"You're it, Bride!" said the Hired Man, handing her a slip with "Bride" written upon it.
"I'm what?" asked the Bride.
"They've sawed the story off on you," returned the Hired Man. "I hope you'll give a better one than that there Poet told. I couldn't make head nor tail to that."
"It was rotten," said the Poet, looking at the Bride, "wasn't it?"
"I'm still living in a glass house," said the Bride. "Don't you know there's only one story a bride can tell?"
"Tell it, tell it!" was the cry—from all but the Poet and the Groom.
"I think I'll retire," said the Groom.
"Off with you into the shadows," said the Poet. "I'll contribute my last cigar—and we'll smoke the calumet on the other side of the tree where we can hear unseen."
About them the earth boiled and quivered and spouted. Little wisps of steam floated through the treetops. There were rushings and spoutings in the air—for they were in the Norris Geyser Basin. And here the Bride, sitting in the circle of men, her feet curled under her on a cushion of the surrey laid on the geyser-heated ground, fixed her eyes on the climbing moon and told her story.