TRAINING
As a first step he had secured a wicker basket with a close-fitting cover
which 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 bird
in a dark basket to the place from which he is to make his flight, he will
have 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 a
faithful homer, he will have to spend a good deal of time in the same dark
prison. It's part of the discipline of his life." As he finished, he began
tracing 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, "but
that he could find his way from such near-by points as the Ducal Palace and
the Bridge of Sighs--I'm disposed to take him farther away for his first
trial--say to the Rialto."
"Bene! bene!" [Footnote: Good! good!] shouted Andrea, clapping his hands.
"Then," continued the old man, without paying any attention to the
interruption, "if he does well from such distances as that, we'll gradually
take him farther away--perhaps to the Lido and--"
"To the Lido," repeated Andrea, to whom this seemed a great distance. "Do
you 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 from
other parts of Italy--Milan, for instance."
"Milan! Other parts of Italy!" The children found it hard to fancy cooing
little Chico finding his way home from distant cities, and in spite
of 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 easy
flights, he'll be able to take the longer ones.
"Why, lad," Paolo went on kindly, touched by the boy's dejection, "if you
want Chico to be a real homing pigeon, you must expect him to run some
risks. Don't you remember Dandolo's bird that carried the glad news from
Constantinople?"
Andrea nodded, doubtfully. While he had thought much of the possible glory
Chico might gain as a faithful messenger, for the first time he trembled
lest, in realizing the ambition, the safety of the bird might be
endangered. Thoughts of possible perils filled his mind with foreboding,
but he didn't wish Paolo to think he was turning the white feather, so he
swallowed 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 just
remember, my boy, if you expect your bird to have a stout heart you must
keep 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 have
rushed from the house without a mouthful if Luisa had not insisted that
he eat at least one piece of the hot polenta. But that was all--he almost
bolted it whole, and, without waiting for Paolo, was out of the house and
in St. Mark's Square at least half an hour earlier than ever before.
Not that it was much satisfaction, for hardhearted Paolo had carefully
placed the pigeon in the basket the night before, saying as he secured the
cover:
"He must not be allowed his freedom until we reach the Rialto, then he will
be 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, it
must be done right. Come, children, give me your promise not to interfere."
"We won't," they answered in unison, and though Andrea still thought
the treatment very harsh, he dared not again raise his voice in further
protest.
It seemed very forlorn not to find Chico waiting on his window ledge
when he turned the corner of the church, and with heart aching for the
imprisoned bird, he entered the dark little shed and looked anxiously for
the basket. There it was, in the corner where Paolo had left it, but, as he
called once, and then again, there was no answering "coo."
Andrea's heart sank; perhaps the bird was sick. Beset by anxious thoughts
he 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 had
ever wished the bird trained. Why had he not been content with him as he
was--the most beautiful bird in St. Mark's Square?
Turning the basket about, he looked it all over carefully. There was a
slight stir. He breathed a sigh of relief, then joyfully caught his breath
as he suddenly discovered two bright eyes looking straight at him through
one of the cracks.
"Chico!" he cried joyfully; "Chico! Are you all right?" Placing his ear to
the wicker prison, he caught a faint answering "coo," and a minute later
the very tip of the bird's bill found its way through one of the cracks. It
was heartrending, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that Andrea
restrained himself from tearing off the cover of the basket and feeding
his hungry pet, but he had given his promise, so he was obliged to content
himself with holding the basket close to his cheek and murmuring soft words
into the responsive ears of the prisoner.
So Paolo found him. Andrea started guiltily as the old caretaker stepped in
the 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't
any harm in that!"
"No harm at all," the old man answered; "and now I propose to take him to
the Rialto and there give him his freedom, while you wait here and see
if he knows enough to come home. Notice the time by the big clock; if he
returns promptly, you may reward him with a good breakfast and plenty of
water 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 basket
with its precious load, while he and Maria settled themselves to await
developments.
The Rialto is one of the busiest spots in all Venice; especially is it
so at this time in the morning, for hither come the black boats from the
island laden with fruits and vegetables to provision the city. On
every side, amid the jostling throngs of people, one sees mountains of
watermelons, piles of garlic, old scows and worn-out gondolas, heaped with
all manner of strange-looking fish. Crossing over the bridge to the end
where the jewelers have their shops, and elbowing through the crowd of
young girls and matrons, with their gay-colored handkerchiefs and strands
of bright beads, Paolo came to a more secluded quarter. Here he stopped,
and, with careful deliberation, lifted the cover of the basket, saying as
he 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 an
imperceptible instant, as though in search of some familiar object, he was
off in the direction of St. Mark's Square.
In the meantime Andrea and Maria waited impatiently enough. They knew it
would take time for Paolo to reach his destination, for the old man's steps
were not as quick as they had once been. And then the awful thought would
come that Chico might not fly straight home--might be beguiled elsewhere
for 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 a
whirr of wings. An arrow of silver shot through the air, and in another
instant Chico was in his nest.
"Urra! Urra!" the boy shouted, throwing his cap into the air; then
boisterously 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 be
a message concealed about the bird's leg, his hand felt for the closely
wound bit of tissue paper, and tense with excitement he shouted aloud
Chico's first message:
"Evviva Italia!" [Footnote: Long live Italy!]
Again he hugged his pet until he suddenly discovered a hungry bill in his
pocket, 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, "Viva
Italia!"
Upon comparing his watch with the clock Paolo's delight knew no bounds at
finding that Chico had made the flight in one minute and a half, fully one
half a minute shorter time than Paolo had allowed.
"Bene! bene!" he cried excitedly, "I told you he had the points of a good
homing pigeon. All he needs is training." Then, laying his hand on Andrea's
shoulder, he added, "My boy, you have a bird of which you may well be
proud."
While he was thus under discussion Chico, seemingly unconscious that he had
done anything at all remarkable, with his crop fairly bulging with the good
things which he had eaten, perched serenely on the window ledge diligently
preening his feathers.
This was but the first of many flights: the next time it was Paolo who
stayed to watch the nest while Andrea set off, carrying the bird in his
basket. He was especially delighted because the Colleoni statue was his
destination, for there was no place in Venice (except the Piazza of St.
Mark's) which possessed a greater fascination for him than the Campo of
Giovanni e Paolo. The sight of the stalwart figure of Colleoni in his coat
of mail astride the splendid steed never failed to rouse in his young heart
the fires of ambition.
"It's a great thing, Chico!" he exclaimed, peering through the cracks at
the 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, and
after gracefully circling for an instant around the statue, without further
hesitation 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. Then
nothing would do but Luisa must admire his fine plumage, and his father
must declare that he was quite the finest pigeon he had ever seen. It took
the combined force of the family to consider what message they should send
old Paolo in the morning, and, after a great deal of discussion, Giovanni's
stiff 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 until
Paolo declared he was satisfied that the bird knew his way perfectly within
a certain radius and must now venture farther from home. After this it was
not so easy, and on several occasions Chico had adventures that tried even
his stout little heart, and brought many an hour of anxiety to his friends.