was being built to replace the old one that had fallen in 1902, and to little Maria and Andrea, there was a fascination in watching the workmen lift the great stones into place from the confused debris at its base.If the Piazza was wonderful, so, too, was the piazzetta with the Ducal Palace with the golden staircase and the two columns, the one surmounted by the winged lion of St. Mark, the other by St. Theodore, standing on a crocodile.
Sometimes, after having wandered to the edge of the Grand Canal and looked away to the blue dome of the church of Maria della Salute, they would run back to the Square and, hand in hand, go window-wishing among the shops that line its sides. No one who has never seen these shops of Venice can form any conception of how fascinating they are with their strands of glittering beads or yards upon yards of marvelous laces.
Often Andrea would exclaim, as they flattened their noses against the glass, "When I am a man, I will work in the glass factory as my father does, and, perhaps, who knows, I shall discover some new glaze which shall make all the world amazed?" He had never forgotten the day when his father had taken him to the factory and shown him the molten glaze and the workmen blowing the glass into marvelous shapes. That day he had decided upon his future career.
But little Maria cared more for the laces, and would shyly point to some especially beautiful piece and say softly: "Perhaps, it was the madre who made that."
Once she followed an American woman into the shop and stood by her side watching her bargain for an exquisite collar. So intently she looked that the woman turned and met her gaze, remarking to her companion:
"Even the children have it in them--I mean the love for beautiful things; and did you see her fingers?--any one could tell they were
meant for lace-making."
Sometimes the children lingered so long in this way that the bronze figures would strike twelve, and they would have to hurry back
so as not to keep old Paolo waiting for his noonday lunch.
Then, in some little recess around the corner of the church, with countless pigeons waiting for the crumbs, they would sit with
him, sharing his frugal meal. When they had finished, he would sometimes take them for a ride in his shabby gondola on the Grand
Canal, and on the way they would beg to stop for just a moment at the famous well with two porphyry lions. Andrea was tall enough
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to clamber by himself after the manner of young Venetians, and nothing would do but Paolo must lift Maria, so she, too, would proudly straddle one of the fierce figures. There they would sit while the old caretaker would count the pigeons bathing and splash-ing in the water.
But, better than anything else, the children liked to snuggle close to their companion while he told them wonderful stories until it was time for him to go back to work.
While they watched with fascinated eyes, he would trace a diagram in the pavement to show how the Grand Canal, in its wanderings, exactly describes the letter "S." His eyes would glow as he told of the grandeur of Venice in the time of the Doges, or cause the children to shudder at gruesome accounts of how, in the olden time, the prisoners were thrown from the Bridge of Sighs, into the water below.
Perchance, he would tell of the wedding of the Adriatic and call Venice the Bride of the Sea, or give a vivid account of how the body of St. Mark was brought there in the long ago.
In fact, his tales were so realistic, that it almost seemed as if he must have been an eyewitness of every incident he narrated. 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, count-
less 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.
"Si," [Footnote: Yes.] he answered passionately, "I wish--oh, how I wish that I might have one for my very own!"--and he held the captive pigeon close against his cheek. "Do you understand?"
Paolo's answer came slowly. He had not forgotten an incident in his own boyhood when he had made a pet of a certain fledgling. It had been injured in some way and would have died had it not been for the careful nursing his rescuer bestowed. His eyes grew misty and, somewhat angrily, he hastily drew his coarse sleeve over them that the children might not perceive his weakness. It had been foolish enough to have grieved, as a child, because a pet pigeon had been shot by some heartless fellow for a pot-pie, but, after a lapse of over sixty years--He cleared his throat, then patted Andrea's dark hair.
"There is no reason why you should not have your wish. Patience! and the next fledgling that falls from the nest shall be yours."
"Grazie!" the boy cried joyfully; "mil grazie!" [Footnote: Thanks! A thousand thanks!] And in a paroxysm of delight, he seized one of his good friend's hands.
Laughing, Paolo turned to Maria who had sat quietly all the while, fondling the feathered creatures in her lap. "How about you, little one? Would you, too, like a pigeon of your own?"
"No," she answered shyly, "I love them all too much." And the soft coo, coo-oo-oo from the lapful of birds seemed appreciative of her words.
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"Very well, my dear, it shall be as you wish, and now that I have it all straight in my old head, what pleases each of you best, what say you, shall I begin the story?"
"Si! Si!" they cried in unison, settling back against the wall, anxious not to lose a single syllable.
"It was in the time of the Doge, Enrico Dandolo," he began, bending a questioning look at his eager listeners; "of course, you know that in the long ago, Venice was ruled by men who bore the title of Doge?"
The children nodded assent, and he went on, impressively:
"Dandolo was a great man. He was eighty years old at the time he came into the office, and blind, as well, but he was not too old to
undertake mighty enterprises."
"When was it he lived?" asked Andrea meditatively.
"Oh, many, many years ago--I am inclined to think it must have been at least five or six hundred."
