He was a good father, never failing in loving attention to his family, and bringing the choicest tidbits to Pepita.
He hovered anxiously about while she fed the greedy fledglings with the soft pulpy mass she prepared so carefully, and was always ready to look after the "bambini," as Maria insisted on calling the baby birds.
Altogether, Chico was so taken up with his new cares that his training was badly interrupted, and Andrea, especially, became greatly worried lest he should forget all he had learned.
"He'll be all out of practice," he mourned, "and the next time we try him he'll forget and lose his way home."
But Paolo was reassuring. "Never you fear," he replied; "I have heard that the most important messages are entrusted to birds that have young in the nest. That is when the love of home is strongest."
And so it proved: when Chico was once more tried, he surprised them by the swiftness of his flight. In fact, in some instances he actually made more than thirty miles an hour.
The spring advanced: there were other eggs in the nest, and other broods to be cared for, and always Chico remained the faithful husband and father—tender to his fledgling offspring—loving and true to his little wife.
And, whenever household cares permitted, the two could be seen on the window ledge, billing and cooing:
"Coo-oo, coo-oo-oo, Ruk-at-a-coo."