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 of children 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 worth while from a literary point of view. The great consideration is its influence upon the mental and moral development of the child. It must be stimulating and present to the pupil such ideals as will have a permanent influence upon the formation of character.

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

It has been my aim to depict accurately the Italian atmosphere and to give information in such a way that children unconsciously will learn much of the 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 the standpoint of visual education, and well adapted also for silent reading and topical recitations.

The story was written out of a full heart, with the hope that it might foster the love and appreciation of birds, and that the boy's sacrifice of his precious homing pigeon to his country at a time of peril might carry an ethical 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 of the side canals of Venice, an honest workman and his family. Giovanni Minetti, for such was his name, was employed in a certain glass factory in Murano, while, in all Venice, there was no one with fingers more deft in the making of beautiful lace than Luisa, his wife.

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

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

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

"Buon giorno" [Footnote: Good-morning.] they would shout every morning when he stopped for them on his way to the famous church, and Maria, holding tight to one of the old man's hands, would trot along by his side, while Andrea, more independent, would run on ahead in his eagerness to thread the narrow streets catch the first glimpse of the Piazza, as St. Mark's Square is called.

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

After a little, hand in hand, they would scamper out into the bright sunshine 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 clock with its dial of blue and gold. It was the nearest she could come to pronouncing "orologio," the Italian word for clock. Then she would listen as hard as ever she could, hoping the bronze figures would strike the hour on the bell.

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

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

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

Perchance, even, as they talked, they would hear the flutter of wings, and some half-dozen pigeons, with soft coos, would light on their shoulders. Then Maria would laugh aloud with delight, and Andrea would forget his wild dreams as they stroked the glossy wings and admired the bright eyes, all the while feeding them dried peas or grain with which their mother never forgot to see their pockets were supplied.

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

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

The children would be so absorbed that they would become quite unconscious of the tourists that would gather to watch the pretty group, for Venice was full 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 the man or woman who could turn away without buying at least one bag of grain from 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 was in June, 1910; the Campanile was being built to replace the old one that had fallen in 1902, and to little Maria and Andrea, there was a fascination in watching the workmen lift the great stones into place from the confused debris at its base.

If the Piazza was wonderful, so, too, was the piazzetta with the Ducal Palace with the golden staircase and the two columns, the one surmounted by the winged lion of St. Mark, the other by St. Theodore, standing on a crocodile.

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

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

But little Maria cared more for the laces, and would shyly point to some especially 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 side watching her bargain for an exquisite collar. So intently she looked that the 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 for lace-making."

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

Then, in some little recess around the corner of the church, with countless pigeons waiting for the crumbs, they would sit with him, sharing his frugal meal. When they had finished, he would sometimes take them for a ride in his shabby gondola on the Grand Canal, and on the way they would beg to stop for just a moment at the famous well with two porphyry lions. Andrea was tall enough to clamber by himself after the manner of young Venetians, and nothing would do but Paolo must lift Maria, so she, too, would proudly straddle one of the fierce figures. There they would sit while the old caretaker would count the pigeons bathing and splashing in the water.

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

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

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

In fact, his tales were so realistic, that it almost seemed as if he must have been an eyewitness of every incident he narrated.

CHAPTER II

ANDREA'S WISH

Of all the old man's tales, there was not one the children liked so well as the story of St. Mark's pigeons.

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

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

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

"See," he cried again, calling attention to the iridescent colors, shining green and purple in the sunshine, then sighed disconsolately. "I do wish he belonged to me." And he stroked lovingly the feathered head. "I never have had a pet of any kind."

"Is it, then, a matter of such grief?" questioned the old caretaker, surprised at the lad's desire.

"Si," [Footnote: Yes.] he answered passionately, "I wish—oh, how I wish that I might have one for my very own!"—and he held the captive pigeon close against his cheek. "Do you understand?"

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

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

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

Laughing, Paolo turned to Maria who had sat quietly all the while, fondling the feathered creatures in her lap.

"How about you, little one? Would you, too, like a pigeon of your own?"

"No," she answered shyly, "I love them all too much." And the soft coo, coo-oo-oo from the lapful of birds seemed appreciative of her words.

"Very well, my dear, it shall be as you wish, and now that I have it all straight in my old head, what pleases each of you best, what say you, shall I begin the story?"

"Si! Si!" they cried in unison, settling back against the wall, anxious not to lose a single syllable.

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

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

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

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

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

"Five or six hundred years ago!" repeated Andrea incredulously, his childish 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, her brother put in, proudly, "I know, they were wars to rescue the holy lands from the—" he paused.

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

"Was Dandolo the leader?" asked Andrea, sitting bolt upright in his excitement, 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 went on:

"Old though he was, he was the hero of the whole expedition. Even the French had no general to compare with him. And tell me, both of you, did you 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 the walls of Constantinople! Ah, then he must have been magnifico!"

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

Paolo nodded, "And I have no doubt but that the one great Dandolo rode was like those very horses; and, by the way, my lad, did you ever hear that they were part of the spoils he brought from the East in triumph and placed above 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 to take the city had it not been for a messenger pigeon that brought him most important information. Nor is that all the part the brave birds played at this great time, for it was no other than some of our own fine homers that conveyed the first news of glorious victory to Venice. Hence it was, that when the Doge returned, in triumph, he issued a proclamation that the pigeons 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's lap.

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

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

"I shouldn't be surprised," replied the old caretaker, entering into the lad's enthusiasm; "they're as intelligent now as they ever were. All they need 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 the bulge just above the tiny ear:

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

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

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

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

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

In reply she only smiled—it was enough for her that the pigeons loved to have 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 way home that afternoon, climbed up the narrow dark stairs, two steps at a time, and burst upon his mother in such excitement that she feared some misfortune 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, nothing dreadful, and Maria is behind with Paolo. It is only—" his dark cheeks flushed. "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, to be 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 was right for the baking.

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

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

In spite of the window, even the best room was never very light, and only an occasional streak of sunshine found its way in, but on those rare occasions it fell upon the choicest treasure of the home, a rude colored print of the Virgin, in a modest shrine, hung with gilded fringe. On the shelf above, Luisa took care to see that a lamp was ever burning, and on the 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 was there!

Unconsciously, the children trod gently in this room, and their laughter was subdued, but in the kitchen—ah, there, their spirits were unrestrained.

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?"