"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 Assumption of the Virgin by the great Titian 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, notwithstand-ing. 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
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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 land-ing.
Then, in the hurry that ensued and the many distractions on the shore, 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 shore 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 glass 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 shells 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 shell 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.
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"Venite!" he repeated, entering by a rear into the gloomy interior.
It was several moments before the eyes of the children became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to really see what was being
pointed out. High above their heads was a small window, close to which had been placed a wooden box.
The old man stopped a moment, listened, reached up his hand, then drew it back with an air of satisfaction, while the youngsters, fascinated, watched without in the least surmising what it was all about.
With a finger on his lips to enjoin silence, he suddenly seized Andrea and raised him to the level of the window ledge.
"There!" he cried, "don't be afraid. Put your hand into the box."
As the boy timidly obeyed, he went on, "Now tell me, what do you feel? Speak!"
The frightened look on Andrea's face gave way, first to one of mystification, then to an expression of joy as his hand touched something warm:
"L'uccello!" [Footnote: The bird.] he cried; then, in an ecstasy of delight, "Is it mine?"
Paolo nodded, and, after putting the boy down on the floor, gently lifted Maria so that she, too, might put her fingers into the nest he had made for the fledgling he had found on the pavement the evening before.
"It's a baby pigeon," she softly murmured.
"Si! Si!" the old caretaker declared, delighted at the sensation he had caused, "I came across him all huddled up by yonder column."
"And may I really have him?" queried Andrea, finding it hard to realize that he had gained his heart's desire.
"Why not? I doubt if the old birds will even notice he has gone. You know when the mother has other eggs to take her attention, she gives the fledglings into the care of the father bird, and it isn't very long before he pushes them out to shift for themselves. There is no reason why this particular one should not belong to you: in fact, I imagine he's a bit lonesome in this strange place, though, to be sure, I did all I could to make him comfortable, with a wisp of hay and a few dried sticks, but, at best, I'm not much of a nest-maker. Come now, would you like to have a look at him?"
"Si! Si!" the children cried together. And with that Paolo, after lighting a bit of discarded candle and giving it to Andrea to hold, stretched up and took the pigeon from the nest.
In the flickering light the children bent lovingly over the little fluttering thing in the old man's hand; they had never before seen a young bird at such close range and they looked with wonder at the soft, shapeless body, the big eyes, the ugly bill, wide open in insistent demand for food.
"May I give him a crumb to eat?" asked Andrea in an odd tone.
"Si," was the ready assent; "I expect he's hungry enough, with no one to wait on him. By the way, did you ever see a baby pigeon fed?"
The children shook their heads and listened most eagerly as the old man went on:
"This is a matter in which both father and mother take a hand, and the first food is a liquid secreted in their crops and called 'pigeons' milk.' When mealtime comes, the parents open wide their beaks, the little birds thrust in their bills, and the fun begins. I tell you it takes a great deal of effort and bobbing of heads for Baby Pigeon to get a satisfactory meal."
"How can we--ever--feed him?" Andrea anxiously interrupted, as