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.