Mr. Cyril Keith was the officiating minister. It was a pretty ceremony, but short, and then the congratulations and good wishes began. Those over, the guests were invited to seat themselves about a number of tables scattered here and there under the trees and loaded with tempting viands. The minister craved a blessing upon the food and the feast began. An effort had been made to some extent so to seat the guests that relatives and friends would be near each other. The entire bridal party was at one table, the other young people of the connection were pretty close at hand--the older ones and their children not much farther off. Everybody had been helped and cheery chat, mingled with some mirth, was going on, when suddenly a shrill voice, that seemed to come from the branches overhead, cried out, "What you 'bout, all you folks? Polly wants some breakfast." Everybody started and looked up into the tree from which the sounds had seemed to come; but no parrot was visible there. "Why, where is the bird?" asked several voices in tones of surprise. But hardly had the question been asked when another parrot seemed to speak from a table near that at which the bridal party sat. "Polly's hungry. Poor old Polly--poor old soul!" "Is that so, Polly? Then just help yourself," said Dr. Percival. "Polly wants her coffee. Poor old Polly, poor old soul!" came in reply, sounding as if the bird had gone farther down the table. Then a whistle was heard that seemed to come from some distance among the trees, and hardly had it ceased when there was a loud call, "Come on, my merry men, and let us get our share of this grand wedding feast." "Tramps about! and bold ones they must be!" exclaimed one of the neighborhood guests. "Really I hope they are not going to make any trouble!" cried another. "I fear we have no weapons of defence among us; and if we had I for one would be loath to turn a wedding feast into a fight." "Hark! hark!" cried another as the notes of a bugle came floating on the breeze, the next minute accompanied by what seemed to be the sound of a drum and fife playing a national air, "what, what can it mean? I have heard of no troops in this neighborhood. But that's martial music, and now," as another sound met the ear, "don't you hear the tramp, tramp?" "Yes, yes, it certainly must be troops. But who or what can have called them out?" asked a third guest, starting to his feet as if contemplating rushing away to try to catch a glimpse of the approaching soldiers. "Oh, sit down and let us go on with our breakfast," expostulated still another. "Of course they are American troops on some trifling errand in the neighborhood and not going to interfere with us. There! the music has stopped and I don't hear their tramp either. Dr. Percival," turning in his host's direction and raising his voice, "can you account for that martial music playing a moment since?"