Chico: the Story of a Homing Pigeon Part 10

BLUE ROSETTE

Pietro noticed the lad's dejection and exerted himself to the utmost to divert him. After a good dinner he proceeded to show him the sights of Verona, at the same time telling him interesting tales about the Arena, the beautiful gardens, and the palaces of olden time. But Andrea remained listless, only rousing when his proposed a visit to the tomb of Romeo and Juliet which was the one place his mother had charged him to see.

The show was to open the next morning at ten o'clock, and long before that time there was an eager crowd at the turnstile.

All was in order--the birds of the various exhibits being arranged in cages in different compartments. There were of every color variety, from big fellows, brought 'way from London, to all white beauties. One corner was devoted to the homing pigeons, and here Andrea discovered Chico in the same cage with some highly trained racers from Belgium. His head had lost its saucy tilt, and he was miserably pecking in the sawdust as if in search of something to eat. But otherwise he seemed in good condition, and his master felt a glow of pride as he mentally contrasted the appearance of "1104"

with those exhibited by the foreign fanciers, although, of course, he supposed that, in all probability, Chico didn't have a ghost of a chance.

All this time his uncle was excitedly bobbing back and forth, mingling with the people and commenting on the points of one or another specimen. It was a good-natured crowd, that had, for the most part, drifted in from the poultry show that was being held in an adjoining tent. There was not much enthusiasm until four judges made their appearance, and with notebooks in hand, began their inspection of the cages. Then there was a stir; the bystanders pressed more closely to the railing, and there was considerable excitement as fluttering blue and white ribbons indicated the winners of first and second honors.

By the time the cage of messenger pigeons was reached, there was a ripple of genuine excitement, and from one and another quarter bids were shouted by those who knew the characteristics of a good homer. These began as low as "Four lire" on a pigeon from Milan, "A hundred lire" on number "670,"

an aggressive-looking Belgian, and then--Andrea's head swam as a burly American called out, "fifty dollars on '1104.'"

After that things became lively as the judges pa.s.sed from one to another, inspecting every bird most carefully and making note of individual characteristics. When they seemed especially pleased, or stopped to confer, as occasionally happened, over the record which, in every case, was marked on the wings, then the bidding became fairly furious, "670" leading and "1104" a close second. One of the judges took so long in his examination of Chico that a fat German changed his bid, and an American called out, "Come, get a move on you!" There was a long conference among the judges, during which the people waited impatiently enough, and Andrea felt himself more tense every moment.

Finally, with exasperating deliberateness, one of them turned and announced that the blue rosette was awarded to number "1104." Andrea's cheeks went scarlet, and the air was rent by cries of "Urra! Urra!" "Bully for 1104!"

The boy's head swam. CHICO HAD WON. It seemed as if he could scarcely believe his senses. He looked around for his uncle only to find he had leaped the railing and was shaking hands with the judges, and pointing to Andrea as the owner of the bird. On every side could be heard excited comments, and the American, just behind, was holding forth at a great rate:

"I knew it--I knew it all the time; he doesn't make the show some of 'em do, but look at his breast! Look at the length of his wings, and his eye!

There isn't a bird here with such a keen eye as he has! Then, did you watch him? He wasn't half as scared as the other birds! Just kind of bored by the performance! One can see he has a strong heart, and that's what counts in a homer! Why, bless me, I'd like to get hold of that bird. Is the owner anywhere around?"

It was then Pietro reappeared, jubilant, of course. He wrung the boy's hand until it ached, at the time exclaiming, "You're wanted on every side; you can take your pick of chances to sell your bird, and if you ever wish to engage as a trainer of pigeons, the way is open to you!"

When Andrea presented his metal tag for "1104," the crowd fairly closed in upon him, shouting offers. Altogether it was a great triumph, but he felt tired, and his head ached so that it was a distinct relief when Pietro, looking at his watch, declared there wasn't a moment to lose if he intended to catch the noon train for Venice!

He was glad it was over, and all the way down the tree-lined avenue, he kept looking through the cracks of the basket, as if to a.s.sure himself that Chico was really there.

But at the station another ordeal confronted him. Pietro had insisted when they were first discussing coming to Verona that Chico must fly home, and to this Andrea, at the time, had consented. Now he wished he had not. He felt it almost an impossibility again to relinquish his bird, and pleaded with Pietro to release him from his promise. But, no, his uncle was obdurate, and was moved by no entreaties.

"Of what are you afraid? A bird which has the blue rosette can find his way from Verona. He must carry the news of his victory himself, and I miss my guess, if he doesn't reach home before you do."

"But it looks most terribly like a storm," the boy expostulated, his eyes resting uneasily on the angry clouds looming over the castled hills.

"And what if it does rain? A homing pigeon has a stout heart and I warrant it will take more than a thunder-storm to dismay our prize bird." And with that he fastened to Chico's leg a little aluminum pouch, in which was a bit of paper, containing the laconic message, "WON--THE BLUE ROSETTE!"

Andrea made no further protest, and away flew the bird, circling into the air above, then, by still wider circles, higher and higher until he was finally off.

Andrea watched until the mere speck in the distance had completely disappeared. Venice seemed very far away! With a sinking heart he made his way across the platform, and climbed into the little train from the window of which he forlornly waved "good-bye" to the irrepressible Pietro, who, after shouting a final injunction to the lad to "buck-up," and to be sure and let him know how long Chico took to make the trip by his "air-line,"

jauntily waved his hand, and the train, moved out.

For fully half an hour Andrea crouched in his seat, altogether dejected, watching the sky illuminated from time to time by flashes of lightning. A man in the seat across the aisle leaned over to inquire the meaning of the blue rosette he wore on his breast, but Andrea shook his head and with blurred eyes looked out at the storm already breaking. Soon the thunder could be heard above the noise of the train, and hailstones as large as marbles rattled against the windows.

Somewhere in all that darkness Chico was flying! The boy's heart grew more and more heavy and was filled with bitterness against his uncle who had been so insistent. Of what use were empty honors if his bird was lost forever?

In the meantime Chico was having his difficulties. For the first time he was too far from Venice to catch even a glimpse of her domes or the new Campanile. He was puzzled.

But somewhere was Venice, _somewhere_ his nest--with Pepita and the fledglings. The thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the rain fell. Yet his heart was stout and his courage strong.

Do they call it instinct that so unerringly guides the flight of the homing pigeon? Was it the sea that called? Did the winds convey a message? I know not, but, after that single moment of hesitation, the brave bird plunged into the darkness and made his way to home and loved ones.

At last the long afternoon was over and the slow Italian train pulled into Venice. Andrea sadly picked up his empty basket. As it happened, at the very moment he stepped upon the platform, the clouds parted and the sun shone, lighting with splendor the rippling waters of the Adriatic, and s.h.i.+ning full on the golden domes of the churches.

He expected Paolo and his sister would be at the station to welcome him and to hear the result of the pigeon show. After all, what had it all amounted to if the bird had been lost in the storm? At that point in his reflections a little figure came rus.h.i.+ng to him, all breathless with excitement. It was Maria, with her father and mother just behind. They were followed by the old caretaker, hurrying as fast as his rheumaticky limbs would permit, and, wonder of wonders! Andrea had to look twice to be sure he was not mistaken, perched upon his shoulder was--CHICO! To be sure, his feathers were a little disheveled, for he had been too busy with Pepita and the fledglings to take time to preen them, but apparently he was unharmed by the perils through which he had pa.s.sed, and there was as saucy a tilt to his as ever.

"Urra! Urra!" the boy cried, throwing his cap twice into the air, while his father wrung his hand excitedly, and Maria exclaimed:

"He came into the nest more than an hour and a half ago. Oh, isn't he the grande bird?"

"He's the fast express all right!" put in Paolo, waving his cane proudly in the air; "made the whole distance at the rate of over forty miles an hour."

Then they all talked at once, asking questions, first about the pigeon show, and then about the adventures in Verona.

It seemed as if Andrea couldn't answer fast enough, there was so much to tell, and he repeated more than once as he pa.s.sed the blue rosette for their closer inspection:

"There wasn't a bird to compare with him!"

"And you say you rode behind a horse?" Paolo questioned, as the entire party crowded into the old gondola, and Chico flew into his master's lap.

"Si! Si! And saw an automobile!" was the proud answer as Andrea went on to describe how it "went like the wind," just like the one he had dreamed of.

Unconsciously there crept into his demeanor a slight suggestion of Pietro's swagger, and while he was glad to get home, and though St. Mark's Square never seemed so beautiful before, still there was no denying it was a great experience to have traveled and seen something of the world.

CHAPTER XIII

AND ALL FOR ITALY!

Some years pa.s.sed and Andrea was now a stocky lad with resolute walk and steady black eyes. He was fourteen, the age to which he had long looked forward as the time when he should realize his ambition to work beside his father in the gla.s.s factory. Maria, too, was growing up: already her fingers were almost as deft as her mother's in making lace, under whose guidance she could even fas.h.i.+on the beautiful roses, the special characteristic of Venetian point.

As for Chico, he was constantly establis.h.i.+ng new records, and his wings bore witness to many triumphs.

Then the Great War came, and the world shook with its thunders. On May 23, 1915, Italy had declared hostilities against Austria-Hungary, although the Italian offensive did not begin until 1917.

At first the victories were all on the side of Italy, when her brave heroes broke through on the Isonzo front, it seemed almost as if they were destined to sweep everything before them Then the tide turned: one town after another was retaken by the Austrians, until, on October 29, 1917, the entire Italian front on the Isonzo collapsed.

Then came days of black despair: all Italy mourned, but in Venice especially was the horror felt. From her situation she had always been a bulwark against the Austrians, and not yet had she forgotten the hated rule of her enemies.

Nearer drew the lines until the roar of the cannon could be sometimes heard, and there was scarcely a clear night that aeroplanes did not hover over the terrified city. Dimmed were the lights that were wont to make a fairyland of St. Mark's Square, and in the daytime the red, white, and green of the Italian flag supplied almost the only color, while the only music was the martial call of Garibaldi, to which countless marched to the field of battle.

"To arms!

Haste! Haste! ye martial youth!

On every wind our banners fly, Rise all with arms, all with fire!"

The gla.s.s factories were closed, and Giovanni went, with the rest of the brave men, to fight for home and country. Even Pietro hastened from his wanderings to offer his services. The lace factories were deserted, and instead of the delicate threads and the bobbins, the women busied themselves with bandages for the Red Cross.