[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 ca.n.a.ls, 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?"

"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 anything else--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 them all 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 of grilli! What was his father thinking of?" and in another moment he was explaining how he would train his bird to be a carrier pigeon, and how bright its eyes would be, and how strong its wings, until his father laughed and declared himself convinced that it would be the most wonderful thing 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 say you?"--he addressed himself particularly to Luisa--"shall we go to the Lido?"

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

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

So it was settled, and the children talked of nothing else the rest of the evening, dropping off to sleep without once giving a thought to the lapping of 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-basket was packed, and as soon as the children were dressed and the breakfast eaten, it was time to start.

At first, Andrea walked with his mother, insisting upon carrying the basket, but after a little his arms became weary and, without expostulation, he allowed his father to take it from him, while he ran joyfully ahead, eager to catch a glimpse of the bronze horses, and dabble his 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 years old, and with shining eyes walked carefully by her mother's side. She wore a string of gay beads about her neck (a birthday gift from her father) and red ta.s.sels dangled bewitchingly from the tops of her new shoes.

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

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

"Not so soon, my lad, there is much that you should see." And, taking him by the hand, Giovanni led him into a great room with two immense pictures.

One was the a.s.sumption of the Virgin by the great t.i.tian and before it even restless Andrea was stilled, feeling a little of the spell that has made of this place a world shrine for all lovers of art--the wonderful figure of the Virgin, in billowy robes, rising to heaven, while countless angels, each one seeming more adorable than the other, seem to bear her up in her glad flight.

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

There were other pictures in the same room, and one especially that interested Andrea. It was Tintoretto's Miracle of St. Mark, and he listened attentively 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 stayed the hands of those who were sent to carry out the cruel sentence. The slave was 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 the blessed Virgin. Have you not heard how, when Mary was scarcely more than a child, she was taken to the temple and consecrated to the service of the church?"

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

Long Maria lingered, noticing every detail, the blue dress, the lighted taper, the halo round the head, and she was loath to leave, even when her father 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 forgot all about the pictures he had seen in his interest in watching the wheels go around and the white foam in the vessel's wake, but Maria sat in a kind of dream until they reached the landing.

Then, in the hurry that ensued and the many distractions on the sh.o.r.e, the picture of the brave little girl, for the time, faded from her mind, and she, too, gave herself up with undisguised pleasure to the fascinations of the Lido.

It is a strip of sh.o.r.e extending along the mouth of the Lagoon and forming a bulwark of Venice against the Adriatic. It was here that the wedding ceremony was performed in the long ago, and the view is most beautiful from this point.

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

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

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

All the way home on the steamer Andrea held tightly to the dried starfish he had found on the sand, while Maria was the happiest child in Venice, with a brooch made from the pearl sh.e.l.l 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 to catch the faint cheep of a baby bird in distress, and they reached home entirely 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 of mystery about him that was distinctly puzzling. Then, too, he walked unusually 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 to keep up, Paolo slackened his pace with a laconic "Wait and see," that was even more mystifying.

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

"Venite!" [Footnote: "come here"] he exclaimed, leading the way to a small shed back of the church where he was accustomed to keep his tools.

"Venite!" he repeated, entering by a rear into the gloomy interior.