For fully half an hour Andrea crouched in his seat, altogether dejected,
watching the sky illuminated from time to time by flashes of lightning. A
man in the seat across the aisle leaned over to inquire the meaning of the
blue rosette he wore on his breast, but Andrea shook his head and with
blurred eyes looked out at the storm already breaking. Soon the thunder
could be heard above the noise of the train, and hailstones as large as
marbles rattled against the windows.
Somewhere in all that darkness Chico was flying! The boy's heart grew more
and more heavy and was filled with bitterness against his uncle who had
been so insistent. Of what use were empty honors if his bird was lost
forever?
In the meantime Chico was having his difficulties. For the first time he
was too far from Venice to catch even a glimpse of her domes or the new
Campanile. He was puzzled.
But somewhere was Venice, _somewhere_ his nest--with Pepita and the
fledglings. The thunder rumbled, the lightning flashed, the rain fell. Yet
his heart was stout and his courage strong.
Do they call it instinct that so unerringly guides the flight of the homing
pigeon? Was it the sea that called? Did the winds convey a message? I know
not, but, after that single moment of hesitation, the brave bird plunged
into the darkness and made his way to home and loved ones.
At last the long afternoon was over and the slow Italian train pulled into
Venice. Andrea sadly picked up his empty basket.
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