EVVIVA VENEZIA! EVVIVA ITALIA! [Footnote: Long live Venice! Long live
Italy!]

Still nearer drew the hated Austrians: the roar of cannon could be heard distinctly now, an air raid was no longer a novelty, and many a home and public building showed ravages wrought by bursting bombs.

The hospitals were crowded with maimed, among whom was Pietro who had been gassed and wounded at the front, and was now slowly convalescing in Venice.

The Piazza echoed the tread of marching feet, by day and by night, and the battle hymn heard on every side:

"To arms!
Haste! Haste! ye martial youth!
On every wind our banners fly,
Rise all with arms, all with fire!"

The world thrilled with tales of bravery, the exploits of Italian soldiers and aviators were quoted far and wide. But with all their heroism they could not stay the Austrian advance.

With the coming of 1918 deepest gloom settled over Italy as the people girded themselves for what seemed a struggle for very existence: not the slightest suggestion of luxury was permitted, even the making and selling of cakes, pastry, and confectionery being sternly prohibited by government edict.

The Minetti family had fared as had the others, neither better nor worse, and though one corner of the wall of the modest home had been torn away in an explosion, the statue of the Virgin remained as if to protect from further harm. No news had come from Giovanni since his return to the front, over six months before, and Luisa, dry-eyed but worn and racked with anxiety, worked far into the night on bandages for the wounded. Maria, in common with others of her age, had lost the fresh prettiness that, by right, belongs to youth, and her form was bent by work and her face furrowed by lines of apprehension.

Of Chico nothing had been heard since the morning, months before, when his master had left him in the office of the War Department. One's heart ached for the faithful little mate, as she brooded forlornly on the window ledge, refusing to pay the slightest heed to any bold fellow who dared make overtures to her.

His bird was much in Andrea's thoughts as he paced back and forth each night upon his beat and, gazing into the sky in his lookout for aeroplanes, he would strain his eyes for a speck that might resolve itself into Chico's wings.

Possibly, he reasoned, the bird had not yet been made use of. Perhaps—and at the thought, his heart would almost fail him—perhaps, it might even be that he had been entrusted with some message, but had failed to reach his destination.

To the boy's other duties had been added that of watching the nest. He had scorned the suggestion that an electric bell be placed there to attract attention.

"As if I should not hear the slightest flutter of my Chico's wings!" he protested. But, to make sure, he even slept in the little room back of the church and arranged that hither should his meals be brought.

Poor lad! He, too, showed the strain of the Great War, and looked tense and worn. He was not the same Andrea who had dreamed of inventing some wonderful new glaze: now his ambition was to be an aviator in the service of the Government and, like the bird he loved, fly through the blue heavens.

One evening (it happened to be a cloudless one, with the moon scheduled to rise about one o'clock) he felt more than usually restless and on fire with this desire.

It was on such nights as this that the danger from air raids was especially imminent, and the boy's senses were at tight tension.

As the moon rose, Venice stood revealed an enchanted city, a place of beauty, touched as of old with a magic wand. Hark—already the clock was striking the hour of two! Andrea's eyes wandered from one familiar object to another the Ducal Palace, the new Campanile, the column of St. Theodore, and, beyond, the dome of Sta. Maria della Salute. He held his breath, it was so wonderful. And to think—to-night, to-morrow, all might be in ruins. Surely the great God would never permit it!

Only a short time before, on June 15, the enemy had launched a new offensive the Piave River, from the Asiago Plateau to the Adriatic Sea, and though a few days later the news had reached Venice that their own brave men had taken the offensive, nothing had since been heard. Would it be as it had been before, a few spasmodic successes and then—loss and defeat?

Suddenly (was he dreaming?) there was a whirr of wings; he rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. Swiftly there shot across his vision something that in the soft moonbeams seemed an arrow of silver—a flash of light! He was dazed; could it be—Chico? At full speed he ran to the nest, and there, close by the side of cooing Pepita, lay the exhausted bird, while a ray of moonlight closed a stain of blood across his breast.

Quick as a flash the boy reached in his hand, unfastened the little aluminum pouch, and, without waiting to find out whether the pigeon was alive or dead, fairly flew to the War Department where a light was burning, as he knew it would be. In these days of strain the high official scarcely closed his eyes and on this night he was tracing over and over again the plan of the new offensive.

Andrea rapped on the window—he could not wait to knock and be admitted, neither did he dare to leave his watch for even a fraction of a second.

"Who is it?"—the window was cautiously opened.

"It is I, Andrea Minetti, number 7788 has just come in with a message from the front." With that he thrust the metal cylinder into the officer's hand. He tore it open and for one tense moment scanned the bit of tissue paper, then, with tears of joy, he read aloud: "'Austrian offensive declared a failure—Italians make sweeping victories along the Piave: Evviva Venezia! Evviva Italia!'" Then added exultantly, "Buone notizie! good news, good news!" and the tears coursed freely down his furrowed cheek, Andrea, beside himself with joy, threw his cap Into the air, echoing; "Viva Venezia! Evviva Italia! It was my Chico brought the message!"

At mention of the pigeon the officer turned quickly, asking:

"Your bird—tell me, is he alive and in good condition?"

"I know not, signore, there was a stain of blood upon his breast, but I stopped not to find the cause."

"Then go, go quickly. I will have some one relieve you of your watch the rest of the night. See that everything is done. Venice wakes from her nightmare, and the faithful messenger that brought the joyful tidings must not be neglected!"

Andrea saluted and started away, but had gone only a few steps when the officer recalled him:

"Hold—you say there was a stain of blood! The Red Cross surgeon is not too great a personage to save the bird. If you will take him to the hospital, I myself will telephone the story!"

With a look of gratitude in his dark eyes, and a "Grazie, signore," Andrea was off as quickly as he had come, and fifteen minutes later was in the Red Cross rooms holding out the suffering Chico to the great surgeon, who, in less time than it takes to say it, had located the trouble, extracted the tiny bit of lead that had come so perilously near piercing the brave heart, bound up the wound, and handed the quivering bird back to his master:

"There, I have done my best. A short time and he will be all right, although his left wing will be crippled and his flights from now on can only be short." As he spoke, he laid his hand on Andrea's shoulder: "My boy, there is no greater hero in the wards of this hospital than this faithful homing pigeon!"

Tears blurred Andrea's sight as he hugged Chico close and with reiterated expressions of gratitude made his way down the hospital steps. The heart within his soldier's coat was pulsating with joy at the spontaneous words of praise and the assurance that Chico would not die. Anything else mattered little.

Gently he laid the wounded pigeon in his nest, just as Maria came with his breakfast.

She was dazed, and at first did not understand what had happened; then a light broke over her face and, reaching up, she smoothed the ruffled feathers whispered, "Poor Chico! Poor Chico!" until a quiver of the eyelids and the most pathetic of faint "coos" gave evidence that the sufferer appreciated her sympathy.

In the meantime the word had spread, and cries of "Evviva Venezia! Evviva Italia!" rent the air. People, mad with joy, marched up and down the narrow streets unfurling flags shouting:

"Buone notizie! Buone notizie! Good news! Good news!"

The piazza became an animated place as groups of men, women, children gathered, embracing one another, and longing to hear further details.

In the hospitals there was great excitement: it was difficult to restrain the joyful demonstrations. When Luisa whispered the news in Pietro's ear, he leaped out of bed in spite of his wounds, crying:

"The grande bird! I always said he would be game! Oh, but he's a sport!"

As for Chico, if he could have spoken he would have told a harrowing tale. Thrown into the air with dozens of others, when all other means of communication were interrupted, at first even his stout heart was appalled. One by one the others fluttered to the ground, afraid to attempt the flight, and of the four who persisted, three fell, torn to pieces by bullets. But Chico struggled on, on, in spite of shot and shell—on, on, in spite of the fact that he was wounded, and the loss of blood made him weak, while the crippled wing retarded the swiftness of his flight. Still he carried on—his stout heart never wavering, until, in the distance, his keen eyes detected the tall shape of the new Campanile. Then, on and on, in spite of the great aeroplanes constantly threatening destruction.

At last the domes of the churches came in sight, and the salt smell of the Adriatic acted as a tonic to the weary bird. He was nearing home and Venice. Another moment and he was safe—safe with Pepita excitedly fluttering over him.

In the rejoicing Chico was called for again and again, but for the first time since Paolo had clumsily put together the rude nest for the forlorn little pigeon he found upon the pavement, the window was closed that the sufferer might not be disturbed.