CHAPTER III
MARIA'S BIRTHDAY
Andrea was so possessed with his idea that he ran every step of the way home that afternoon, climbed up the narrow dark stairs, two steps at a time, and burst upon his mother in such excitement that she feared some misfortune had befallen the children.
"What is it?" she cried, looking up from the stiff porridge she was mixing, "are you hurt?—and Maria—where is she?"
"Nothing has happened," was the breathless answer; "that is, nothing dreadful, and Maria is behind with Paolo. It is only—" his dark cheeks flushed. "It is only that he has promised me a pigeon of my own!"
"Is that all?" Greatly relieved, his mother turned again to the polenta. [Footnote: Cake, or thick porridge made of maize.] What a child he was, to be sure, to be so pleased at the idea of the possession of a pigeon!
"But, madre," he protested, "I am going to train it to carry messages.
There's no knowing what my pigeon will do!"
"Si! Si!" She replied absently as she turned to see if the charcoal was right for the baking.
It was a mean little house, at least so it would seem to most American children—just three rooms overlooking one of the side canals, and over a fish shop. It was built of brick (no one knew, how long ago), and was wedged in between others, of exactly the same type.
But it was home, and whatever else it lacked, it had a front window, with shutters, and a balcony with an iron railing, and when tucked up in their beds at night, in the tiny dark alcove, the children could hear the soft swish of the water against the embankment.