Chico, the story of a homing pigeon

by Lucy Mansfield Blanchard Blanchard

Suddenly he was grasped by a strong hand and hastily thrust into a padded dark box.

Poor Chico! His heart fluttered so that he couldn't think. Not but what he was used to being handled, and perhaps his prison was a new kind of basket, but even so he rebelled. There were no friendly cracks through which he could catch an occasional glint of light, but only a few airholes clustered at the top. Then, too, his quarters were so cramped that even the slightest flutter was well-nigh impossible; and, after a few struggles, utterly discouraged, and fearing the worst, he gave up and crouched down, entirely at a loss as to what had happened.

The Austrian, angered at having been thwarted in every attempt he had made to purchase the pigeon, had been watching the bird's habits ever since he had followed the old caretaker, and had deliberately planned to capture him in this way. His prize now secured, he made his way straight for a gondola and gave orders to be rowed with the greatest possible speed to his lodgings, and, on arriving, carried to his room the innocent-appearing black box which resembled nothing so much as a folding kodak.

How satisfied he felt with himself, and how he gloated over the way in which he had outwitted the old man! For a moment he held the box to his ear, as if anxious to assure himself that the bird was still there. Not a sound came from the trembling inmate. Had anything happened? Cautiously unfastening the catch, he reached in his hand and touched the soft head. There was a slight quiver.

Catching hold of the trembling body, he lifted out the bird and feasted his eyes upon him. What a beauty he was! Not so large, to be sure, as some that flit about Venice, but so perfectly marked, and with so broad a breast, and such sweep of wings! He would profit richly by his morning's work. If only he could get his prize safely out of Venice. There was no time to lose. He might be tracked by that old fool of a caretaker, and in that case he would have had his pains for nothing. And if by chance the matter should be brought to the attention of the authorities, he might be arrested and jailed; the Venetians make such a fuss over their precious pigeons.

A knock at the door made him start guiltily and thrust the pigeon roughly back into the box. After all, it was only a messenger with a telegram recalling him immediately to Vienna, which, he reflected, fitted nicely into his plans. He would start the next morning, he concluded, as he carefully concealed the black box under the bed, and took more than usual pains in locking the door when he went out for dinner and to complete his arrangements in regard to leaving.

Chico heard the door close and knew he was alone. What did it all mean? He had never before suffered such indignities! To be placed by loving friends in his dear familiar basket, while he was being taken to some point from which he might make a glorious flight—he had long since become reconciled to that experience; but to be seized by a stranger's hands and ignominiously shoved into a black prison and hidden in a strange room—that was an insult his free spirit could not brook. For a while he felt too utterly despondent to make a movement, but after a little, very cautiously, he began again to feel carefully with his beak around the box in search of some crack. There was not one to be found. Next he tried with all his power to enlarge the tiny airholes. It was impossible, and he gave himself up to blackest despair.

When his captor returned he opened the box, took out the bird, at the same time placing some kernels of corn and a saucer of water before him. Chico had no appetite for food, but parched with thirst drank feverishly.

"Eat! can't you?" The man spoke roughly. What on earth was the matter with the pigeon to be so obstinate? "Hang it, if he won't eat," he exclaimed aloud, "he'll starve to death before I can get him to the War Department."

With that he fairly forced the spiritless head into the pile of kernels on the floor, but without avail; the bird, heart-broken, refused to open his beak. His tail feathers drooped more mournfully than ever, and his captor, thoroughly out of patience, angrily thrust him back into his prison. So the rest of the day and night passed.