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I wonder how my horse’s knees are; not much hurt, I think—only mired.’ The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, ‘Good night, friend; where are you?’ ‘Here I am,’ said I, ‘just behind you.’ ‘You are, are you?
So Lopaka went down the mountain; and Keawe stood in his front balcony, and listened to the clink of the horse’s shoes, and watched the lantern go shining down the path, and along the cliff of caves where the old dead are buried; and all the time he trembled and clasped his hands, and prayed for his friend, and gave glory to God that he himself was escaped out of that trouble.
This is of consequence for the horse’s breathing in galloping, since his ribs must expand every time he inhales, or draws breath. I think that one holder on each side of a man’s saddle should be placed as far forward, and one on each side as far backward, as possible without showing beyond the outside stirrup flap.
"You’d better not be foolish," she said warningly. "It don’t mix well with college." "I’m thinking of cutting college," he declared boldly. "Don’t let us decide on anything definite until we’ve known one another twenty-four hours," she said, looking at him with a gravity that was almost maternal; and then she turned the horse’s head toward home.
In galloping, the horse’s legs catch the eye most when they are from under him, and he is drawn with all four from under him. In truth, his hind legs are under him when his fore legs are from under him, and his fore legs are under him when his hind legs are from under him; his hind feet pass over where his fore feet rested, so that from footprint to footprint he clears very little space.
As he was mounting them, she was descending; wrapped in her long cloak, her pretty head covered by the dark hood. “Oh, are you going?” he asked. She heard the note of entreaty in his voice. “Yes,” she answered, “I shouldn’t have left her before you came; but I knew you were here; I heard your horse’s tread a moment ago. She’s asleep. Good night.
At the Stewart Gallery the attendant was accustomed to offer the visitor a magnifying glass with which to examine the lustre of a horse’s eye or the buckles upon Napoleon’s saddle, in the “Review of Cuirassiers at the Battle of Friedland” by Meissonier.
“Come on,” he whispered secretly. Limping, he led the cab away. There was an air of austerity in this departure, the scrunched gravel of the drive crying out under the slowly turning wheels, the horse’s lean thighs moving with ascetic deliberation away from the light into the obscurity of the open space bordered dimly by the pointed roofs and the feebly shining windows of the little alms-houses.
If you have not sufficient tact to feel which of your horse’s feet is on the ground, you must allow him to choose his own time for crossing, which will be when the left foot is on the ground. You should habitually choose your horse’s ground for him, for, notwithstanding his often vaunted sagacity and safety, the wisest among horses will, to avoid a moving leaf, put his foot over a precipice.
Earl Ralph, the Frenchman, turned his horse’s head and fled the field, and the English, encumbered with their long spears and swords, followed helter skelter. After killing some five hundred, Ælfgar and Gruffydd turned to Hereford and came upon the church which Bishop Athelstan had caused to be built.
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