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He even secured the spun-gold glint of hair tightly coifed under a bathing cap a species of head-dress which had puzzled him at the first glance and there was more than a suggestion of a veritable portrait of the regular, lively and delicately beautiful features which belonged to a type differing in every essential from the cold, classic loveliness of the statue, yet vastly more appealing in its sheer femininity.
Away over the vast expanse of bronze greasewood, far-flung buttes caught the early rays of the sun and took on something of the likeness of a solar spectrum, purple at their bases, the colors ranging upward through blues and greens and yellows to a spun-gold glitter at their summits. Jack rabbits loped away through the brush.
The first glimpse was one of untold spun-gold glory. There it stood. "There it is! There it is! Look!" a fellow traveler cried. "There is what?" I called. We were on top of a great American College building in Tokyo. "It's Fuji!" I had given up hope. We had been there two weeks and Fujiyama was not to be seen.
Her spun-gold hair was marveled at, but her eyes surely they were lent by a god for the event! They were bluer than the water of Himalayan lakes; bluer than turquoise, sapphire, the sky, or any other blue thing you can think of laughing blue, loving, understanding, likable, amusing blue two jewels that outshone all the other jewels in the durbar hall that day.
There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them.
One plump pink hand lay outside the cover; the other little crumpled rose-leaf was tucked under the cheek, the face half-hidden in a tangle of glossy curls, now spun-gold in the light of the shaded lamp. "Poor little waif," she sighed, "poor little motherless, fatherless waif! Why didn't you stay in heaven? This world has no place for you."
Then came the tapestries, the silver-embroidered veils, the tunics of spun-gold flowers, the golden sandals, the chairs with lion claws, the couches with metal clamps, mirrors, lamps, bottles of perfume, rich inlaid marble tables, all the splendors of Sónnica the rich.
There was long, spun-gold hair to be combed out penciling to do to eye-brows lac to be applied to pretty feet to make them exquisitely pretty and layer on layer of gossamer silk to be smothered and hung exactly right. Then over it all had to go one of those bright-hued silken veils that look so casually worn but whose proper adjustment is an art.
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