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, countless 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.