark stairs, two steps at atime, and burst upon his mother in such excitement that she feared somemisfortune had befallen the children. 

"What is it?" she cried, looking up from the stiff porridge she was mixing, "are you hurt?--and Maria--where is she?"

"Nothing has happened, " was the breathless answer; "that is, nothingdreadful, and Maria is behind with Paolo. It is only--" his dark cheeksflushed. "It is only that he has promised me a pigeon of my own!"

"Is that all?" Greatly relieved, his mother turned again to the polenta. [Footnote: Cake, or thick porridge made of maize. ] What a child he was, tobe sure, to be so pleased at the idea of the possession of a pigeon!

"But, madre, " he protested, "I am going to train it to carry messages. There's no knowing what _my_ pigeon will do!"

"Si! Si!" She replied absently as she turned to see if the charcoal wasright for the baking. 

It was a mean little house, at least so it would seem to most Americanchildren--just three rooms overlooking one of the side canals, and overa fish shop. It was built of brick (no one knew, how long ago), and waswedged in between others, of exactly the same type. 

But it was home, and whatever else it lacked, it had a front window, withshutters, and a balcony with an iron railing, and when tucked up in theirbeds at night, in the tiny dark alcove, the children could hear the softswish of the water against the embankment. 

In spite of the window, even the best room was never very light, and onlyan occasional streak of sunshine found its way in, but on those rareoccasions it fell upon the choicest treasure of the home, a rude coloredprint of the Virgin, in a modest shrine, hung with gilded fringe. On theshelf above, Luisa took care to see that a lamp was ever burning, and onthe table before it stood always a tiny vase of fresh flowers. What matter, that the carpet was old, and the furniture worn, the Virgin's shrine wasthere!

Unconsciously, the children trod gently in this room, and theirlaughter was subdued, but in the kitchen--ah, there, their spirits wereunrestrained. 

Maria was not long behind her brother, but the scampi, [Footnote: Fish. ]were already frying in the pan, before Giovanni, in his working shirt, appeared in the doorway, hungry and ready for his dinner. 

"Padre! Padre!" cried Andrea; "only guess--the pet I am to have!" Then, with scarcely an instant's pause, he went on, in a shrill voice, "A pigeon, padre, isn't that--GREAT?"

"Well, well!" Giovanni answered, taking his seat at the head of the table, "and so you are to have a pigeon for a pet. I might have guessed anythingelse--a parrot, a little singing bird, or perhaps, a couple of grilli[Footnote: Crickets. ] in a tiny cage, but a pigeon! Why, you play with themall day long on St. Mark's Square. "

"But that is not like having one of one's own, " the boy protested. 

He made a gesture of disgust. "A parrot, a singing bird, a couple ofgrilli! What was his father thinking of?" and in another moment he wasexplaining how he would train his bird to be a carrier pigeon, and howbright its eyes would be, and how strong its wings, until his fatherlaughed and declared himself convinced that it would be the most wonderfulthing in all the world to own a pigeon. 

The fish had quite disappeared from the platter when Giovanni again spoke:

"To-morrow is the Sabbath, and it is the little Maria's birthday--what sayyou?"--he addressed himself particularly to Luisa--"shall we go to theLido?"

To the Lido! The children's eyes sparkled. There was nothing they lovedmore to do than to play on the sand at the Lido. 

"Si!" Luisa answered with ready acquiescence; "and on the way let us spenda little time at the Accademia--it has been long since I have seen thepictures of the great Titian and even Maria is quite old enough. "

So it was settled, and the children talked of nothing else the rest of theevening, dropping off to sleep without once giving a thought to the lappingof the water. 

When they woke, it was late; their mother had been up for a long time, getting everything ready for the day's excursion. Already the lunch-basketwas packed, and as soon as the children were dressed and the breakfasteaten, it was time to start. 

At first, Andrea walked with his mother, insisting upon carryingthe basket, but after a little his arms became weary and, withoutexpostulation, he allowed his father to take it from him, while he ranjoyfully ahead, eager to catch a glimpse of the bronze horses, and dabblehis fingers a few moments in the well with the bathing pigeons. 

As for Maria, she was most conscious of the fact that she was six yearsold, and with shining eyes walked carefully by her mother's side. She worea string of gay beads about her neck (a birthday gift from her father) andred tassels dangled bewitchingly from the tops of her new shoes. 

It was only a ten-minutes walk from St. Mark's to the Accademia, and aftera number of turns through one narrow calle after another, they came to thebridge that led directly to the entrance. 

Maria was awed at the imposing doorway, but Andrea, boylike, marched inunabashed, and, after a cursory glance in various directions, declaredhimself ready to leave. He would far rather be outdoors and could scarcelywait to get on to the Lido. 

"Not so soon, my lad, there is much that you should see. " And, taking himby the hand, Giovanni led him into a great room with two immense pictures. One was the Assumption of the Virgin by the great Titian and before it evenrestless Andrea was stilled, feeling a little of the spell that has made ofthis place a world shrine for all lovers of art--the wonderful figure ofthe Virgin, in billowy robes, rising to heaven, while countless angels, each one seeming more adorable than the other, seem to bear her up in herglad flight. 

"Listen, " Luisa whispered, "do you not hear them singing 'Halleleujah'?"

There were other pictures in the same room, and one especially thatinterested Andrea. It was Tintoretto's Miracle of St. Mark, and he listenedattentively as his father told the story:

How a certain pious slave, forbidden to visit and venerate the house of St. Mark, disobeyed the command and went, notwithstanding. His master, angered, ordered that the poor fellow's eyes be put out. But lo, a miracle stayedthe hands of those who were sent to carry out the cruel sentence. The slavewas freed, and his master converted. 

Then Luisa led Maria into another room, saying:

"Here is the picture I most wanted you to see, for you are named for theblessed Virgin. Have you not heard how, when Mary was scarcely more than achild, she was taken to the temple and consecrated to the service of thechurch?"

Maria shook her head; her childish heart was full; and with solemn eyes shelooked long and earnestly at the little girl, with tightly braided hair, slowly mounting the long flight of steps to the high priest who, though heseemed stern and austere, held out his hand in kindly greeting. 

Long Maria lingered, noticing every detail, the blue dress, the lightedtaper, the halo round the head, and she was loath to leave, even when herfather came to the door, and her mother said gently:

"Come, we must be off, if we would be at the Lido for our lunch. "

Soon they were in the steamer which chugged so merrily that Andrea forgotall about the pictures he had seen in his interest in watching the wheelsgo around and the white foam in the vessel's wake, but Maria sat in a kindof dream until they reached the landing. 

Then, in the hurry that ensued and the many distractions on the shore, thepicture of the brave little girl, for the time, faded from her mind, andshe, too, gave herself up with undisguised pleasure to the fascinations ofthe Lido. 

It is a strip of shore extending along the mouth of the Lagoon and forminga bulwark of Venice against the Adriatic. It was here that the weddingceremony was performed in the long ago, and the view is most beautiful fromthis point. 

They sat on a bench in front of the Aquarium to eat their luncheon, and thechildren could scarcely wait to finish, they were so eager to press theirnoses against the glass and watch the funny creatures swimming in thetanks. Maria clapped her hands and declared the best of all were thesea-horses--"Cavalli marini, " she called them. 

Then, what a glorious afternoon they had on the smooth beach, hunting forshells and digging in the sand. How Andrea laughed when his father took himaway out and let the breakers roll over him. Then Maria, holding tight toher brother's hand, who still seemed much bigger and stronger, even if thiswas her birthday, ventured far into the waves. 

Much too quickly the happy hours sped, and before they knew it it was sixo'clock. 

All the way home on the steamer Andrea held tightly to the dried starfishhe 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 tocatch the faint cheep of a baby bird in distress, and they reached homeentirely 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 ofmystery about him that was distinctly puzzling. Then, too, he walkedunusually 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 tokeep up, Paolo slackened his pace with a laconic "Wait and see, " that waseven more mystifying. 

On reaching the Piazza, his manner showed still greater excitement. 

"Venite!" [Footnote: "come here"] he exclaimed, leading the way to a smallshed 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 sufficientlyaccustomed to the dim light to really see what was being pointed out. Highabove their heads was a small window, close to which had been placed awooden box. 

The old man stopped a moment, listened, reached up his hand, then drew itback with an air of satisfaction, while the youngsters, fascinated, watchedwithout in the least surmising what it was all about. 

With a finger on his lips to enjoin silence, he suddenly seized Andrea andraised 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 ofmystification, then to an expression of joy as his hand touched somethingwarm:

"L'uccello!" [Footnote: The bird. ] he cried; then, in an ecstasy ofdelight, "Is it mine?"

Paolo nodded, and, after putting the boy down on the floor, gently liftedMaria so that she, too, might put her fingers into the nest he had made forthe 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 hadcaused, "I came across him all huddled up by yonder column. "

"And may I really have him?" queried Andrea, finding it hard to realizethat he had gained his heart's desire. 

"Why not? I doubt if the old birds will even notice he has gone. Youknow when the mother has other eggs to take her attention, she gives thefledglings into the care of the father bird, and it isn't very long beforehe pushes them out to shift for themselves. There is no reason why thisparticular one should not belong to you: in fact, I imagine he's a bitlonesome in this strange place, though, to be sure, I did all I could tomake him comfortable, with a wisp of hay and a few dried sticks, but, atbest, I'm not much of a nest-maker. Come now, would you like to have a lookat him?"

"Si! Si!" the children cried together. And with that Paolo, after lightinga bit of discarded candle and giving it to Andrea to hold, stretched up andtook the pigeon from the nest. 

In the flickering light the children bent lovingly over the littlefluttering thing in the old man's hand; they had never before seen a youngbird at such close range and they looked with wonder at the soft, shapelessbody, 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 towait 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 manwent on:

"This is a matter in which both father and mother take a hand, and thefirst food is a liquid secreted in their crops and called 'pigeons' milk. 'When mealtime comes, the parents open wide their beaks, the little birdsthrust in their bills, and the fun begins. I tell you it takes a great dealof 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 feltthat his charge might prove somewhat of a responsibility. 

"Don't worry, " was the comforting response as Paolo nodded his wise oldhead; "he may not be able to shift for himself, but I am willing to wagerhe will manage to eat whatever you offer him. You see this particularkind of infant food only lasts a few days; after that the milk graduallythickens and becomes mixed with bits of grain. Almost before he knowsit, Baby Pigeon is independent of his parents and eats quite as if fullygrown. "

With that the old caretaker held out a piece of cracked wheat to thefledgling who devoured it greedily and opened his beak for more. 

The children laughed aloud and clapped their hands in glee, continuingto feed him until Paolo declared the bird had had a royal breakfast andcarefully 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 upwardwhile Paolo called their attention to the dry-goods box he had placed onend for their special convenience. 

"By standing on this, " he explained, "you can get on a level with the nestwithout being dependent on me. "

All the morning the children hung around the shed, delighted when therewas an occasional sound from the nest above, and from time to time theyclambered up to whisper soft nothings to the sharp ears of Baby Pigeon. 

At noon, when eating their luncheon, they plied the old caretaker withquestions some of which, it must be confessed, taxed all his ingenuity toanswer 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 alreadybeginning to show, so I fancy it will not be many weeks until he can boastas much in the way of fine clothes as his own father and mother. As for histraining, it's quite too soon to think of that; so, my boy, you will haveto possess your soul in patience for a while longer. By the way, your birdshould have a name. Have you any in mind?"

"Not yet, although I've been thinking about that very thing, " Andreaanswered meditatively; "no name seems good enough. "

"I think 'bambino' would be nice, " suggested Maria; "he's such a darlingbaby. "

"Si, but he will soon be grown up" put in Andrea; "I was wondering howMarco would do. "

"Well, I don't say it wouldn't do, " Paolo answered reflectively; "but itseems 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 tosuggest a really appropriate name, the old man finally slapped his hand onhis side:

"It just comes to me this instant, something I heard one of those touristascall a little curly dog by. At the time it occurred to me that it soundedmore like a name for a pigeon. "

"What was it?" Andrea inquired eagerly. 

"Chico, " Paolo answered, lingering on the first syllable, exactly as thetourista had done--"Chee-ko. "

Andrea was charmed, agreeing that there was something about it that seemedto 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 birdthan to be suddenly pushed from the nest and find himself alone on a hardpavement. It is bad enough when it happens as the result of premeditationon the part of an unfeeling parent who has made up his mind that hisoffspring are quite able to shift for themselves, but, when it occurs fromaccident, 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 reasoneverything out in his pigeon mind. Many things had happened of late that hehad not been able to understand. His mother, hitherto most attentive to hissister and himself, had suddenly ceased feeding them with the nice softfood they loved so well, at the same time refusing to cuddle them under herwarm 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 thetime he hadn't understood what she meant by eggs, although once or twice hehad caught a glimpse of two white oval things under her breast which sheseemed to be dreadfully proud of. 

It wouldn't have been so bad if his father had been as affectionate asusual, but, on the contrary, he had treated his sister and himself as ifthey were in the way, and it was easy to see Father Pigeon would havegreatly preferred crowding on the nest with his mate to getting food fortwo greedy fledglings. 

In fact, that was how the accident had happened. Chico had been sounfortunate as to get in the way, with the result that he had been pushedout and had fallen to the ground. 

Poor little naked fledgling, he had shivered and huddled close to thefriendly column, for, even in summer, the breeze from the Adriatic oftenblows fresh and cool. 

He had just begun to wonder how he should get anything to eat, whensuddenly a shadow had come over him, causing him to crouch low in even, greater terror, while his heart thumped horribly, but before he could uttera sound he had been seized by a big warm hand, and a voice that was notunkindly had exclaimed:

"Did the little pigeon fall from the nest?"

In the warm comfort of Paolo's hand the bird had forgotten his fear, andhis little heart had ceased to thump as he reflected this must be a human, and his mother had always taught him that "humans" were kind to birds inSt. Mark's Square. So, with a feeling akin to confidence, he had allowedhimself to be carried somewhere he did not know, and deposited In what hesupposed was meant for a nest, although it was not bit like the nice, softone to which he had accustomed. 

He had even managed to eat a crumb or two, and, in spite of the fact thathe was very lonely without his sister to keep him company, he had finallysucceeded in going to sleep. 

In the morning the big hand had grasped him again and had shown him to twolong-legged creatures who he had guessed were human children, because theylooked much as his mother had described them in one of her favorite lullabycoos. He had not been afraid of them, but, flattered by their delightedexclamations, had eaten everything they had offered him. 

By the time the second night had come, Chico had so far become accustomedto his strange surroundings that he slept almost as well as if he had beenunder his mother's wings. 

He was still dreaming when he heard a voice call, "Chico, Chico--are youstill there, Chico?"

He roused instantly, reminded of his friends who had given him hisbreakfast the morning before. 

He raised his head. There was a sound of other little feet climbing uponthe dry-goods box, and a softer voice called, "Chico, Chico!"

Still he made no movement, listening while the children speculated as towhether or not their pet had been spirited away during the night. 

"Chico! Chico!" There was something so pleading in the boy's voice that thebaby pigeon thrust his open bill out of the window on the ledge. 

"He's here, he's here!" Andrea shouted, almost losing his balance in hisexcitement, but he saved himself in time to put a bit of cracked wheat intothe wide-open mouth. It was greedily swallowed and the open bill demandedmore. This performance was repeated until the boy's supply was exhausted. Then the bill was withdrawn, and Chico disappeared from view. But betweenthe boy and the bird had been established a bond that would never bebroken. From that time on, Chico was his pigeon in every sense of the word, and, at Andrea's first call, the greedy bill would immediately appear. 

So it went on, until one bright morning, when the children turned thecorner of the church, they found Chico, perched on the window ledge, fakinga sun-bath and waiting for his friends. 

My! what excitement there was! Andrea could scarcely wait to climb up onthe box, and was delighted when Chico cocked his head on one side andactually permitted his caresses. 

"Bambino!" murmured Maria; "dear little baby bird. Oh, see! he's actuallygetting feathers!"

It was true, the soft down with which he was covered in some places wasbeginning to give way to the first pin feathers, his bill did not seemso awkwardly large, and the soft, shapeless body already showed signs ofdeveloping future grace. 

After this Chico was always waiting for the children, and would cock hishead on one side when he saw them coming, uttering little squeaky noisesthat did not sound in the least like cooing. All the time his feathers weregrowing and his wings becoming stronger. 

Then came a day when Paolo declared that Chico must have his first lessonin flying, and the children watched, with abated breath, as the old mantook the bird from his nest and placed him on the pavement, at the sametime stationing himself at a little distance and holding an enticingmorsel. At first the baby pigeon flopped aimlessly about when, suddenly, Maria caught Andrea's arm, whispering excitedly, "He's going to do it, oh, he's going to do it!" and, miracle of miracles! after awkwardly raisingone wing and then another, he actually mastered the first lesson and, inconsequence, was treated to a royal breakfast. It was a great exertion, and, after satisfying his hunger, he then and there closed his weary eyesand took a nap on the pavement, much to Paolo's amusement. 

"Well, " he exclaimed, "it's the first time I ever taught a bird to fly. Onenever knows what one can do until one tries. "

After that not a day passed that Chico did not make short flights, toAndrea from Maria, and from her to the old man's shoulder, until, onemorning, he greatly amazed them by flying into his own window box. 

Gaining confidence, Chico must have had it in his pigeon mind one morningto fly from his nest and greet his friends upon the pavement. But alas, hemiscalculated his strength, even as human beings often do, and while hespread his wings most boldly, he lost his balance and fell ignominiously tothe ground. That would not of itself have been so bad, for, like childrenlearning to walk, baby pigeons must have many a disaster before the art offlying is completely mastered, but, by some strange chance, it happenedthat a lean tortoise-shell kitten was prowling about one of the sidestreets and at that moment poked her head into St. Mark's Square. Now, inVenice, there are very few cats--in fact, because of the esteem in whichpigeons are held, they are not popular pets. More than that, they arepositively prohibited from St. Mark's Square, as any well-trained felineshould know. 

Where this cat came from, and to whom she belonged, ever remained amystery, but as she curiously poked her head into the forbidden precinctshe caught sight of Chico, lying stunned and helpless from his fall. Herewas her chance. Straightway flinging caution to the winds, with a quickspring she landed full upon the trembling bird, at the same time seizinghim with her paws and burying her cruel teeth in his tender flesh. 

What would have been the result I shudder to reflect, had not Andrea atthat moment appeared upon the scene. With a scream of terror he rushedforward, clapping his hands and making such an outcry that the kitten, frightened, dropped her prey and disappeared down the side street fromwhich she had ventured. 

When Paolo arrived on the scene a few moments later he found Andrea, well-nigh distracted, hugging his wounded pet to his breast, and whisperingover and over again:

"Chico, Chico, you mustn't die--you mustn't die!"

It took Paolo but a few moments to assure himself that Chico was notseriously hurt, although he bore the scar made by the cruel claws for manya day, and it was weeks before he dared again to try the flight from hisnest to the pavement. 

As for the cat, although the old caretaker sallied forth vowing vengeance, she was never again seen. 

Soon it was time for the children to go to school in the old buildingsituated some distance from St. Mark's, not far from the Rialto. 

There was now only time in the morning for a brief visit with Chico beforelessons began, and a hurried half-hour with him at luncheon. Hence themoments after four o'clock and the full holiday on Saturday were mostprecious, and on those occasions no one was happier than Chico, flying fromone to another, and usually ending by perching coquettishly on Andrea'sshoulder. 

"There isn't a pigeon in Venice to compare with him, " remarked Andrea, lovingly touching the daintily arched bill, and looking into the cleareyes. "Tell me, Paolo, did you ever see so fine a bird?"

In answer the old man thoughtfully stretched out the well-shaped wings, saying, as the colors shone iridescent green and blue in the sunshine:"They're as beautiful as any wings I ever saw, and better than that, they're strong. Wings like that can carry a pigeon any distance. Yes, " hecontinued, more to himself than to the children, "if he's to be a homer, itseems to me it's full time to begin his training. "

Andrea started in an ecstasy of delight. 

"Do you mean it, Paolo? Do you really mean it?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, and if you have no objections, we'll give him thefirst lesson next Saturday morning. "

As if surmising that he was the subject of discussion, Chico flew back toAndrea's shoulder, where he coo-ooed blissfully, while Paolo unfolded tohis eager listeners the details as he had planned them. 

CHAPTER VI

TRAINING

As a first step he had secured a wicker basket with a close-fitting coverwhich roused the liveliest curiosity and caused Andrea to ask, doubtfully:

"What has a basket to do with teaching a pigeon?"

"Just about everything, " the old man wisely replied. "By carrying the birdin a dark basket to the place from which he is to make his flight, he willhave no way of acquainting himself with the direction in which he traveled, and, when released, must depend entirely upon his homing instinct. "

"Chico won't like being shut up in a dark prison, " interrupted Maria, stretching up to caress the glossy neck; "it's like being blindfolded. "

"Perhaps not, " was the rejoinder, "but if he is going to be trained to be afaithful homer, he will have to spend a good deal of time in the same darkprison. It's part of the discipline of his life. " As he finished, he begantracing figures on the pavement, and the children, wondering still more, watched him, fascinated. 

"There's no doubt, " he mused, more to himself than to his listeners, "butthat he could find his way from such near-by points as the Ducal Palace andthe Bridge of Sighs--I'm disposed to take him farther away for his firsttrial--say to the Rialto. "

"Bene! bene!" [Footnote: Good! good!] shouted Andrea, clapping his hands. 

"Then, " continued the old man, without paying any attention to theinterruption, "if he does well from such distances as that, we'll graduallytake him farther away--perhaps to the Lido and--"

"To the Lido, " repeated Andrea, to whom this seemed a great distance. "Doyou think he could find his way from there?"

"Without the least difficulty, " was the answer, "and within a few weeks, unless I miss my guess; after a while we'll have to arrange to try him fromother parts of Italy--Milan, for instance. "

"Milan! Other parts of Italy!" The children found it hard to fancy cooinglittle Chico finding his way home from distant cities, and in spiteof himself, Andrea's eyes filled with tears, as he faltered, "I--wouldn't--want--him to get--lost!"

"Not much danger of that, I fancy. If he doesn't fall down on the easyflights, he'll be able to take the longer ones. 

"Why, lad, " Paolo went on kindly, touched by the boy's dejection, "if youwant Chico to be a real homing pigeon, you must expect him to run somerisks. Don't you remember Dandolo's bird that carried the glad news fromConstantinople?"

Andrea nodded, doubtfully. While he had thought much of the possible gloryChico might gain as a faithful messenger, for the first time he trembledlest, in realizing the ambition, the safety of the bird might beendangered. Thoughts of possible perils filled his mind with foreboding, but he didn't wish Paolo to think he was turning the white feather, so heswallowed hard and forced himself to say:

"I guess it will be all right. "

"All right! I should say it would be, " was the hearty response; "and justremember, my boy, if you expect your bird to have a stout heart you mustkeep up your own courage. "

At last Saturday came, the day Paolo had set for the training to begin. Andrea was so excited he had no appetite for breakfast and would haverushed from the house without a mouthful if Luisa had not insisted thathe eat at least one piece of the hot polenta. But that was all--he almostbolted it whole, and, without waiting for Paolo, was out of the house andin St. Mark's Square at least half an hour earlier than ever before. 

Not that it was much satisfaction, for hardhearted Paolo had carefullyplaced the pigeon in the basket the night before, saying as he secured thecover:

"He must not be allowed his freedom until we reach the Rialto, then he willbe hungry and doubly anxious to reach home. "

"Can't we give him anything to eat?" Andrea asked anxiously. 

"Not a morsel!" was the stern reply. "If he is to be trained at all, itmust be done right. Come, children, give me your promise not to interfere. "

"We won't, " they answered in unison, and though Andrea still thoughtthe treatment very harsh, he dared not again raise his voice in furtherprotest. 

It seemed very forlorn not to find Chico waiting on his window ledgewhen he turned the corner of the church, and with heart aching for theimprisoned bird, he entered the dark little shed and looked anxiously forthe basket. There it was, in the corner where Paolo had left it, but, as hecalled once, and then again, there was no answering "coo. "

Andrea's heart sank; perhaps the bird was sick. Beset by anxious thoughtshe crossed the room, took the basket in his hand and held it to his ear. Not a sound! Genuinely frightened, he regretted bitterly that he hadever wished the bird trained. Why had he not been content with him as hewas--the most beautiful bird in St. Mark's Square?

Turning the basket about, he looked it all over carefully. There was aslight stir. He breathed a sigh of relief, then joyfully caught his breathas he suddenly discovered two bright eyes looking straight at him throughone of the cracks. 

"Chico!" he cried joyfully; "Chico! Are you all right?" Placing his ear tothe wicker prison, he caught a faint answering "coo, " and a minute laterthe very tip of the bird's bill found its way through one of the cracks. Itwas heartrending, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that Andrearestrained himself from tearing off the cover of the basket and feedinghis hungry pet, but he had given his promise, so he was obliged to contenthimself with holding the basket close to his cheek and murmuring soft wordsinto the responsive ears of the prisoner. 

So Paolo found him. Andrea started guiltily as the old caretaker stepped inthe door, but drew himself up proudly at the sharp inquiry:

"Is it possible that you are feeding Chico?"

"No, " was the quick reply, "I am only talking to him. Surely there isn'tany harm in that!"

"No harm at all, " the old man answered; "and now I propose to take him tothe Rialto and there give him his freedom, while you wait here and seeif he knows enough to come home. Notice the time by the big clock; if hereturns promptly, you may reward him with a good breakfast and plenty ofwater to drink, for he will be thirsty. "

Andrea's face lighted up with joy. He had a pocket full of choice morsels, and, with a happy face, watched Paolo set out, carefully holding the basketwith its precious load, while he and Maria settled themselves to awaitdevelopments. 

The Rialto is one of the busiest spots in all Venice; especially is itso at this time in the morning, for hither come the black boats from theisland laden with fruits and vegetables to provision the city. Onevery side, amid the jostling throngs of people, one sees mountains ofwatermelons, piles of garlic, old scows and worn-out gondolas, heaped withall manner of strange-looking fish. Crossing over the bridge to the endwhere the jewelers have their shops, and elbowing through the crowd ofyoung girls and matrons, with their gay-colored handkerchiefs and strandsof bright beads, Paolo came to a more secluded quarter. Here he stopped, and, with careful deliberation, lifted the cover of the basket, saying ashe laid his hand affectionately on Chico's glossy head, "Now fly, my bird, straight to your house!"

Without a moment's delay Chico was out of his prison and with a quick, spiral curve had soared into the blue Venetian sky. Pausing for animperceptible instant, as though in search of some familiar object, he wasoff in the direction of St. Mark's Square. 

In the meantime Andrea and Maria waited impatiently enough. They knew itwould take time for Paolo to reach his destination, for the old man's stepswere not as quick as they had once been. And then the awful thought wouldcome that Chico might not fly straight home--might be beguiled elsewherefor some reason. 

Full well Andrea knew how much depended upon this first flight. 

Just as the figures on the great clock struck the hour of ten there was awhirr of wings. An arrow of silver shot through the air, and in anotherinstant Chico was in his nest. 

"Urra! Urra!" the boy shouted, throwing his cap into the air; thenboisterously seizing his pet, "You did it, you did it! Chico, old bird! My, but I'm proud of you!" Then remembering that Paolo had said there would bea message concealed about the bird's leg, his hand felt for the closelywound bit of tissue paper, and tense with excitement he shouted aloudChico's first message:

"Evviva Italia!" [Footnote: Long live Italy!]

Again he hugged his pet until he suddenly discovered a hungry bill in hispocket, and he remembered that Chico hadn't had his breakfast. 

When Paolo arrived upon the scene, puffing from his unaccustomed exertion, he found Chico greedily eating while Maria was still repeating, "VivaItalia!"

Upon comparing his watch with the clock Paolo's delight knew no bounds atfinding that Chico had made the flight in one minute and a half, fully onehalf a minute shorter time than Paolo had allowed. 

"Bene! bene!" he cried excitedly, "I told you he had the points of a goodhoming pigeon. All he needs is training. " Then, laying his hand on Andrea'sshoulder, he added, "My boy, you have a bird of which you may well beproud. "

While he was thus under discussion Chico, seemingly unconscious that he haddone anything at all remarkable, with his crop fairly bulging with the goodthings which he had eaten, perched serenely on the window ledge diligentlypreening his feathers. 

This was but the first of many flights: the next time it was Paolo whostayed to watch the nest while Andrea set off, carrying the bird in hisbasket. He was especially delighted because the Colleoni statue was hisdestination, for there was no place in Venice (except the Piazza of St. Mark's) which possessed a greater fascination for him than the Campo ofGiovanni e Paolo. The sight of the stalwart figure of Colleoni in his coatof mail astride the splendid steed never failed to rouse in his young heartthe fires of ambition. 

"It's a great thing, Chico!" he exclaimed, peering through the cracks atthe bright eyes--"a great thing to be so brave and do so much for Venice. Perhaps, who knows, you and I may do as much some day. "

With that he loosed the prisoner who straightway flew into the air, andafter gracefully circling for an instant around the statue, without furtherhesitation was off and was soon a mere speck in the blue sky. 

Once the boy had the felicity of keeping Chico in his home all night. Thennothing would do but Luisa must admire his fine plumage, and his fathermust declare that he was quite the finest pigeon he had ever seen. It tookthe combined force of the family to consider what message they should sendold Paolo in the morning, and, after a great deal of discussion, Giovanni'sstiff old hand penned the simple words on a bit of paper:

"Buon giorno!"

So the days passed; every few mornings Chico essayed some new flight untilPaolo declared he was satisfied that the bird knew his way perfectly withina certain radius and must now venture farther from home. After this it wasnot so easy, and on several occasions Chico had adventures that tried evenhis stout little heart, and brought many an hour of anxiety to his friends. 

CHAPTER VII

DANGER AHEAD!

The earnest little fellow carrying his bird in a basket was now a familiarobject in Venice and attracted much attention from tourists and bystanderswho often collected in little groups to watch the graceful flights. To someit was the subject of jest, and to them it seemed nothing short of folly tospend so much time in the training of a pigeon, while others were loud inexclamations of delight. 

"Bello! Bello Colombo! [Footnote: Beautiful! Beautiful pigeon!] He's amighty fine bird, my boy!"

As for Chico, one could see that he greatly enjoyed his experience. He nolonger showed resentment at being shut up in the basket, but evidentlyconsidered that a necessary prelude to his glorious flights. 

One morning Andrea set out for the Arsenal, which is, as every oneacquainted with the city knows, one of the show places of Venice. In theolden days, when the Venetians were first in the art of shipbuilding, itwas the working spring of their strength, their enemies looking uponthe stronghold with envious eyes as symbolizing her supremacy over theAdriatic, and even now there was always a large number of strangers in itsvicinity. 

Andrea approached and took his station, near one of the two great lionsthat guard the entrance. He was accosted by a well-dressed Austrian:

"What have you there, my boy? Anything to sell?"

"No, signore, " was the quick reply. But Andrea, intent upon his mission, felt vaguely disturbed, liking neither the looks of the man nor the tone ofhis inquiry. 

Silently and with evident envy the man watched the pigeon's joyous spiral;then he again addressed the boy:

"Come, now, what will you take for him! Twenty lire! [Footnote: A lire inordinary times is worth about twenty cents. ] A. Hundred? You must admitthat is a high price for a pigeon when it would be so easy a matter toreplace him. There are hundreds of pigeons in Venice. "

"He is not for sale!" Andrea answered curtly, wishing the man would leavehim alone. 

The stranger turned sullenly, not liking to be baffled, muttering under hisbreath, "That bird would be worth any amount of money to me if I could butsecure him for the War Department in Vienna!"

As for Chico his troubles for the day had only begun. By chance he flewsomewhat lower than was usual with him, and thus attracted the attention ofa shabby, ill-looking fellow who with gun in hand was wandering about theside streets, hoping he might be so fortunate as to get a shot at some fatpigeon for a pot-pie. 

After a quick glance to be sure no sharpnosed guard was in sight, he raisedhis gun and fired. Startled by the report Chico quickened his flight, andthe bullet whizzed past merely grazing one wing and inflicting a slightwound on his left leg. The pain, however, was sharp and caused him to slowdown, so that he did not reach his destination until some time after Andreahad returned, much to the anxiety of his friends. 

When he finally fluttered, exhausted, into the nest, the old caretakercaught sight of the bloodstain, and exclaimed in alarm, "Chico, my bird, what happened?" while Andrea, fairly beside himself, mourned as he strokedhis wounded pet. 

"It was the Austrian! I know It was! I liked not his words nor theexpression of his eyes. And now Chico is going to die!"

"Nay, lad, " Paolo answered, after carefully examining the leg. "It is onlya flesh wound, and he will soon be himself again. As for the Austrian--Idoubt very much if such was the case. I judge, from what you say, thathe is quite too anxious to get possession of the bird to run any risk ofharming him. More likely some greedy fellow shot him for a pie. I haveknown such things to happen in Venice. "

"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Mariawhispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching thebird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo. "

For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more thana week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark'sSquare. 

But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, forever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners. 

Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon toChioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this littleItalian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the longago, between the Venetians and the Genoese, it is now known chiefly as afishing village and a picturesque spot where artists love to congregate. 

On leaving the steamer the old man, not wishing to attract attention, avoided the broad street, with its arcades and cafes, instead picking hisway along the canal, packed with fishing craft of every description, untilhe to a superb white bridge, the pride of the little town. 

There he paused, and thinking himself quite away from inquisitivespectators, loosed the bird and stood a few moments watching him speedinghis way above the beautiful white arch towards home. 

How strong were the graceful wings, and how steady the flight!

It was a warm day in early spring; he threw himself on the bank of thecanal grass thinking how pleasant it was on the water's edge. Suddenly avoice sounded in his ears causing him to start visibly:

"Surely, it must be a pleasant occupation to be a pigeon fancier. "

The tone was ingratiating, but resenting the intrusion, Paolo lookedaround and caught an expression that belied the smooth words, and made himinstinctively distrust the stranger who had accosted him. 

He did not answer, and the man pursued: "No wonder, when you have so fine abird. May I ask for what particular purpose you are training him?"

"Only for a boy's pleasure, " was the short reply. Paolo immediatelysurmised that this was he of whom Andrea had told him. 

As he rose to go, the man went on, still more suavely: "By the way, I havea very special reason why I should like a carrier pigeon. " He lowered hisvoice. "And am prepared to pay any amount for him; will you not set aprice?"

Paolo emphatically shook his head. "He can't be bought! I tell you the birdis not for sale!" And with that the old caretaker walked away. 

He was troubled, and the remainder of the time before the steamer sailedwalked the narrow streets, too much disturbed over the incident to noticethe women in the doorways making lace and the children sitting on theground beside the narrow footpaths, their fingers busy knitting orstringing beads. 

He did not know that the Austrian followed him, and that, on reaching thequay, the intruder chose a seat on the other side of the steamer. It isno wonder that the artists go wild over the harbor, dotted as it is withpicturesque sails of yellow, blue, or red. Just beyond is Palestrina, equally interesting, and known as the "narrowest town on earth, " while alittle farther on the steamer skirts along manifold vegetable gardens, inthe midst of settlements whose simple homes are gay in their coloring ofpink, yellow, red, or white. 

By the time the Lido was reached, the sun was low in the heavens, and soonthe lagoon was before them, bright in the roseate rays. After this it wasnot long before Venice came in sight, more lovely than ever in the firsttwilight. 

With a sigh Paolo stretched his limbs, cramped by sitting so long in oneposition. He was getting old, he reflected, and found even a few hours'excursion tiring in the extreme. As he made his way towards the Piazza, hedecided positively that not one syllable would he breathe to the childrenof his encounter with the Austrian. 

"It would only worry them, and what's the use?" he reflected. "It's oldPaolo who must guard Chico"--and he shook his head--"I fear it will be ahard thing to do. "

At a safe distance the stranger followed until St. Mark's Square wasreached. There he concealed himself behind a column and watched to see thelocation of Chico's nest. 

It was so late that the children had gone home, but Andrea had left afolded paper, weighted by a stone, on the window ledge. Opening it Paolodeciphered, without difficulty, the boy's writing. 

"Chico reached home at ten minutes to four. "

"Bene!" the old man ejaculated, forgetting his fatigue; "he made it inthirty minutes, and it took me all of three hours. "

As he reached his rough hand in through the window and touchedaffectionately the sleeping bird, the Austrian moved from his position andslunk down a side street. He had found out all he wanted, and his maliciousexpression changed to one of triumph as he muttered:

"I'll have that bird yet, in spite of the old man!"

CHAPTER VIII

A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE

Ever since Chico had become grown he had been in the habit of flying fromhis nest in the early morning for a brief survey of the Piazza. First, hewould make his way to the famous well and, after a refreshing bath, wouldwalk about on the ground for a while in search of stray morsels of food, perchance left by tourists the day before. Then, on the way back to hisledge, he would stop for a moment here and there among the statuary fora gossipy "coo" with one and another pigeon friend. But no matter howinterested he became in the sights and news of the Square, he was always onhis ledge in time to greet his dear human friends, upon whose appearancethere would ensue such an excited fluttering of wings and such a delightedcooing that Maria would laugh aloud in glee, while Andrea emptied hispockets of choicest tidbits. 

One morning, a few weeks after the trip to Chioggia, as Chico was makinghis customary early flight, his bright eyes caught sight of some enticingcrumbs on the pavement close to the steps leading to the new Campanile. They seemed unusually good, and he lingered for some time pecking, first atone and then another. 

Suddenly he was grasped by a strong hand and hastily thrust into a paddeddark box. 

Poor Chico! His heart fluttered so that he couldn't think. Not but what hewas used to being handled, and perhaps his prison was a new kind of basket, but even so he rebelled. There were no friendly cracks through which hecould catch an occasional glint of light, but only a few airholes clusteredat the top. Then, too, his quarters were so cramped that even the slightestflutter was well-nigh impossible; and, after a few struggles, utterlydiscouraged, and fearing the worst, he gave up and crouched down, entirelyat a loss as to what had happened. 

The Austrian, angered at having been thwarted in every attempt he had madeto purchase the pigeon, had been watching the bird's habits ever since hehad followed the old caretaker, and had deliberately planned to capture himin this way. His prize now secured, he made his way straight for a gondolaand gave orders to be rowed with the greatest possible speed to hislodgings, and, on arriving, carried to his room the innocent-appearingblack box which resembled nothing so much as a folding kodak. 

How satisfied he felt with himself, and how he gloated over the way inwhich he had outwitted the old man! For a moment he held the box to hisear, as if anxious to assure himself that the bird was still there. Not asound came from the trembling inmate. Had anything happened? Cautiouslyunfastening the catch, he reached in his hand and touched the soft head. There was a slight quiver. 

Catching hold of the trembling body, he lifted out the bird and feasted hiseyes upon him. What a beauty he was! Not so large, to be sure, as some thatflit about Venice, but so perfectly marked, and with so broad a breast, andsuch sweep of wings! He would profit richly by his morning's work. If onlyhe could get his prize safely out of Venice. There was no time to lose. Hemight be tracked by that old fool of a caretaker, and in that case he wouldhave had his pains for nothing. And if by chance the matter should bebrought to the attention of the authorities, he might be arrested andjailed; the Venetians make such a fuss over their precious pigeons. 

A knock at the door made him start guiltily and thrust the pigeon roughlyback into the box. After all, it was only a messenger with a telegramrecalling him immediately to Vienna, which, he reflected, fitted nicelyinto his plans. He would start the next morning, he concluded, as hecarefully concealed the black box under the bed, and took more than usualpains in locking the door when he went out for dinner and to complete hisarrangements in regard to leaving. 

Chico heard the door close and knew he was alone. What did it all mean? Hehad never before suffered such indignities! To be placed by loving friendsin his dear familiar basket, while he was being taken to some point fromwhich he might make a glorious flight--he had long since becomereconciled to that experience; but to be seized by a stranger's hands andignominiously shoved into a black prison and hidden in a strange room--thatwas an insult his free spirit could not brook. For a while he felt tooutterly despondent to make a movement, but after a little, very cautiously, he began again to feel carefully with his beak around the box in search ofsome crack. There was not one to be found. Next he tried with all his powerto enlarge the tiny airholes. It was impossible, and he gave himself up toblackest despair. 

When his captor returned he opened the box, took out the bird, at the sametime placing some kernels of corn and a saucer of water before him. Chicohad no appetite for food, but parched with thirst drank feverishly. 

"Eat! can't you?" The man spoke roughly. What on earth was the matter withthe pigeon to be so obstinate? "Hang it, if he won't eat, " he exclaimedaloud, "he'll starve to death before I can get him to the War Department. "

With that he fairly forced the spiritless head into the pile of kernels onthe floor, but without avail; the bird, heart-broken, refused to open hisbeak. His tail feathers drooped more mournfully than ever, and his captor, thoroughly out of patience, angrily thrust him back into his prison. So therest of the day and night passed. 

The Austrian rose early the next morning and hastily throwing hisbelongings together was soon on his way to the station, suitcase in onehand and the black box in the other. 

At the depot there was more than the usual delay in procuring his ticket. There was a crowd of men and women before him, and, impatiently enough, hewas obliged to wait his turn. Worse than anything, he found it necessary tolay aside his possessions. He hesitated, then, after a quick survey of theroom, selected a corner near enough for him to keep an eye on hisprecious box. It seemed an eternity before he could get anywhere near theticket-office window, and he completely lost what little temper he had whena garrulous woman blocked his way and took fifteen minutes of additionaltime in an interminable wrangle over change. 

In the meantime an inquisitive youngster, left to his own devices by hismother who was also in line before the ticket-office window, was creepingabout the floor in search of diversion. After being foiled invarious directions, his sharp eyes caught sight of the suit-case andinteresting-looking box. Without an instant's hesitation he scrambledthither. As it happened, the Austrian having at last attained his object, was at that very moment engaged in folding the long ticket, his attention, therefore, was diverted from watching his property. 

The child fumbled first with the suit-case. It was securely locked. Next heseized the black box with his grimy fingers. It was fastened only with asingle strap. As this finally yielded, a look of rapture spread over hisItalian features, and with renewed zeal he proceeded to pry open the cover. 

Suddenly he gave a shriek, at the same covering his face in terror assomething sharp brushed against his cheeks and flashed upwards. 

It was Chico! He was free at last! For a moment, dazed by the suddenrelease, the bird battered his splendid head against the ceiling, then, before the roomful of travelers realized what had happened, he was out inthe open, spreading his glorious wings toward home. 

When the Austrian, on turning to gather up his possessions, realized whathad occurred, he turned in rage toward the frightened child:

"You, you--" He choked in wrath, raising his arm as if to strike. But atthat moment the mother threw herself against him, screaming:

"You touch my child! You touch--"

The crowd by this time was closing in upon them, so that even the stationguard found it difficult to push his way through in his endeavor to findout the cause of the disturbance. 

Suddenly the cry of "All aboard!" was heard, and instantly the excitedgathering dispersed, the enraged woman grabbing her child and leading theprocession. 

Just behind came the Austrian, bearing his suitcase and the empty blackbox. Fortunate it was for him that the summons had come when it did, forotherwise he might soon have found himself taken into custody on the chargeof disturbing the peace, and on the way to a cell in the Venetian prison. 

As it was, he sank into his seat in the little train muttering all sorts ofimprecations upon the whole Italian people, and thanking his stars he wouldsoon be out of the country. 

While all this had been going on, great had been the consternation in St. Mark's Square over Chico's strange disappearance. When the children didnot find him waiting, as usual, for them, they were sure he must have beenshot, and Andrea mourned constantly, "E morte! E morte!" [Footnote: He isdead. ]

But Paolo had his theory, and the more he thought the matter over, the morehe felt convinced that the bird was alive and in the possession of theAustrian. Dropping his work for the day, he spent the weary hours going upand down the narrow streets in vain effort to discover some trace of him. From time to time he called, "Chico! Chico!" But, alas, no Chico answered. 

Then the night came. Still no news. The next morning Paolo resolved to goto the authorities, and was about to set out when suddenly there was a cryfrom Maria, who was sitting grieving on the lowest step of the church, watching the pigeons flying about in the blue sky. 

"There's Chico!" she exclaimed, greatly excited, and pointing to a smallspeck, far above them. "It's he! I know it's he!"

"I'm afraid not, " the old man answered, shaking his head; "we have beendeceived too many times. "

But Andrea was leaning forward, his whole form tense with emotion, and, inanother moment with radiant face he flung his cap into the air, and leapedto his feet, shouting, joyfully:

"Urra! Urra! It's he! It's he!" and so it proved. No other bird could flywith such strong, sure strokes. 

Soon he was in his nest drinking eagerly the water Andrea had placed forhim. It was the first thing he always wanted when he returned from aflight, but now he drank more thirstily than usual Then, how he did eat! Itwas plain he was half starved. There was no mistake about it, he was thin, and his feathers were so bedraggled that it was evident he had not preenedthem since he had been gone. 

But he was home, nothing else mattered!

CHAPTER IX

"COO-OO, COO-OO-OO. RUK-AT-A-COO"

There was no denying the fact that Chico was a handsome bird, and as timepassed, he became more and more careful of his appearance. He would spendfully half an hour each morning over his toilet, smoothing every featherinto place with the most exact nicety, polishing his delicately archedbill, and proudly spreading his tail. Then, when the sun shone full uponhim, the peculiar markings of his wings seemed fairly radiant in theirglorious iridescence. 

From the saucy tilt of his dainty head to his graceful feet, he was a BeauBrummel among pigeons. 

It was no wonder that his little master's heart swelled with pride, andthat he repeated, over and over again, "My Chico is grande; my Chicois--GREAT!"

But there came a time when it was evident that, in spite of the gorgeousappearance he presented, he was not altogether happy. 

While he polished his beak and preened his feathers more assiduously thanever, there was a note of pleading in his cooing that puzzled the children, and caused Andrea to remark: "I wonder what can be the matter with Chico!"

In reply Paolo nodded his wise old head and answered, with a touch ofsympathy, "I know--he's lonely, and wants a mate. " The old man even went sofar as to select a dainty little lady pigeon and place her on the ledge, but alas! Chico resented what he evidently considered an intrusion, retreated to the extreme edge, where he looked askance at his companion, and refused, to be moved by her modest advances. Not a single "coo" wouldhe give, and to his everlasting disgrace finally gently but firmly pushedher off the ledge. It was plain she had no charms for him! After one or twofurther attempts, which ended in the same way, Paolo gave up and allowedChico to manage his own courting. 

When his gentle, beseeching cooing failed to attract, he resorted to boldermethods, flying about the Square, and lingering longer than was his wontamong neighboring nests, until he chanced upon a pigeon that took hisfancy. 

She was a modest little thing, soft drab in color, and not as strikinglymarked as he, but she was popular with the birds about, and Chico had tofight one or two lusty rivals before he won her for himself. 

The children watched it all with fascinated interest, and when one morningthey found her by his side on the ledge outside his nest, they were fairlybeside themselves with delight. 

All day long they perched together, billing and cooing to their hearts'content, "the prettiest sight in Venice, " as all agreed who saw them. 

"Coo-oo, " he would begin, and she would answer softly. Then they would joinin "Coo-oos coo-oo-oo. Ruk-at-a-coo, coo-oo. "

Sometimes he would playfully ruffle her feathers, and she would respond byturning to him so coquettishly that they would touch their bills together, so the hours would as they billed and cooed in their love-making. 

It was Maria who named the dainty little mate, calling her Pepita, from thefirst time she saw her by Chico's side. But it was Paolo who declared hecould give a pretty good guess as to what they were saying to each other intheir soft pigeon language. 

"Well, what is it?" Andrea asked incredulously. 

"She wants him to help her fix up the old nest, " he asserted in a toneof confidence that greatly impressed his audience; "like the rest of thewomen-folks, she isn't satisfied with it as it is, I don't know as I blameher--it's a pretty poor excuse for a home, even if Chico did manage to makeit do while he was a bachelor. "

The children's faith in the old man increased tenfold when, the very nextday, they discovered Pepita returning from a short flight with a few coarsestraws in her beak, while in another moment Chico came flying around thecorner of the church with half a dozen more. 

"You were right!" Andrea exclaimed, as he made an effort to restrain hisboisterous delight, and quietly looked in at the busy pair; "they areworking as hard as ever they can this very minute. "

After that there were more straws brought, besides other things evidentlyintended for lining, and though their home, when done, was not as smooth orfine a piece of workmanship as many other birds can boast of, at least itwas comfortable, and exactly according to their ideas. 

Chico had always loved his nest, but, with the appearance of two eggs underPepita's breast, he found it difficult to leave, even on necessary flights. He was a devoted husband and was content to perch by her side the whole daylong, softly cooing in his efforts to entertain her, and always ready torelieve her in keeping the eggs warm when she wished to take a turn aroundthe Square for exercise or in search of food. 

To the children the nest was a place of mystery, and the first thing in themorning they would together climb up to the old box and whisper:

"Buon giorno, Chico; buon giorno, Pepita; how are the eggs to-day?"

And then the mystery deepened! It was Paolo who whispered the wonderfulnews in their ears. 

"How do you know the eggs have hatched?" Andrea queried somewhatdoubtfully. 

In reply the old man pointed to the pavement where some broken shells werea mute witness of the miracle that had occurred. 

They were wild with ecstasy, and could scarcely wait to see the littlefledglings, and the second morning after the old caretaker let them comeinto the shed and, by the light of a flickering candle, showed them thenaked little bodies, just as he had shown them Chico, months before. 

Pepita had, from the first, accepted the children as her friends (probablyChico had told her all about them in the early days of their courtship), but she couldn't help showing her anxiety on this occasion, and flewdistractedly back and forth, while Chico kept jealous watch perched onAndrea's shoulder. 

He was a good father, never failing in loving attention to his family, andbringing the choicest tidbits to Pepita. 

He hovered anxiously about while she fed the greedy fledglings with thesoft pulpy mass she prepared so carefully, and was always ready to lookafter the "bambini, " as Maria insisted on calling the baby birds. 

Altogether, Chico was so taken up with his new cares that his training wasbadly interrupted, and Andrea, especially, became greatly worried lest heshould forget all he had learned. 

"He'll be all out of practice, " he mourned, "and the next time we try himhe'll forget and lose his way home. "

But Paolo was reassuring. "Never you fear, " he replied; "I have heard thatthe most important messages are entrusted to birds that have young in thenest. That is when the love of home is strongest. "

And so it proved: when Chico was once more tried, he surprised them by theswiftness of his flight. In fact, in some instances he actually made morethan thirty miles an hour. 

The spring advanced: there were other eggs in the nest, and other broodsto be cared for, and always Chico remained the faithful husband andfather--tender to his fledgling offspring--loving and true to his littlewife. 

And, whenever household cares permitted, the two could be seen on thewindow ledge, billing and cooing:

"Coo-oo, coo-oo-oo, Ruk-at-a-coo. "

CHAPTER X

A GALA DAY

At last the new Campanile was completed. When the historic old bell towerhad fallen that morning in July, the people had been stunned and had givenway to such grief as only Italians feel over the loss of a thing of beauty. 

It had fallen at nine-thirty in the morning, and when the Town Council metthat evening, it had been at once decided that immediate steps be taken toerect a new tower, "dov'era, com'era" (where it was and as it was). And inthis all Italy concurred. The first stone had been laid on St. Mark's day, April 25, 1903. 

Slowly the graceful tower had risen from the confused mass of debris at itsbase, no effort being spared to make it as strong and beautiful as possibleto conceive. Three thousand piles had been used in the foundation, andalmost every fragment of the old had been utilized in the effort toreproduce, as nearly as possible, the much-loved structure. Carefullythe shattered pieces of bas-reliefs had been fitted together by trainedartisans, the figure of Venice on the east walls had been completelyrestored, while one favorite group of the Madonna and Child had been piecedfrom sixteen hundred fragments: the bells had been recast, and whenthis gala day dawned, the same gold angel surmounted the top of the newCampanile that had looked protectingly over the city for generations. 

What wonder that Venice was beside herself with joy, and that greatfestivities had been arranged to celebrate the occasion--on St, Mark's day, 1912?

The city was filled with visitors; the little steamers and motor-boatschugged right merrily along the canals, laden with sight-seers, while thegondoliers reaped a rich, harvest from the crowds of strangers. 

Among those who came to attend the festivities was the children's uncle, Pietro Minetti. He was the elder brother of Giovanni, and was an importantpersonage (at least in his own estimation) for had he not left the littleVenetian home years before and become a citizen of the world? Andrea andMaria were wild with delight when they heard he was coming, and speculatedmuch as to their rich uncle, for, of course, he must be rich as every onewas out in the great world. 

And at first sight it seemed that he must be even richer than they haddreamed, so elegant did he appear in his checked trousers and starchedshirt. His mustache was waxed, and he walked with a swagger as he jauntilyswung a cane. 

All at once the little home on the side canal seemed poorer and shabbierthan ever, and Luisa couldn't help wishing the smells of fish and garlicfrom the shop below were not quite so strong. 

But though Pietro looked somewhat superciliously at the plain surroundings, after the strangeness wore off he proved to be a most entertaining guest, with his stories of the great cities which he had visited. He had been asfar as London, and the children drew close in order that they might notlose a single syllable of his wonderful tales. 

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, introducing the subject of the Campanile, "itreally seems as if the town is waking up! I hear there is a lift in thetower, and the old angel on the top has been actually placed on a pivot, toact as a weather vane as well as a thing of beauty. That's more than couldhave been expected of slow Venetians. If it were only possible to get in afew automobiles there might be some hope for the city. "

"Automobiles!" Giovanni was indignant, resenting even the mention of suchnewfangled contrivances. "Venice wouldn't be Venice with automobiles!"

"Well, motor-cycles, then!" laughed Pietro good naturedly; "anything thatwould give some noise and ginger to the old town. Pep is what Veniceneeds!" And he chuckled to himself at the thought of motor-cycles on St. Mark's Square. 

Neither Giovanni nor Luisa had any patience with such talk, but thechildren edged nearer, and their eyes grew bigger as they asked him eagerquestions in regard to the marvelous things he had mentioned. 

"Have you ever seen horses?" Andrea ventured timidly; "I mean real horses, not pretend ones like those on the top of St. Mark's?"

"Horses!" he repeated, bursting into so loud a laugh that Maria shrankaway, half frightened; "horses! Why, they're so old-fashioned that no onecares for them any more. They're quite too slow for the twentieth century!"

Andrea's head swam--horses old-fashioned! What kind of a strange world wasit outside of Venice? All at once his childish air castles came tumblingdown. But before he could question further it was time for bed, and withhis imagination roused to the utmost he tossed uneasily until he fellasleep to dream he was racing with the wind in a strange kind of car withthe Devil himself as driver. 

The exercises were to begin at ten o'clock the next morning, and the Piazzawas fairly packed with people hours before that time. Thanks to Paolo ourlittle group had a good place to view the proceedings in a certain mustyalcove of St. Mark's, and there they sat cramped through what seemed toMaria like interminable hours. 

As for St. Mark's Square, even Pietro had only words of praise for its galaappearance: from the three flagstaffs opposite the church fluttered thecolors of Italy. Everywhere was music, everywhere was gayety, and thecrowds of people united in glad cries of "Viva Venezia!" [Footnote: Longlive Venice!]

For Venice, more than any other place in the world, belongs to rich andpoor alike, and in the midst of it all, sympathizing with every mood, isSt. Mark's Church, the pride of the Venetian people. Never did she seemmore glorious than on this gala day, never did her gold mosaics sparklemore brilliantly in the sunshine than when the great high magistratepronounced the solemn words: "Dov'era, com'era, " and the bells rang to markthe completion of the exercises. 

Then, hark! a whirr, whirr of wings, a sudden darkening of the sky thatcaused the joyful thousands to look into the heavens above them. 

In an instant the shadow resolved itself into over twenty-five hundredpigeons that had been brought to Venice that they might carry the glad newsto every part of Italy. 

Then it was that the populace went wild with joy; thousands ofhandkerchiefs fluttered, the cries of "Viva Venezia!" swelled and rent theair, until they were drowned by the inspiring notes of the Italian nationaltune, played by patriotic musicians in the bandstand at Florian's. 

Our little group shared in all the excitement, waving with the restand joining in glad cries of "Urra! Urra!" Even Pietro was aroused toadmiration, and as the music died away and the crowds began to disperse, heexclaimed: "There's no doubt but that Venice has outdone herself, and itwas a master stroke to make such use of homing pigeons. These spoiled birdsthat flutter about the Square have no spirit in them, and I doubt if one ofthem could carry a message even from the Lido!"

"Chico could, " asserted Andrea stoutly, touched to the quick by thesweeping declaration; "he could carry a message from 'most anywhere toVenice!"

"Who's Chico?" Pietro asked quickly, elbowing his way through the surgingmass of people in the church. 

"He's my pigeon!" Andrea answered, eager to defend his bird, and raisinghis voice in an effort to make himself heard above the confusion. "I'vetrained him, and I'll show you to-morrow! I don't suppose I could get tohim in all this crowd. "

"To-morrow will do as well, " Pietro managed to ejaculate, as they foundthemselves at last in the Square, which was still solidly jammed withpeople. "I am somewhat of a pigeon-fancier myself, and if that bird ofyours is what you say he is we'll see, we'll see!"

With this their conversation was interrupted and not again resumed, theremainder of the afternoon being spent in promenading the Square, going upin the lift of the Campanile, and managing to appease their appetites withthe various pastes and fruits which Pietro generously stood treat for. 

Almost before they were aware of it, the afternoon was drawing to a close, and with the coming of twilight Venice became more of a fairyland thanever. 

Outlining the buildings throughout the Square, throwing into prominenceevery graceful point and cornice, were thousands of electric lights: St. Mark's herself appeared more like a jewel box than ever, and was onlysurpassed by the Campanile which was ablaze from top to bottom. 

Everywhere was music, everywhere was light, and in this new and splendidsetting, Venice looked a very gorgeous "Bride of the Sea!"

The spirit of the old Carnival days was once more present: as women inblack shawls and strange masked figures threaded their way amid the throngsof people accompanied by wild music, while confetti, thrown from everybalcony, caused shouts of laughter and fell harmlessly upon them. 

There were to be fireworks on the water, and Paolo had offered his oldgondola that they might join the gay crowds on the Grand Canal. Here Pietrowas supreme, and it required only the twisting of a scarf about his waistto transform him into a gondolier, at least in the eyes of his not toocritical audience. 

So Giovanni and the children crowded into the shabby gondola and rowed withthousands of others up and down, watching the rockets soaring into the skyand bursting into myriads of dazzling stars as they fell into the waterbelow. 

Later, when the display was over, Pietro guided them among the storiedpalaces of the long ago, now close behind some concert barge, playingsoftest strains of grand opera, or answering the low call of passinggondoliers with like musical response. 

CHAPTER XI

A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD

The morning after the great Carnival day Andrea woke with a sense ofdisquietude. Something was going to happen, but for a few moments he couldnot think what it was. Then with a rush he remembered. He had promised toshow Chico to his uncle. Since the suggestion had been made he had not beenable to dismiss it from his mind and, even while watching the burstingrockets the evening before, he had found himself wondering what Pietrocould have meant by his mysterious remark, "If the bird is what you say--weshall see. We shall see!"

Although he liked his uncle immensely, he had not been able entirely toovercome a certain feeling of awe in his presence, and he shuddered atthought of many scathing criticisms he had heard him make upon objectswhich he had been brought up to regard with veneration. Suppose he shouldmake fun of Chico! The quick tears started at the thought. Then his eyesflashed and he sprang out of bed, exclaiming to himself, "I don't care whathe may say, I know he's the finest pigeon in the world!"

This feeling of confidence lasted until they finished breakfast and Pietrohad pushed back his chair, with the remark:

"And now, my boy, we must be off to see that wonderful bird of yours!"

Then his timidity returned, and beset by anxious fears, he walked silentlyby his uncle's side. 

Pietro was in his most jocund mood that morning, jauntily swinging hiscane, joking about the Rialto as they crossed it, and talking a great dealabout London and Paris. His companion's courage gradually oozed away. Infact it was completely gone by the time they rounded the corner of thechurch and came upon the happy couple basking in the sunlight and cooingaffectionately to each other. 

"So that's the fellow!"--and Pietro pointed to Chico, entirely ignoringlittle Pepita by his side. 

Andrea nodded, not daring to trust himself to speak. 

"Hum-mm. " His uncle cleared his throat. "Suppose you call him that I maysee him closer. "

Andrea managed a faint "Chico, " and in an instant the pigeon was in hislap, burrowing in his pocket in search of the usual tidbits. 

"Hum-mm. " Pietro caught the bird firmly in one hand, at the same timeswiftly running the other over the trembling body. 

"Long wings, bulge prominent over the ear, broad breast, a clear, keeneye--"

Andrea's heart almost ceased to beat. 

Then, very slowly, Pietro went on appraisingly. "Very good, very good, indeed! And you say he has had some training?"

"Oh, yes!" the boy answered, and with glowing face, vastly relieved, "hehas carried messages from ever so far, from the Lido, from Chioggia--"

"Have you kept his record?" Pietro interrupted brusquely. 

At this the boy fished in one pocket after another, finally producing agrimy card, covered with figures. 

His uncle took it and, after studying it over carefully, handed it back, saying:

"This is somewhat remarkable, and should be marked on his wings. " With thathe produced a tiny bottle of India ink a rubber stamp, and while Andrea, with fascinated interest, held the bird, Pietro copied the figures on theprimary feathers of the right wing, remarking as he finished, "There, Iguess that will attract attention from any fancier. You have really a finebird, my boy, and I would suggest that it might be well to exhibit him atsome pigeon show. There's to be one at Verona next week. "

Andrea's head swam. What was his uncle saying? Go to Verona? Exhibit Chico?Impossible! Well he knew there was no money in the little home to pay forany such expenditure, but Pietro was not yet through. 

"Your father and mother have treated me right royally ever I've been inVenice, and I am sure they will not deny me this opportunity to makesome return. It will not cost you a single lira. What say you, will youaccompany me? I happen to be going in that direction and can arrange tostop over as well as not. "

Andrea caught his uncle's hands in a paroxysm of joy. In his wildest dreamshe had never thought of ever going anywhere outside of Venice, and now, tobe thus calmly discussing an errand like this, it seemed as if he couldscarcely believe his ears. 

Then Pietro, taking for granted that the matter was settled as far asAndrea was concerned, that very evening broached the plan to the boy'sfather and mother, overruling all their objections with the result that thefollowing Monday found the two travelers, with Chico in his basket, on thetrain bound for Verona. 

It is an interesting trip for any one through the plain towns of northernItaly, and, needless to state, not the slightest detail of the passinglandscape was lost on Andrea. Not once did he take his eyes from the carwindow save occasionally to look through the cracks of the basket intoChico's bright eyes, as if to assure himself that the bird was still there. 

On, on they sped, catching glimpses of gnarled olive trees, silvery gray, while Roman walls, centuries old, silhouetted against the horizon, spokeof a civilization long past. There were rounded hill-slopes and ancientcastles, while the broad Adige dashed madly along the sides of the track. 

It was two o'clock when they reached their destination and rumbled into thehuge covered station of Verona. 

With beating heart, Andrea followed the business-like Pietro as he led theway out of the station and hailed a vettura [Footnote: Carriage. ] to takethem up the wide tree-shaded avenue. 

The boy paid little attention to the marble palaces by which they drove, but was overwhelmed at the experience of actually being behind a horse. He drew a deep breath--it was a dream come true; he was further amazed atfinding their conveyance but one of an endless throng of wagons, carriages, and tram-cars. 

In many ways Verona is fully as old-fashioned as Venice, but to Andrea thecity seemed the personification of all that was progressive, and while thehorses were not the gay steeds of the boy's dream, they were really alive, and wonder of wonders, as they drove over the grand arches of the historicstructure which bridges the muddy, swirling waters of the Adige, theywere suddenly outdistanced by what Pietro pointed out as one of the fewautomobiles of Verona. 

The boy's eyes widened. What tales he would have to tell old Paolo and thelittle Maria! When they came to the great Arena, in the heart of the city, Pietro dismissed their vettura, and together they walked down the principalpromenade to the shopping center where they mingled with the endless crowdsof pedestrians and looked into the windows of the gay little shops thatmade Andrea think of Venice. 

Not far from the imposing City Hall was an ancient red marble Gothic crossabout which were clustered hundreds of what looked like canvas toadstools, but which were, in reality, immense white umbrellas, sheltering countlessmarket stalls. Here were gathered a motley collection of all sorts ofthings for sale, ranging from boots and shoes to many kinds of provisionsand fruits. 

Through all this Pietro walked so fast that his companion had hard work tokeep up with him, and was glad when they finally stopped in front of anenclosure sheltered by two large umbrellas. Then his heart sank and heclutched his basket closer as he realized that here was where the pigeonshow would be held, and understood, from what a loud-voiced man wascalling, that the birds were already being entered. He wished--oh, how hewished--he had not come, and was almost overwhelmed by the thought that hewould be obliged to leave Chico with these chattering strangers. 

There was no alternative--already many of the birds were in place. Hecould see some of them and realized they were, for the most part, dejectedlooking specimens. He touched Pietro's sleeve nervously and inquiredfaintly, "Are you sure I shall get him back?"

But on this point his uncle was most reassuring and replied confidently:

"There's nothing at all to worry about. The bird will be perfectly safe. They'll fasten an aluminum tag about his leg with his number on it and giveyou the duplicate. A claim check, you know. Come, buck up and be a sport!"

Still doubtful, Andrea sorrowfully relinquished his pet. From that time on, his peace of mind was gone, and he mournfully studied the bit of aluminumwith the number--1104. 

CHAPTER XII

BLUE ROSETTE

Pietro noticed the lad's dejection and exerted himself to the utmost todivert him. After a good dinner he proceeded to show him the sights ofVerona, at the same time telling him interesting tales about the Arena, the beautiful gardens, and the palaces of olden time. But Andrea remainedlistless, only rousing when his proposed a visit to the tomb of Romeo andJuliet which was the one place his mother had charged him to see. 

The show was to open the next morning at ten o'clock, and long before thattime there was an eager crowd at the turnstile. 

All was in order--the birds of the various exhibits being arranged in cagesin different compartments. There were of every color variety, from bigfellows, brought 'way from London, to all white beauties. One corner wasdevoted to the homing pigeons, and here Andrea discovered Chico in the samecage with some highly trained racers from Belgium. His head had lost itssaucy tilt, and he was miserably pecking in the sawdust as if in search ofsomething to eat. But otherwise he seemed in good condition, and his masterfelt a glow of pride as he mentally contrasted the appearance of "1104"with those exhibited by the foreign fanciers, although, of course, hesupposed that, in all probability, Chico didn't have a ghost of a chance. 

All this time his uncle was excitedly bobbing back and forth, mingling withthe people and commenting on the points of one or another specimen. It wasa good-natured crowd, that had, for the most part, drifted in from thepoultry show that was being held in an adjoining tent. There was not muchenthusiasm until four judges made their appearance, and with notebooksin hand, began their inspection of the cages. Then there was a stir; thebystanders pressed more closely to the railing, and there was considerableexcitement as fluttering blue and white ribbons indicated the winners offirst and second honors. 

By the time the cage of messenger pigeons was reached, there was a rippleof genuine excitement, and from one and another quarter bids were shoutedby those who knew the characteristics of a good homer. These began as lowas "Four lire" on a pigeon from Milan, "A hundred lire" on number "670, "an aggressive-looking Belgian, and then--Andrea's head swam as a burlyAmerican called out, "fifty dollars on '1104. '"

After that things became lively as the judges passed from one to another, inspecting every bird most carefully and making note of individualcharacteristics. When they seemed especially pleased, or stopped to confer, as occasionally happened, over the record which, in every case, was markedon the wings, then the bidding became fairly furious, "670" leading and"1104" a close second. One of the judges took so long in his examination ofChico that a fat German changed his bid, and an American called out, "Come, get a move on you!" There was a long conference among the judges, duringwhich the people waited impatiently enough, and Andrea felt himself moretense every moment. 

Finally, with exasperating deliberateness, one of them turned and announcedthat the blue rosette was awarded to number "1104. " Andrea's cheeks wentscarlet, and the air was rent by cries of "Urra! Urra!" "Bully for 1104!"

The boy's head swam. CHICO HAD WON. It seemed as if he could scarcelybelieve his senses. He looked around for his uncle only to find he hadleaped the railing and was shaking hands with the judges, and pointingto Andrea as the owner of the bird. On every side could be heard excitedcomments, and the American, just behind, was holding forth at a great rate:

"I knew it--I knew it all the time; he doesn't make the show some of 'emdo, but look at his breast! Look at the length of his wings, and his eye!There isn't a bird here with such a keen eye as he has! Then, did you watchhim? He wasn't half as scared as the other birds! Just kind of bored by theperformance! One can see he has a strong heart, and that's what counts ina homer! Why, bless me, I'd like to get hold of that bird. Is the owneranywhere around?"

It was then Pietro reappeared, jubilant, of course. He wrung the boy's handuntil it ached, at the time exclaiming, "You're wanted on every side; youcan take your pick of chances to sell your bird, and if you ever wish toengage as a trainer of pigeons, the way is open to you!"

When Andrea presented his metal tag for "1104, " the crowd fairly closed inupon him, shouting offers. Altogether it was a great triumph, but he felttired, and his head ached so that it was a distinct relief when Pietro, looking at his watch, declared there wasn't a moment to lose if he intendedto catch the noon train for Venice!

He was glad it was over, and all the way down the tree-lined avenue, hekept looking through the cracks of the basket, as if to assure himself thatChico was really there. 

But at the station another ordeal confronted him. Pietro had insisted whenthey were first discussing coming to Verona that Chico must fly home, andto this Andrea, at the time, had consented. Now he wished he had not. Hefelt it almost an impossibility again to relinquish his bird, and pleadedwith Pietro to release him from his promise. But, no, his uncle wasobdurate, and was moved by no entreaties. 

"Of what are you afraid? A bird which has the blue rosette can find his wayfrom Verona. He must carry the news of his victory himself, and I miss myguess, if he doesn't reach home before you do. "

"But it looks most terribly like a storm, " the boy expostulated, his eyesresting uneasily on the angry clouds looming over the castled hills. 

"And what if it does rain? A homing pigeon has a stout heart and I warrantit will take more than a thunder-storm to dismay our prize bird. " And withthat he fastened to Chico's leg a little aluminum pouch, in which was a bitof paper, containing the laconic message, "WON--THE BLUE ROSETTE!"

Andrea made no further protest, and away flew the bird, circling into theair above, then, by still wider circles, higher and higher until he wasfinally off. 

Andrea watched until the mere speck in the distance had completelydisappeared. Venice seemed very far away! With a sinking heart he made hisway across the platform, and climbed into the little train from the windowof which he forlornly waved "good-bye" to the irrepressible Pietro, who, after shouting a final injunction to the lad to "buck-up, " and to be sureand let him know how long Chico took to make the trip by his "air-line, "jauntily waved his hand, and the train, moved out. 

For fully half an hour Andrea crouched in his seat, altogether dejected, watching the sky illuminated from time to time by flashes of lightning. Aman in the seat across the aisle leaned over to inquire the meaning of theblue rosette he wore on his breast, but Andrea shook his head and withblurred eyes looked out at the storm already breaking. Soon the thundercould be heard above the noise of the train, and hailstones as large asmarbles rattled against the windows. 

Somewhere in all that darkness Chico was flying! The boy's heart grew moreand more heavy and was filled with bitterness against his uncle who hadbeen so insistent. Of what use were empty honors if his bird was lostforever?

In the meantime Chico was having his difficulties. For the first time hewas too far from Venice to catch even a glimpse of her domes or the newCampanile. He was puzzled. 

But somewhere was Venice, _somewhere_ his nest--with Pepita and thefledglings. The thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the rain fell. Yethis heart was stout and his courage strong. 

Do they call it instinct that so unerringly guides the flight of the homingpigeon? Was it the sea that called? Did the winds convey a message? I knownot, but, after that single moment of hesitation, the brave bird plungedinto the darkness and made his way to home and loved ones. 

At last the long afternoon was over and the slow Italian train pulled intoVenice. Andrea sadly picked up his empty basket. As it happened, at thevery moment he stepped upon the platform, the clouds parted and the sunshone, lighting with splendor the rippling waters of the Adriatic, andshining full on the golden domes of the churches. 

He expected Paolo and his sister would be at the station to welcome him andto hear the result of the pigeon show. After all, what had it all amountedto if the bird had been lost in the storm? At that point in his reflectionsa little figure came rushing to him, all breathless with excitement. It wasMaria, with her father and mother just behind. They were followed by theold caretaker, hurrying as fast as his rheumaticky limbs would permit, and, wonder of wonders! Andrea had to look twice to be sure he was not mistaken, perched upon his shoulder was--CHICO! To be sure, his feathers were alittle disheveled, for he had been too busy with Pepita and the fledglingsto take time to preen them, but apparently he was unharmed by the perilsthrough which he had passed, and there was as saucy a tilt to his as ever. 

"Urra! Urra!" the boy cried, throwing his cap twice into the air, while hisfather wrung his hand excitedly, and Maria exclaimed:

"He came into the nest more than an hour and a half ago. Oh, isn't he thegrande bird?"

"He's the fast express all right!" put in Paolo, waving his cane proudly inthe air; "made the whole distance at the rate of over forty miles an hour. "

Then they all talked at once, asking questions, first about the pigeonshow, and then about the adventures in Verona. 

It seemed as if Andrea couldn't answer fast enough, there was so much totell, and he repeated more than once as he passed the blue rosette fortheir closer inspection:

"There wasn't a bird to compare with him!"

"And you say you rode behind a horse?" Paolo questioned, as the entireparty crowded into the old gondola, and Chico flew into his master's lap. 

"Si! Si! And saw an automobile!" was the proud answer as Andrea went on todescribe how it "went like the wind, " just like the one he had dreamed of. 

Unconsciously there crept into his demeanor a slight suggestion of Pietro'sswagger, and while he was glad to get home, and though St. Mark's Squarenever seemed so beautiful before, still there was no denying it was a greatexperience to have traveled and seen something of the world. 

CHAPTER XIII

AND ALL FOR ITALY!

Some years passed and Andrea was now a stocky lad with resolute walk andsteady black eyes. He was fourteen, the age to which he had long lookedforward as the time when he should realize his ambition to work besidehis father in the glass factory. Maria, too, was growing up: already herfingers were almost as deft as her mother's in making lace, underwhose guidance she could even fashion the beautiful roses, the specialcharacteristic of Venetian point. 

As for Chico, he was constantly establishing new records, and his wingsbore witness to many triumphs. 

Then the Great War came, and the world shook with its thunders. On May 23, 1915, Italy had declared hostilities against Austria-Hungary, although theItalian offensive did not begin until 1917. 

At first the victories were all on the side of Italy, when her braveheroes broke through on the Isonzo front, it seemed almost as if they weredestined to sweep everything before them Then the tide turned: one townafter another was retaken by the Austrians, until, on October 29, 1917, theentire Italian front on the Isonzo collapsed. 

Then came days of black despair: all Italy mourned, but in Veniceespecially was the horror felt. From her situation she had always been abulwark against the Austrians, and not yet had she forgotten the hated ruleof her enemies. 

Nearer drew the lines until the roar of the cannon could be sometimesheard, and there was scarcely a clear night that aeroplanes did not hoverover the terrified city. Dimmed were the lights that were wont to make afairyland of St. Mark's Square, and in the daytime the red, white, andgreen of the Italian flag supplied almost the only color, while the onlymusic was the martial call of Garibaldi, to which countless marched to thefield of battle. 

 "To arms! Haste! Haste! ye martial youth! On every wind our banners fly, Rise all with arms, all with fire!"

The glass factories were closed, and Giovanni went, with the rest of thebrave men, to fight for home and country. Even Pietro hastened from hiswanderings to offer his services. The lace factories were deserted, and instead of the delicate threads and the bobbins, the women busiedthemselves with bandages for the Red Cross. 

No longer did the canals echo the laughter of gay tourists, and desolatelythe pigeons flew about St. Mark's Square, which was almost a deserted placesave for the workmen to whom had been assigned the task of protecting thechurch by placing sandbags on the roofs and iron girders at the windows:mournfully lapped the waters of the Adriatic. 

The bronze horses were transferred to Rome for safety; even the pictures bythe great masters were taken from their places and hidden, lest they fallinto the hands of the enemy. 

Old Paolo, who, for a year past had been decrepit, died, broken-hearted, when the first news came of Austrian victories. He was sadly missed in hisaccustomed haunts. A younger man succeeded him as caretaker of St. Mark's, and Andrea, not old enough to be drafted for service at the front, wasappointed chief guard of the church by night. 

Sacrifice was the watchword of the hour. Men gave up the savings of years, women brought their trinkets to be sold or melted down for the use of theGovernment. 

And Andrea--what had he to give?

One night, as he paced back and forth on his beat, listening for thepossible roar of an aeroplane or the sudden bursting of a bomb, thereflashed into his mind the story of services rendered Venice in the oldentime by homing pigeons. He seemed a child again, sitting close to oldPaolo's side and listening to his tales of happenings in the long ago. 

True, now there was wireless at the front, besides telephones andtelegraphs, and yet, even with all modern inventions, he wondered if theWar Department might not be able to find some use for a trusty pigeon. 

Though the boy's heart grew faint at the thought of the sacrifice, hisresolution was immediately taken, and as soon as he was released from dutyin the morning he made his way directly round the church to the bird'snest. He was tall now and had no need of the box Paolo had placed so longago for use as a step: thrusting his hand through the aperture, he firmlygrasped Chico who happened at that time to be taking his turn with the eggswhile his mate enjoyed a much-needed constitutional. 

Naturally he resented the interruption and made futile efforts to freehimself. But Andrea was resolved on no delay, and without more ado bore offthe struggling bird, just as Pepita fluttered into the aperture, with anapology for being late, and ready to assume her wifely duties. 

"Chico! Chico!" the boy exclaimed, gently smoothing the rumpled feathers, "you mustn't mind, old fellow. I'm sorry to take you away, but you and Ihave a duty to our country and we mustn't shirk!"

Gradually the pigeon ceased to struggle, and while not in the leastunderstanding what it was all about, snuggled close to Andrea's breast, putting his head confidingly inside his soldier's coat. 

"And, Chico, " the boy went on, "you must do your part, no matter whathappens. And, if you"--he choked a little at the thought--"and if youshould never come back, it will be for Venice, and for Italy. We won'tforget that, will we, my bird?"

As he spoke, he bent his head to listen caught a faint answering "coo, " asChico snuggled his head closer. 

By this time he had reached the War Office which was located in one of thebuildings on the north side of the Square. In response to his knock he wasushered into the presence of a kindly official who sat at a table litteredwith maps and papers of every description. 

There was a moment's pause, during which Andrea stood uneasily fidgeting, and his courage almost oozed away as he nervously twisted his cap. 

But at last the great man looked up, and somewhat abstractly asked, "Well, my boy, what can I do for you?"

"Please, signore, " Andrea faltered, as he took from his coat the preciousbird, "please, I have a homing pigeon--"

At once the officer became alert. "A homing pigeon?" he repeated quickly. "Is he trained to carry messages?"

"Si, signore. " And the boy forgot his embarrassment in his anxiety to tellof Chico's exploits. "He won the blue rosette at a pigeon show at Verona, afew years since, and see, here is the record of his flights. " With that hespread out the wings and the officer studied them over thoughtfully. 

When at last he spoke, Andrea could not but note the light in the tenseeyes and the eagerness of his tone:

"My boy, this well-trained homing pigeon will, indeed, be valuable to theWar Department. Tell me, what shall I give you for your bird? Name yourprice!"

"My Chico is not for sale!" the boy protested stoutly, "It is my wish togive his services to my country!"

"Think carefully, the Department is ready to pay well for this branch ofair-line service. "

But Andrea shook his head, "No, signore, it is for Italy. There is but onething I would make sure of. " He paused. 

"And what is that?" the great official inquired kindly. He was beginning torealize that this was no ordinary relation which existed between the ladand his pigeon. 

"Please, I would ask that when the war is ended, I may have my bird again;that is, that is--" and the boy's eyes were misty as he spoke. 

"To be sure, to be sure, " the officer cleared his throat. "I'll see thatyou have a written voucher to that effect. "

He touched a bell and gave the order in a business-like tone to therespectful soldier who at once made his appearance. 

"We have a valuable addition to our air messengers in the shape of thiswell-trained homing pigeon. Have you room for him in the next consignmentthat is sent to the front?"

"Si, signore, one will go to-morrow. The baskets have four compartments andthere is one place still vacant. " With that he fixed the metal anklet, andChico was thereby enrolled as number 7788 in the air brigade of the Italianarmy. 

But that was not all; a voucher was then and there made out that, afterhostilities had ceased, number 7788 should be returned to the owner, AndreaMinetti. 

The great official affixed his own signature and, after handing the paperto the lad, escorted him to the door and opened it for him. 

Though Andrea's heart was well-nigh bursting with grief, the parting wordsbrought a thrill to his whole being:

"It is such sacrifices that will win the war for Italy and, believe me, this act of yours will not be forgotten!"

CHAPTER XIV

EVVIVA VENEZIA! EVVIVA ITALIA! [Footnote: Long live Venice! Long liveItaly!]

Still nearer drew the hated Austrians: the roar of cannon could be hearddistinctly now, an air raid was no longer a novelty, and many a home andpublic building showed ravages wrought by bursting bombs. 

The hospitals were crowded with maimed, among whom was Pietro who had beengassed and wounded at the front, and was now slowly convalescing in Venice. 

The Piazza echoed the tread of marching feet, by day and by night, and thebattle hymn heard on every side:

 "To arms! Haste! Haste! ye martial youth! On every wind our banners fly, Rise all with arms, all with fire!"

The world thrilled with tales of bravery, the exploits of Italian soldiersand aviators were quoted far and wide. But with all their heroism theycould not stay the Austrian advance. 

With the coming of 1918 deepest gloom settled over Italy as the peoplegirded themselves for what seemed a struggle for very existence: not theslightest suggestion of luxury was permitted, even the making and sellingof cakes, pastry, and confectionery being sternly prohibited by governmentedict. 

The Minetti family had fared as had the others, neither better nor worse, and though one corner of the wall of the modest home had been torn awayin an explosion, the statue of the Virgin remained as if to protect fromfurther harm. No news had come from Giovanni since his return to the front, over six months before, and Luisa, dry-eyed but worn and racked withanxiety, worked far into the night on bandages for the wounded. Maria, in common with others of her age, had lost the fresh prettiness that, by right, belongs to youth, and her form was bent by work and her facefurrowed by lines of apprehension. 

Of Chico nothing had been heard since the morning, months before, when hismaster had left him in the office of the War Department. One's heart achedfor the faithful little mate, as she brooded forlornly on the window ledge, refusing to pay the slightest heed to any bold fellow who dared makeovertures to her. 

His bird was much in Andrea's thoughts as he paced back and forth eachnight upon his beat and, gazing into the sky in his lookout for aeroplanes, he would strain his eyes for a speck that might resolve itself into Chico'swings. 

Possibly, he reasoned, the bird had not yet been made use of. Perhaps--andat the thought, his heart would almost fail him--perhaps, it might even bethat he had been entrusted with some message, but had failed to reach hisdestination. 

To the boy's other duties had been added that of watching the nest. He hadscorned the suggestion that an electric bell be placed there to attractattention. 

"As if I should not hear the slightest flutter of my Chico's wings!" heprotested. But, to make sure, he even slept in the little room back of thechurch and arranged that hither should his meals be brought. 

Poor lad! He, too, showed the strain of the Great War, and looked tenseand worn. He was not the same Andrea who had dreamed of inventing somewonderful new glaze: now his ambition was to be an aviator in the serviceof the Government and, like the bird he loved, fly through the blueheavens. 

One evening (it happened to be a cloudless one, with the moon scheduled torise about one o'clock) he felt more than usually restless and on fire withthis desire. 

It was on such nights as this that the danger from air raids was especiallyimminent, and the boy's senses were at tight tension. 

As the moon rose, Venice stood revealed an enchanted city, a place ofbeauty, touched as of old with a magic wand. Hark--already the clock wasstriking the hour of two! Andrea's eyes wandered from one familiar objectto another the Ducal Palace, the new Campanile, the column of St. Theodore, and, beyond, the dome of Sta. Maria della Salute. He held his breath, itwas so wonderful. And to think--to-night, to-morrow, all might be in ruins. Surely the great God would never permit it!

Only a short time before, on June 15, the enemy had launched a newoffensive the Piave River, from the Asiago Plateau to the Adriatic Sea, andthough a few days later the news had reached Venice that their own bravemen had taken the offensive, nothing had since been heard. Would it be asit had been before, a few spasmodic successes and then--loss and defeat?

Suddenly (was he dreaming?) there was a whirr of wings; he rubbed hissleeve across his eyes. Swiftly there shot across his vision something thatin the soft moonbeams seemed an arrow of silver--a flash of light! He wasdazed; could it be--Chico? At full speed he ran to the nest, and there, close by the side of cooing Pepita, lay the exhausted bird, while a ray ofmoonlight closed a stain of blood across his breast. 

Quick as a flash the boy reached in his hand, unfastened the littlealuminum pouch, and, without waiting to find out whether the pigeon wasalive or dead, fairly flew to the War Department where a light was burning, as he knew it would be. In these days of strain the high official scarcelyclosed his eyes and on this night he was tracing over and over again theplan of the new offensive. 

Andrea rapped on the window--he could not wait to knock and be admitted, neither did he dare to leave his watch for even a fraction of a second. 

"Who is it?"--the window was cautiously opened. 

"It is I, Andrea Minetti, number 7788 has just come in with a message fromthe front. " With that he thrust the metal cylinder into the officer's hand. He tore it open and for one tense moment scanned the bit of tissue paper, then, with tears of joy, he read aloud: "'Austrian offensive declared afailure--Italians make sweeping victories along the Piave: Evviva Venezia!Evviva Italia!'" Then added exultantly, "Buone notizie! good news, goodnews!" and the tears coursed freely down his furrowed cheek, Andrea, besidehimself with joy, threw his cap Into the air, echoing; "Viva Venezia!Evviva Italia! It was my Chico brought the message!"

At mention of the pigeon the officer turned quickly, asking:

"Your bird--tell me, is he alive and in good condition?"

"I know not, signore, there was a stain of blood upon his breast, but Istopped not to find the cause. "

"Then go, go quickly. I will have some one relieve you of your watch therest of the night. See that everything is done. Venice wakes from hernightmare, and the faithful messenger that brought the joyful tidings mustnot be neglected!"

Andrea saluted and started away, but had gone only a few steps when theofficer recalled him:

"Hold--you say there was a stain of blood! The Red Cross surgeon is not toogreat a personage to save the bird. If you will take him to the hospital, Imyself will telephone the story!"

With a look of gratitude in his dark eyes, and a "Grazie, signore, " Andreawas off as quickly as he had come, and fifteen minutes later was in the RedCross rooms holding out the suffering Chico to the great surgeon, who, inless time than it takes to say it, had located the trouble, extracted thetiny bit of lead that had come so perilously near piercing the brave heart, bound up the wound, and handed the quivering bird back to his master:

"There, I have done my best. A short time and he will be all right, although his left wing will be crippled and his flights from now on canonly be short. " As he spoke, he laid his hand on Andrea's shoulder: "Myboy, there is no greater hero in the wards of this hospital than thisfaithful homing pigeon!"

Tears blurred Andrea's sight as he hugged Chico close and with reiteratedexpressions of gratitude made his way down the hospital steps. The heartwithin his soldier's coat was pulsating with joy at the spontaneous wordsof praise and the assurance that Chico would not die. Anything elsemattered little. 

Gently he laid the wounded pigeon in his nest, just as Maria came with hisbreakfast. 

She was dazed, and at first did not understand what had happened; thena light broke over her face and, reaching up, she smoothed the ruffledfeathers whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" until a quiver of the eyelidsand the most pathetic of faint "coos" gave evidence that the suffererappreciated her sympathy. 

In the meantime the word had spread, and cries of "Evviva Venezia! EvvivaItalia!" rent the air. People, mad with joy, marched up and down the narrowstreets unfurling flags shouting:

"Buone notizie! Buone notizie! Good news! Good news!"

The piazza became an animated place as groups of men, women, childrengathered, embracing one another, and longing to hear further details. 

In the hospitals there was great excitement: it was difficult to restrainthe joyful demonstrations. When Luisa whispered the news in Pietro's ear, he leaped out of bed in spite of his wounds, crying:

"The grande bird! I always said he would be game! Oh, but he's a sport!"

As for Chico, if he could have spoken he would have told a harrowingtale. Thrown into the air with dozens of others, when all other meansof communication were interrupted, at first even _his_ stout heart wasappalled. One by one the others fluttered to the ground, afraid to attemptthe flight, and of the four who persisted, three fell, torn to pieces bybullets. But Chico struggled on, on, in spite of shot and shell--on, on, inspite of the fact that he was wounded, and the loss of blood made him weak, while the crippled wing retarded the swiftness of his flight. Still hecarried on--his stout heart never wavering, until, in the distance, hiskeen eyes detected the tall shape of the new Campanile. Then, on and on, inspite of the great aeroplanes constantly threatening destruction. 

At last the domes of the churches came in sight, and the salt smell ofthe Adriatic acted as a tonic to the weary bird. He was nearing homeand Venice. Another moment and he was safe--safe with Pepita excitedlyfluttering over him. 

In the rejoicing Chico was called for again and again, but for the firsttime since Paolo had clumsily put together the rude nest for the forlornlittle pigeon he found upon the pavement, the window was closed that thesufferer might not be disturbed. 

CHAPTER XV

THE HERO OF THE SQUARE

It was some months before hostilities ended, but favorable word continuedto come from the front, and the gloom that had so long overhung Italy wasdissipated. Women worked with light hearts, men fought with the assuranceof victory. 

Chico was soon about again and was the hero of the Square. Although hisnights were now somewhat restricted, he found it very pleasant to fly aboutthe accustomed haunts, and if he was a little inclined to assume the airsof a war veteran, no one criticized. 

When Pepita, amid the cares of domesticity, wearied a little of herhusband's oft-repeated tales of life at the front, he had only to repairto the Piazza where, in the perches among the Statuary, he never failed tofind plenty of cronies eager to pay him fascinated attention. 

When the armistice was signed, Venice gave herself up to revelry, and thescenes when the Piazza was once more illuminated were wilder than at anyCarnival time. 

Processions of people, mad with joy, marched up and down, headed by Chicoand his master, and shouting in praise of the brave bird. 

It was not long before the city began to assume her customary appearance asgreatly prized treasures were brought from their hiding-places. 

The Colleoni statue once more stood in place; Titian's famous Assumption ofthe Virgin that had transferred to Pisa was returned securely packed ina huge chest, some seven and a half meters in length, and amid the wildexcitement the bronze horses were restored to their position on the top ofSt. Mark's. People thronged to witness the ceremony and afterwards flockedinto the church where the patricians of Venice intoned the Te Deum inthanksgiving. 

When the time came for conferring honors upon the war heroes, Chico was notforgotten. After some discussion as to whether it would be practicable forthe bird to wear a band of honor about his leg, the idea was abandoned, anda special medal was struck off and given to Andrea. It bore the arms ofItaly on one side and a pigeon on the other, with the inscription, "Devirtute. " [Footnote: For courage. ]

On the eventful day in the office of the War Department, after thepresentation had been made, the General further addressed the boy whostood, all trembling at the honor that had come to his Chico. 

"Special orders, my lad, have come from Rome that something shall be donefor you. "

As he paused, Andrea protested, "No, No! it is enough--the medal isenough!"

"The orders on this point are most explicit. " The General's tone waspositive. "Come tell us, what is your ambition?"

"To be an aviator, signore, in the service of my country, " was thestammering answer. 

"Bene! It shall be done. Your expenses shall be paid to the best governmentschool of aviation, and, from this time on, an income of one hundred andfifty lire a month shall be allowed your parents, for it is understood yourfather has aged greatly in the service of his country. "

Andrea bowed his head. He had no words to express his gratitude. But, onceoutside, he ran every step of the way home, in his eagerness to tell thewonderful news. 

 * * * * *

The Great War is now a matter of history, and once more tourists areflocking to Venice. Again gay laughter is heard on the Grand Canal. Thelittle shops that line the sides of the Piazza of St. Mark's are now brightwith glittering strands of beads, while the women are once more busy withtheir bobbins. 

The clock tower, the Ducal Palace, the Campanile--they are all there, beautiful as ever, and now as ever stands St. Mark's Church, sharing thejoy of her people as she has sympathized with them in their sorrow. 

Perchance, reader, you may yourself sometime visit this city of "BeautifulNonsense, " and, if so, may call "Chico, Chico!" and look to see if one ofthe fluttering pigeons that so contentedly coo about the Square will notcome and light upon your shoulder. 

Should you be so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of an aeroplane circlingin the blue sky, you may risk a guess that the aviator is Andrea, in thegovernment employ. 

You may even learn that he wears a medal ever about his neck and thatsometimes he carries with him Chico as a mascot: sometimes, but not always, for little Pepita is sadly lonesome when her faithful mate is long away. 

Who knows but that in the future this story of a homing pigeon may have aplace with the other memories of this wonderful city, and that, five or sixhundred years from now, children may gather about some old caretaker of St. Mark's and listen, with fascinated attention, as he tells of the servicerendered Venice by a homing pigeon in the time of the Great War?