"
"Shot for a pot-pie!" repeated Andrea, hot with indignation, while Maria
whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" at the same time gently touching the
bird's head, who responded with a mournful "coo."
For a few days the bird drooped and was quite an invalid: it was more than
a week before he ventured beyond the friendly precincts of St. Mark's
Square.
But he had learned a lesson which, later on, stood him in good stead, for
ever after he took care to fly far above the reach of cruel gunners.
Several weeks after this incident, Paolo himself took the pigeon to
Chioggia, some fifteen miles from Venice. However famous this little
Italian town may be because of the battle that was fought there in the long
ago, between the Venetians and the Genoese, it is now known chiefly as a
fishing village and a picturesque spot where artists love to congregate.
On leaving the steamer the old man, not wishing to attract attention,
avoided the broad street, with its arcades and cafes, instead picking his
way along the canal, packed with fishing craft of every description, until
he to a superb white bridge, the pride of the little town.
There he paused, and thinking himself quite away from inquisitive
spectators, loosed the bird and stood a few moments watching him speeding
his way above the beautiful white arch towards home.
How strong were the graceful wings, and how steady the flight!
It was a warm day in early spring; he threw himself on the bank of the
canal grass thinking how pleasant it was on the water's edge.
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