Then came a day when Paolo declared that Chico must have his first lesson
in flying, and the children watched, with abated breath, as the old man
took the bird from his nest and placed him on the pavement, at the same
time stationing himself at a little distance and holding an enticing
morsel. At first the baby pigeon flopped aimlessly about when, suddenly,
Maria caught Andrea's arm, whispering excitedly, "He's going to do it, oh,
he's going to do it!" and, miracle of miracles! after awkwardly raising
one wing and then another, he actually mastered the first lesson and, in
consequence, was treated to a royal breakfast. It was a great exertion,
and, after satisfying his hunger, he then and there closed his weary eyes
and took a nap on the pavement, much to Paolo's amusement.

"Well," he exclaimed, "it's the first time I ever taught a bird to fly. One
never knows what one can do until one tries."

After that not a day passed that Chico did not make short flights, to
Andrea from Maria, and from her to the old man's shoulder, until, one
morning, he greatly amazed them by flying into his own window box.

Gaining confidence, Chico must have had it in his pigeon mind one morning
to fly from his nest and greet his friends upon the pavement. But alas, he
miscalculated his strength, even as human beings often do, and while he
spread his wings most boldly, he lost his balance and fell ignominiously to
the ground. That would not of itself have been so bad, for, like children
learning to walk, baby pigeons must have many a disaster before the art of
flying is completely mastered, but, by some strange chance, it happened
that a lean tortoise-shell kitten was prowling about one of the side
streets and at that moment poked her head into St. Mark's Square. Now, in
Venice, there are very few cats--in fact, because of the esteem in which