that's a fact. Her complexion was made of white and red
roses, mixed so beautiful, you couldn't tell where the
white eended, or the red begun, natur' had used the
blendin' brush so delicate. Her eyes were screw augurs,
I tell _you_; they bored right into your heart, and kinder
agitated you, and made your breath come and go, and your
pulse flutter. I never felt nothin' like 'em. When lit
up, they sparkled like lamp reflectors; and at other
tunes, they was as soft, and mild, and clear as dew-drops
that hang on the bushes at sun-rise. When she loved,
she loved; and when she hated, she hated about the
wickedest you ever see. Her lips were like heart cherries
of the carnation kind; so plump, and fall, and hard, you
felt as if you could fall to and eat 'em right up. Her
voice was like a grand piany, all sorts o' power in it;
canary-birds' notes at one eend, and thunder at t'other,
accordin' to the humour she was in, for she was a'most
a grand bit of stuff was Happy, she'd put an edge on a
knife a'most. She was a rael steel. Her figur' was as
light as a fairy's, and her waist was so taper and tiny,
it seemed jist made for puttin' an arm round in walkin'.
She was as ac_tive_ and springy on her feet as a catamount,
and near about as touch me-not a sort of customer too.
She actilly did seem as if she was made out of steel
springs and chicken-hawk. If old Cran, was to slip off
the handle, I think I should make up to her, for she is
'a salt,' that's a fact, a most a heavenly splice.

"Well, the Honourable Cranbery Lot put in for her, won
her, and married her. A good speculation it turned out