"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.
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