A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD
The morning after the great Carnival day Andrea woke with a sense of
disquietude. Something was going to happen, but for a few moments he could
not think what it was. Then with a rush he remembered. He had promised to
show Chico to his uncle. Since the suggestion had been made he had not been
able to dismiss it from his mind and, even while watching the bursting
rockets the evening before, he had found himself wondering what Pietro
could have meant by his mysterious remark, "If the bird is what you say--we
shall see. We shall see!"
Although he liked his uncle immensely, he had not been able entirely to
overcome a certain feeling of awe in his presence, and he shuddered at
thought of many scathing criticisms he had heard him make upon objects
which he had been brought up to regard with veneration. Suppose he should
make fun of Chico! The quick tears started at the thought. Then his eyes
flashed and he sprang out of bed, exclaiming to himself, "I don't care what
he may say, I know he's the finest pigeon in the world!"
This feeling of confidence lasted until they finished breakfast and Pietro
had 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 silently
by his uncle's side.
Pietro was in his most jocund mood that morning, jauntily swinging his
cane, joking about the Rialto as they crossed it, and talking a great deal
about London and Paris. His companion's courage gradually oozed away. In
fact it was completely gone by the time they rounded the corner of the
church and came upon the happy couple basking in the sunlight and cooing
affectionately to each other.
"So that's the fellow!"--and Pietro pointed to Chico, entirely ignoring
little 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 may
see him closer."
Andrea managed a faint "Chico," and in an instant the pigeon was in his
lap, burrowing in his pocket in search of the usual tidbits.
"Hum-mm." Pietro caught the bird firmly in one hand, at the same time
swiftly running the other over the trembling body.
"Long wings, bulge prominent over the ear, broad breast, a clear, keen
eye--"
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, "he
has 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 a
grimy 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 that
he produced a tiny bottle of India ink a rubber stamp, and while Andrea,
with fascinated interest, held the bird, Pietro copied the figures on the
primary feathers of the right wing, remarking as he finished, "There, I
guess that will attract attention from any fancier. You have really a fine
bird, my boy, and I would suggest that it might be well to exhibit him at
some 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 for
any such expenditure, but Pietro was not yet through.
"Your father and mother have treated me right royally ever I've been in
Venice, and I am sure they will not deny me this opportunity to make
some return. It will not cost you a single lira. What say you, will you
accompany me? I happen to be going in that direction and can arrange to
stop over as well as not."
Andrea caught his uncle's hands in a paroxysm of joy. In his wildest dreams
he had never thought of ever going anywhere outside of Venice, and now, to
be thus calmly discussing an errand like this, it seemed as if he could
scarcely believe his ears.
Then Pietro, taking for granted that the matter was settled as far as
Andrea was concerned, that very evening broached the plan to the boy's
father and mother, overruling all their objections with the result that the
following Monday found the two travelers, with Chico in his basket, on the
train bound for Verona.
It is an interesting trip for any one through the plain towns of northern
Italy, and, needless to state, not the slightest detail of the passing
landscape was lost on Andrea. Not once did he take his eyes from the car
window save occasionally to look through the cracks of the basket into
Chico'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, spoke
of a civilization long past. There were rounded hill-slopes and ancient
castles, 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 the
huge covered station of Verona.
With beating heart, Andrea followed the business-like Pietro as he led the
way out of the station and hailed a vettura [Footnote: Carriage.] to take
them 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 at
finding 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 the
city seemed the personification of all that was progressive, and while the
horses 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 historic
structure which bridges the muddy, swirling waters of the Adige, they
were suddenly outdistanced by what Pietro pointed out as one of the few
automobiles of Verona.
The boy's eyes widened. What tales he would have to tell old Paolo and the
little Maria! When they came to the great Arena, in the heart of the city,
Pietro dismissed their vettura, and together they walked down the principal
promenade to the shopping center where they mingled with the endless crowds
of pedestrians and looked into the windows of the gay little shops that
made Andrea think of Venice.
Not far from the imposing City Hall was an ancient red marble Gothic cross
about which were clustered hundreds of what looked like canvas toadstools,
but which were, in reality, immense white umbrellas, sheltering countless
market stalls. Here were gathered a motley collection of all sorts of
things for sale, ranging from boots and shoes to many kinds of provisions
and fruits.
Through all this Pietro walked so fast that his companion had hard work to
keep up with him, and was glad when they finally stopped in front of an
enclosure sheltered by two large umbrellas. Then his heart sank and he
clutched his basket closer as he realized that here was where the pigeon
show would be held, and understood, from what a loud-voiced man was
calling, that the birds were already being entered. He wished--oh, how he
wished--he had not come, and was almost overwhelmed by the thought that he
would be obliged to leave Chico with these chattering strangers.
There was no alternative--already many of the birds were in place. He
could see some of them and realized they were, for the most part, dejected
looking specimens. He touched Pietro's sleeve nervously and inquired
faintly, "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 give
you 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 aluminum
with the number--1104.