rmanent quality in the color of the lagoons,
where the lights are always shifting, is the dove-tone of sea and sky;
a tone which holds all colors in solution, and out of which they emerge
as the water-ripples or the cloud-flakes pass--just as the colors are
shot and varied on a young dove's neck.

There is some doubts as to the origin of these flocks of pigeons which
shelter in Saint Mark's. According to one story, Henry Dandolo, the
Crusader, was besieging Candia; he received valuable information from
the interior of the island by means of carrier-pigeons, and, later on,
sent news of his successes home to Venice by the same messengers. In
recognition of these services the government resolved to maintain the
carriers at the public cost; and the flocks of to-day are the
descendants of the fourteenth-century pigeons. The more probable
tradition, however, is that which connects these pigeons with the
antique ceremonies of Palm Sunday.

On that festival the Doge made the tour of the piazza, accompanied by
all the officers of State, the Patriarch, the foreign ambassadors, the
silver trumpets, all the pomp of the ducal dignity. Among other largess
of that day, a number of pigeons, weighted by pieces of paper tied to
their legs, used to be let loose from the gallery where the bronze
horses stand, above the western door of the church. Most of the birds
were easily caught by the crowd, and kept for their Easter dinner; but
some escaped, and took refuge in the upper parts of the palace and among
the domes of Saint Mark's. The superstition of the people was easily
touched, and the birds that had sought the protection of the saint were
thenceforth dedicated to the patron of Venice. The charge of supporting
them was committed to the superintendents of the corn stores, and the
usual hour for feeding the pigeons was nine o'clock in the morning.
During the revolution of 1797, the birds fared as badly as the
aristocracy, and were left to take care of themselves; but when matters
settled down again the feeding of the pigeons was resumed by the
municipality, and takes place at two in the afternoon, tho the incessant
largess of strangers can leave the birds but little appetite for their
regular meal.

In spite of the multitudes of pigeons that haunt the squares of the
city, a dead pigeon is as rare to see as a dead donkey on the mainland.
It is a pious opinion that no Venetian ever kills a pigeon, and
apparently they never die; but the