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Updated: May 28, 2025
Very modest and demure number seven, the little brown mare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, golden chestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the procession that caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thought came to Allis, sitting in the stand.
She shook her small head saucily, and heavy masses of raven-wing hair tumbled about her, provokingly cloaking the charms so boldly outlined by her single saturated tunic of fine silk. "Who in paradise may you be?" ejaculated Venner, while his friends stared with unconscious rudeness. "I? I am Pascherette!" laughed the small vision, and her black eyes sparkled impudently.
Farewell! the beauteous sun is sinking fast, The moon lifts up her head; Farewell! mute night o'er earth's wide round at last Her darksome raven-wing has spread. Across the wintry plain no echoes float, Save, from the rock's deep womb, The murmuring streamlet, and the screech-owl's note, Arising from the forest's gloom.
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