As they neared the east end of the Piazza, they had to step carefully, lest they tread on the hundreds of pigeons which crowded their feet, eager for corn.
Floyd bought the corn from the vendors near by, and handed a parcel to Patty.
“Now I see why they call these cornucopias,” she said, taking the paper horn that held the yellow kernels. “I suppose this shaped twist of paper was first used to hold corn for St. Mark’s pigeons.”
“Of course it was. Somebody had a corner in corn, and so he had to invent cornucopias to hold it all.”
“What nonsense you do talk,” said Patty, giggling at his foolishness. “There, that’s the pigeon who has been watching and waiting for us.”
She pointed to a very large, fat bird, who stood with a pompous air, a little aloof from the rest. His neck and breast shone in the sunlight, and the iridescent gleams shimmered with every graceful movement.
“He’s proud,” said Patty, “and won’t deign to coax for corn, like the others.”
“He’s stuffed, you mean! I don’t believe he could eat another grain unless it was pushed down his throat for him. The last three letters of his name should be pronounced silent.”
“P-i-g. Oh! he isn’t any such thing! He’s simply more polite than the rest. Watch him eat.”
Patty threw some corn to him, and the pigeon ate it with a quiet dignity, but they soon realised that any more might give him a fit of apoplexy, so they fed it all to the others.