Barrel Horse Quotes

Shall I compare thee to a barrel of apples? Though art more hairy, but sweeter inside. Rough winds couldn't keep me from taking you to chapel, Where finally a horse could take a bride...

Folk dress in all manner of finery and wonderful hats to go and watch the races, but only if it's horses doing the barreling that day. This, at least, is understandable, for horses, in secret, love hats more than any other creature. It is a horse's tragedy that they can never properly wear one.

My dear fellow " Said Albert, turning to Franz " here is an admirable adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and double-barreled shotguns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him - we bring him back to Rome , and present him to him holiness the Pope, who asks how he can repay so great a service; Then we merely ask for a cariage and a pair of horses, and we will see the Carnival in the carriage , and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the capitol , and proclaim us, like Curtius and the veiled Horatius, the preservers of there country." Whilst Albert proposed this scheme, signor Pastrini's face assumed an expression impossible to describe.

Out of forty-eight boys twenty had never seen the Brooklyn Bridge that was scarcely five minutes’ walk away, three only had been in Central Park, fifteen had known the joy of a ride in a horse-car. The street, with its ash-barrels and its dirt, the river that runs foul with mud, are their domain.

..a lesson to you Ann, is that a man, however much he lives under the illusion, is never in control. A woman holds the whip that slaps the horse's rump, my dear. And here is another lesson for you to chew on. Men are like barrels of wine in Sir Hammersmith's basement. Strong, sturdy and inviting on the outside, whereas on the inside completely empty.

All to the north the rain had dragged black tendrils down from the thunderclouds like tracings of lampblack fallen in a beaker and in the night they could hear the drum of rain miles away on the prairie. They ascended through a rocky pass and lightning shaped out the distant shivering mountains and lightning rang the stones about and tufts of blue fire clung to the horses like incandescent elementals that would not be driven off. Soft smelterlights advanced upon the metal of the harness, lights ran blue and liquid on the barrels of the guns. Mad jack-hares started and checked in the blue glare and high among those clanging crags jokin roehawks crouched in their feathers or cracked a yellow eye at the thunder underfoot.

Mist and the smoke of guns lie breast-high over the fields. The moon is shining. Along the road troops file. Their helmets gleam softly in the moonlight. The heads and the rifles stand out above the white mist, nodding heads, rocking barrels. Farther on the mist ends. Here the heads become figures; coats, trousers, and boots appear out of the mist as from a milky pool. They become a column. The column marches on, straight ahead, the figures resolve themselves into a block, individuals are no longer recognizable, the dark wedge presses onward, fantastically topped by the heads and the weapons floating on the milky pool. A column—not men at all. Guns and munition wagons are moving along a cross-road. The backs of the horses shine in the moonlight, their movements are beautiful, they toss their heads, and their eyes gleam. The guns and the wagons float past the dim background of the moonlit landscape, the riders in their steel helmets resemble knights of a forgotten time; it is strangely beautiful and arresting.

On November 5, to kick off the final, coordinated assault on Baluch, Stu Mansfield, positioned with Atta at the warlord’s mountaintop compound, ordered the drop of a bomb called a BLU-82, which Mansfield called “the Motherfucker of All Bombs.” A few minutes after dawn, barreling toward earth was the largest non-nuclear explosive device in the United States’ arsenal.

He turned the cylinder of the Colt and listened to the small, clear clicks it made. The grip was wood, the barrel cool and blue; the holster had kept a faint smell of saddle soap. He slipped the gun back in its holster, put the gun belt around his waist and felt the gun’s solid weight against his hip. When he walked out into the lots to catch his horse, he felt grown and complete for the first time in his life.

But at the corner I stopped to take my last look at the crew of the Narcissus. They were swaying irresolute and noisy on the broad flagstones before the Mint. They were bound for the Black Horse, where men, in fur caps with brutal faces and in shirt sleeves, dispense out of varnished barrels the illusions of strength, mirth, happiness; the illusion of splendor and poetry of life, to the paid-off crews of southern-going ships.

G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn't realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart. There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret. Shall I compare thee to a barrel to apples? Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside. Rough winds couldn't keep me from taking you to chapel, When finally a horse would take a bride... And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone ... Shall I compare thee to a really large rat? Thou art more longer, with less disease. One would never mistake you for a listless cat ... Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas. He could never confess his passion for poetry with those poetry examples.

For those of you unfamiliar with barrel racing: a buzzer rings and a rider hangs on for dear life as a horse shoots off like a bat out of hell toward some big empty oil barrels placed strategically at one end of an arena and runs around them as fast as he can and then races back to the other end of the arena completely of his own free will while the rider tries not to fall off or cry because she thinks she broke her vagina and thank God the horse finally stopped and is that my pee? It's really fun.

I worked and worked, and before I knew it, my collage was finished. Still damp from Elmer’s glue, the masterpiece included images of horses--courtesy, coincidentally, of Marlboro cigarette ads--and footballs. There were pictures of Ford pickups and green grass--anything I could find in my old magazines that even remotely hinted at country life. There was a rattlesnake: Marlboro Man hated snakes. And a photo of a dark, starry night: Marlboro Man was afraid of the dark as a child. There were Dr Pepper cans, a chocolate cake, and John Wayne, whose likeness did me a great favor by appearing in some ad in Golf Digest in the early 1980s. My collage would have to do, even though it was missing any images depicting the less tangible things--the real things--I knew about Marlboro Man. That he missed his brother Todd every day of his life. That he was shy in social settings. That he knew off-the-beaten-path Bible stories--not the typical Samson-and-Delilah and David-and-Goliath tales, but obscure, lesser-known stories that I, in a lifetime of skimming, would never have hoped to read. That he hid in an empty trash barrel during a game of hide-and-seek at the Fairgrounds when he was seven…and that he’d gotten stuck and had to be extricated by firefighters. That he hated long pasta noodles because they were too difficult to eat. That he was sweet. Caring. Serious. Strong. The collage was incomplete--sorely lacking vital information.

Shipbuilding, too, once flourished along the Connecticut. (Deeperdraft vessels had to be ox-hauled over the Saybrook bar.) During the age of sail, the state’s then-abundant forests attracted shipwrights up and down the river. Most of what they constructed were the small, fast coastal vessels that plied the West Indian trade, taking food, barrel staves, and horses to be exchanged in the Caribbean for sugar, molasses, and slaves.

flew toward them with the goal hanging over it. He glanced in front and the bridge-opening suddenly engulfed them, Dancer barreling between the metal rails and its hooves hitting wood. VrrrrOOOOOMMMMM! The SUV’s front bumper slammed the narrow bridge’s metal railings, snapping the bolts and curling the steel on both sides of the horse. Greyson felt the engine’s heat on his back and grimaced, bracing for impact. But then it happened – the goal’s net snagged the edge of the bridge rail and pulled the metal frame down like a clamp around the hood; the front wheels dug into the bridge and stopped, but the back of the vehicle carried the momentum and swung over top, the rear wheels spinning loudly as they pointed toward the falling rain. The speed carried the huge metal beast over the net and flung it at the children from behind. Dancer leapt from the bridge just as the SUV struck it like a colossal pendulum, exploding in a cluster bomb of splinters and a tidal wave of water. The shockwave of wood and water washed over them from behind, hitting them with stinging shrapnel as Dancer galloped with the wave into open field. Sydney pulled on the reins and Dancer curled to a stop. Breathing heavy with adrenaline,

If the universe had put polka dots on a barrel and made it look bitter about life, that was her horse.

Luke climbed up next to Georgie. “You did real good, honey. Since we’re done for now, you just put your thumb here on the hammer and pull back, then ease it forward. Make sure your barrel isn’t pointing at anyone when you do it, though.” He cocked it again. “Now you try.” She aimed in the direction of his horse. Luke gently lowered the barrel. “These bullets go far. You don’t want to accidentally shoot anything.” Keeping the pistol trained to the ground, she released the hammer, then looked up at him, her green eyes sparkling with pride. “That’s the way,” he said. “You can relax now. I’ll guard the men while you drive. You needn’t be afraid to put your back to them. I’ll protect you.” Her eyes softened. “Thank you.

Hughes tightened his legs almost imperceptibly upon the barrel of the roan, and horse and rider jogged downward into Buckhorn Valley. Chapter

She turns and puts two fingers to her lips. A shrill whistle bursts through the air. Link covers his ears and grins. Suddenly, a horse gallops up, barreling toward us like a streak of black-and-white lightning. Reagan shrieks when I thrust her behind me, but she’s laughing too. The horse stops a step from my feet and snorts in my face. “Motherfucker,” I breathe. “Motherfucker,” Link parrots. Oh, hell. That’s bad. I’ve got to learn to watch my mouth around the kid. “Pretty horse,” I say, and I watch Link. “Pretty horse,” he repeats. “That’s better,” I say quietly. Link nods, and he holds the bucket up so the horse can stick his nose in it. “This is Romeo,” Reagan says as she slips a halter over his head. She pats his sides. “He escapes all the time and goes to hang with the cows. Then Juliette gets upset and takes it out on everyone else.

Come out, White-Eyes,” the voice called. “I bring gifts, not bloodshed.” Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. “What brings you here?” “The woman. I bring many horses in trade.” Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood. He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening…but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins. Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare. “I come for the woman,” the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. “And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.” His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. “Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.

The Comanche rode in a wide circle around the frightened, riderless horses and tossed Amy into the arms of a fellow Indian who waited in the ranks. The little girl’s indignant screeching filled the air. Loretta lifted the Spencer carbine to her shoulder, leveling the sights on the Comanche as he circled back to her. The bells on his moccasins tinkled merrily with each movement of his horse. “Let me go!” Amy screamed. “You stinkin’ savage.” Loretta glanced toward the child. A young brave struggled to keep Amy atop his pony. He laughed uproariously when she tried to scratch him. The girl caught a handful of his black hair and pulled with all her might. “Ai-ee!” the boy exclaimed. “She tries to take my scalp.” Whoops of laughter spiraled among the men. Loretta dragged her gaze back to Hunter. He had halted his mount some fifteen feet from her. “Where will you spend your cartridge?” he asked. “If you love her, shoot her. It is wisdom.” Amy’s screaming turned to pitiful sobbing. Loretta’s aim wavered, and she glanced toward the other Indians, trying to see her cousin. What was Henry doing? Why didn’t he back her up? How long could it take to load a rifle? The miserable coward. “You have time for one shot,” Hunter went on. “If you waste it on me, my friend will take your sister and avenge me. Your father hides behind his wooden walls. You stand alone.” Sweat ran into Loretta’s eyes. She turned slightly and leveled the barrel of her gun at Amy. Blinking, she snugged her finger around the trigger. Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled Amy’s queries about blessed release. It’s something bad, isn’t it? It’s killing yourself, isn’t it? Not always, Loretta thought. Sometimes it was death by a loved one’s hand. “Think long on this, Yellow Hair,” Hunter cautioned. “I came in peace to buy a woman, not steal a child. She is too skinny to bring this Comanche pleasure. You are not.” He leaned forward, stretching an arm along his horse’s neck, his hand open to her. “Come to me, and I will send your sister back to her mother unharmed.” Loretta stared at him. Did he mean it? His eyes pierced hers. The scar on the side of his face flickered as his jaw muscle tightened. If the tales about him were true, he might spare Amy. On the other hand, he might take them both captive if given half a chance. She remembered how gently he had touched her last night, and her confusion mounted. “Drop the weapon and come,” he urged. “It is a fair trade, no? She goes free. I have spoken it.” In the background, Loretta heard laughter ringing. Already the braves made sport of Amy. The child screeched again. “You will do this, no? You have courage. It shines in your eyes. If you fight the big fight, you cannot win. It is best to hold the head high and surrender with dignity. Put down the gun.

By dawn, the ship was off Le Havre, and by eight thirty, Wells found himself, swaddled in his newly issued greatcoat, following Sergeant Stubb through the chaotic harbor scene. Hieronymus Bosch could not have done it justice—twisting avenues lined by bales of barbed wire the height of houses, teetering mountains of crates and barrels, whinnying horses and skittish mules, a thousand shouting voices, little French boys begging for a cigarette or a bit of the breakfast the swarms of soldiers had just been issued: tins of bully beef, along with a biscuit as hard and thick as a fist.

Olives?” “No, thank you,” Evan said. “Not for the Polugar.” “I understand.” The single-malt rye vodka smelled like dough. A throwback to the pre-ethanol distillation process that produced the Russian breadwine enjoyed by literal and literary nobility from Ivan the Terrible and Peter the Great to Pushkin and Dostoyevsky, Polugar meant “half-burned.” The term signified the outstanding portion of liquid remaining after the excess had been burned away. Far off the beaten path in the woods of Poland, the vodka was not aged in oak barrels but triple-distilled in copper and filtrated with egg whites and birch coal.

The importance of livestock was critical. All thrived, pigs especially. One of the earliest exports was barrels of pork. Flocks of sheep were soon common in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. The colonists raised hardy horses and exported them to the West Indies. They brought in seed for turnips, carrots, buckwheat, peas, parsnips, wheat, barley, and oats—all raised with success. New England apples were soon doing particularly well. One commentator, writing in 1642, said they now ‘had apples, pears and quince tarts, instead of their former Pumpkin Pies.’ Apples were ‘reckoned as profitable as any other part of the Plantation.

Now I’m no art critic, but in a time seen as a bridge between the late middle ages and the early renaissance, where the church played such a substantial part in the day to day running of people's lives, Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, which is painted on oak with a square middle panel flanked by two doors that close over the centre like shutters, is rather racy. When the outer shutters are folded over they show a grisaille painting of the earth during creation. But it’s the three scenes of the inner triptych that fascinate me. If you’re unfamiliar with the painting, I’ll do my best to describe it for you. Apologies in advance if I miss anything out. It’s regular sort of stuff, you know, naked women being fondled by demons, a bloke being kissed by a pig dressed as a nun, another bloke being eaten by some kind of story book character while loads of blackbirds fly out of his arse, a couple locked in a glass sphere and – let’s not beat about the Bosch here – locked in each other’s embrace as well. There are loads of people feeding each other fruit, doing handstands, hatching out of eggs, climbing up ladders to get inside the bodies of other people and looking at demon’s arses. There’s a couple getting caught shagging by giant birds, and a white bloke and a black Rastafarian with ‘locks (400 years before the Rastafari movement was founded) about to have a snog. You’ve got God giving Eve to a very puny-looking, limp-dicked Adam, and there’s a bunch of people sitting around a table inside the body of another bloke while an old woman fills up on wine from a decent-sized barrel while a kind of giant metal face pukes out loads of naked blokes who go running into a trumpet and another bloke being fed a cherry by a giant bird while a white bloke shows a black lady something in the sky. It’s all going on! There's loads of those ‘living dead’ mateys walking about, and a bloke carrying giant grapes past a topless girl with, it has to be said, pretty decent tits. She’s balancing a giant dice on her head while doing something strange to another bloke’s arse while a rabbit in clothes walks past. You can’t see what she’s doing because there’s a table in the way but beside them is a serpent-type creature with just one massive boob and a pretty pert nipple. One huge tit the size of his chest! Of all things, he’s holding a backgammon board up in the air. I’d say Bosch was a tit man, wouldn’t you? But there’s more. There’s a crowd of naked girls – black & white - in a water pool, all balancing cherries on their heads; read into that what you will. There are just LOADS of naked women in this water pool, including one of the black girls who’s balancing a peacock on her head. There are dozens of nudists riding horses around them in a circle. Some are sharing the same horse, so I must admit that in places it appears to be a little intimate. And now what have we got! There’s a couple cavorting inside a giant shell which is being carried on the back of another bloke. Why doesn’t he just put it down and climb in and have a threes-up? There are people with wings, creatures reading books and just more and more nudists. There’s a naked woman lying back, and this other bloke with his face extremely close to her nether regions! What on earth does the blighter think he’s playing at? There’s loads of grey half men-half fish, some balancing red balls on their heads like seals, and another fellow doing a handstand underwater while holding onto his nuts. You’ve got a ball in a river with people climbing all over it, while a bloke inside the ball is touching a lady in what appears to be a very inappropriate manner! There’s a kind of platypus-type fish reading a book underground and Theresa May triggering Article 50 of Brexit (just kidding about the Theresa May bit).

Compared to the egregious pork-barreling, logrolling, and patronage-dispensing tactics Senate leaders had traditionally used to get big, controversial bills like the Civil Rights Act or Ronald Reagan’s 1986 Tax Reform Act, or a package like the New Deal, passed, Harry’s methods were fairly benign. But those bills had passed during a time when most Washington horse-trading stayed out of the papers, before the advent of the twenty-four-hour news cycle. For us, the slog through the Senate was a PR nightmare. Each time Harry’s bill was altered to mollify another senator, reporters cranked out a new round of stories about “backroom deals.” Whatever bump in public opinion my joint address had provided to the reform effort soon vanished—and things got markedly worse when Harry decided, with my blessing, to strip the bill of something called “the public option.

Memories of those first few days washed over her. Of his arm around her while she slept, the heat of his chest against her back, how terrified she had been. Suddenly the stars above her blurred, and she realized she was gazing at them through tears. She squeezed her eyes closed, and hot streams ran down her cheeks into her ears. She wasn’t crying, she wasn’t. Couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. A sob snagged in her throat and made a catching sound. She clamped a hand over her mouth, furious with herself. How could she have come to like a Comanche? Could she forget her parents so easily? It was unthinkable. Unforgivable. “Mah-tao-yo?” Loretta leaped and opened her eyes. Hunter knelt beside her, a dark shadow against the blue-black, starlit sky. “You weep?” “No--yes.” Her voice came out in a squeak. “I’m just feeling sad, that’s all.” He sat down beside her and hugged his knees, gazing off into the endless darkness. “You will stay beside me?” “No.” The thought was so preposterous that a wet laugh erupted from her. “I was just thinking. Once I get home, we’ll be enemies again. My people would shoot you if you ever came around. And that--” She sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “That makes me sad. And sort of scared. What if there was an Indian attack? What if I--” She turned her head to study him. “I might look down the barrel of a rifle someday, and it might be you at the other end.” “I will not lift my blade against you.” “But what if you didn’t know? What if you went on a raid and I was there, fighting to protect my family and friends? What if I sighted in on some murdering savage, itchin’ to blow him off his horse, and it was you?” His eyes were dark pits in his face when he turned to regard her. After a long silence he said, “You would pull the trigger?” Loretta stared up at him, her chest knotted around a huge ball of pain. “Oh, Hunter, no, I don’t think I could.” “Then let your sadness go the way of the wind, eh?” His teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “If we meet in battle, I will know the song your heart sings, eh? And you will know mine.

What if there was an Indian attack? What if I--” She turned her head to study him. “I might look down the barrel of a rifle someday, and it might be you at the other end.” “I will not lift my blade against you.” “But what if you didn’t know? What if you went on a raid and I was there, fighting to protect my family and friends? What if I sighted in on some murdering savage, itchin’ to blow him off his horse, and it was you?” His eyes were dark pits in his face when he turned to regard her. After a long silence he said, “You would pull the trigger?” Loretta stared up at him, her chest knotted around a huge ball of pain. “Oh, Hunter, no, I don’t think I could.” “Then let your sadness go the way of the wind, eh?” His teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “If we meet in battle, I will know the song your heart sings, eh? And you will know mine.