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
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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 splash-ing 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, count-
less 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.
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"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 sud-den 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 horse-
back 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