I _do_ think that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever set my eyes on: if I say so _now_, you may be sure it's true. His skin is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as wool--you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so with those great teeth of his! You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name as _Race_. His mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country, it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to Race, to make it handy. I suppose _I_ oughtn't to say much about names, however, for _Dimpey_ don't amount to much; but that isn't _my_ fault; I was christened with a right pretty name--Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy--she's the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother died--well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter--that is, not Dimpey _Swift_ exactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller. I was so vexed with Polly Jane for even hinting that he was a match for _me_, that I jerked out the weeds with all my might, and I do believe our Persian pink border never was so clean before or since; when I came in, there wasn't a weed left in it, big or little!