"Go a little nearer," we urged. "She means no harm."
The bride bent down, though somewhat cautiously. If she had not been quite so cautious, all might have been well, but alas, she didn't bend quite far enough, and poor Polly in an escstasy of desire to reach her latest love, stretched too far, and feeling her balance giving way, opened her massive beak, seizing the nearest object that presented itself by way of support. This object, sad to relate, was the bride's nose and from it the next instant Polly was hanging with her full weight while her unwilling host made frantic efforts at dislodgment.
Finding the position untenable, Polly let go, flopping heavily with many agitated gurgles, to the ceiling where she succeeded in gaining a precarious foothold on what our paper-hanger calls the "cornish," whence she emitted loud and unprintable remarks.
The bride's remarks are not printable either. They came from behind the folds of a hastily-applied handkerchief, and were muffled. It was probably better so, for while I feel sure they were not really profane at all, it is doubtful if they were of a nature calculated to
