Soon it was time for the children to go to school in the old building
situated some distance from St. Mark's, not far from the Rialto.

There was now only time in the morning for a brief visit with Chico before
lessons began, and a hurried half-hour with him at luncheon. Hence the
moments after four o'clock and the full holiday on Saturday were most
precious, and on those occasions no one was happier than Chico, flying from
one to another, and usually ending by perching coquettishly on Andrea's
shoulder.

"There isn't a pigeon in Venice to compare with him," remarked Andrea,
lovingly touching the daintily arched bill, and looking into the clear
eyes. "Tell me, Paolo, did you ever see so fine a bird?"

In answer the old man thoughtfully stretched out the well-shaped wings,
saying, as the colors shone iridescent green and blue in the sunshine:
"They're as beautiful as any wings I ever saw, and better than that,
they're strong. Wings like that can carry a pigeon any distance. Yes," he
continued, more to himself than to the children, "if he's to be a homer, it
seems to me it's full time to begin his training."

Andrea started in an ecstasy of delight.

"Do you mean it, Paolo? Do you really mean it?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, and if you have no objections, we'll give him the
first lesson next Saturday morning."

As if surmising that he was the subject of discussion, Chico flew back to