United States or Ghana ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Murphy was sixty himself the age that appreciates, and secretly envies, the virility of youth. Carson was complimenting Trevison on his descent of the wall of the cut. "You're a daisy rider, me bhoy!" "Nigger's a clever horse," smiled Trevison. Murphy was pleased that he was giving the animal the credit. "Nigger's well trained. He's wiser than some men. Tricky, too."
Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patched with pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs and feet this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be Venters. "Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So so so.
It seemed as if Death itself were charging the gun. Within a few feet of it the horse swerved before a brandished rammer, and striking the cheeks of the gun-carriage pitched his inanimate rider across the gun. The hot blood of the dead man smoked on the hotter brass with the reek of the shambles, and be-spattered the hand of the gunner who still mechanically served the vent.
This time his career was short, for horse and rider came down on the Mazingarbe cobbled high road, and the Adjutant had to go to Chocques hospital with a broken head, and was away for a week. During his absence we lost Colonel Trimble, who, much against his will, was ordered to take command of his own Battalion, the 1st East Yorkshires.
Oh! for the black mirror in which I used to peer at her command, and tell her what passed in array before me. How well do I remember that time the time of my father's absence, when I looked into the liquid on the palm of my hand, and told her of the Bedouin camp of the skirmish the horse without a rider and the turban on the sand!" And again Amine fell into deep thought.
The younger and more excitable especially, spurred by the fine weather and the novel spectacle, pressed eagerly to the front, mixed with mothers of scrofulous children, desirous of gaining for them the healing virtue of the royal touch. The king's horse, short of work, and participating in the general excitement, reared and curvetted in the crowd, but was reined in by his skillful rider.
His hand held a fold of her dress against the cantle of the saddle. She could not have fallen on the far side, and he was on this.... A sudden plunge of a mount would unseat any rider, staring straight up.... Yes, he was there!... How different the world looked with him there. She had ridden alone so long. She dared to look at him again. His eyes were fastened ahead.
Then it quite shut out all else. It was deep night, starry night. The black horse and his rider wound up a deep ravine. To one side a bold mountain tumbled up to an infinite height, bristling with misshapen trees here and there, and losing its head against the very stars. On the other side were jagged hills, all carved in the solid rock.
When at home he was the typical country gentleman, a good judge of a horse and in his "pink" a straight rider to hounds.
But Froude set himself to the praise of the Tudors, a much lower class of people; ill-conditioned prosperous people who merely waxed fat and kicked. Such strength as Henry VIII had was the strength of a badly trained horse that bolts, not of any clear or courageous rider who controls him.
Word Of The Day