Mare And Foal Quotes

Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal.

I watched bulls bred to cows, watched mares foal, I saw life come from the egg and the multiplicative wonders of mudholes and ponds, the jell and slime of life shimmering in gravid expectation. Everywhere I looked, life sprang from something not life, insects unfolded from sacs on the surface of still waters and were instantly on prowl for their dinner, everything that came into being knew at once what to do and did it, unastonished that it was what it was, unimpressed by where it was, the great earth heaving up bloodied newborns from every pore, every cell, bearing the variousness of itself from every conceivable substance which it contained in itself, sprouting life that flew or waved in the wind or blew from the mountains or stuck to the damp black underside of rocks, or swam or suckled or bellowed or silently separated in two.

But now, as he paced up and down the ward, he remembered how the old folk used to die back home on the Kama—Russians, Tartars, Votyaks or whatever they were. They didn’t puff themselves up or fight against it or brag that they weren’t going to die—they took death calmly. They didn’t stall squaring things away, they prepared themselves quietly and in good time, deciding who should have the mare, who the foal, who the coat and who the boots.

The position could not have been made clearer, whatever had been said, not only to those directly involved but to Sasha, Nyusha and Bacchus; their painful embarrassment communicated itself even to the mare, the foal, the golden rays of the setting sun and the gnats buzzing and swarming around Helen's face and neck.

There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, Or for many years or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass and white and red morning glories, and white and red clover, And the song of the phoebe-bird, And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal and the cow's calf, And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the beautiful curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of him.

Mares had the capability to slow birthing so that the foal would have the dark hours to find its feet and be ready to run from a predator by dawn.

strawberry roan, a black and brown skewbald and a motley assortment of buckskins and bays. At the rear of the herd was a grey mare and a chestnut skewbald with a white face, both of them with foals running at their feet.

The voivode with the hard-to-remember name, who must have heard something about the affairs and problems of Fourhorn, politely asked whether the mares were foaling well. Gerald answered yes, much better than the stallions. He wasn't sure if the joke had been well taken, but the voivode didn't ask any more questions.

One of the mares had foaled in the desert and this frail form soon hung skewered on the paloverde pole over the raked coals while Delawares passed among themselves a gourd containing the curdled milk from its stomach

They were galloping...Bare level plain had taken the place of the scrub and they'd been cantering briskly, the foals prancing delightedly ahead, when suddenly the dog was a shoulder-shrugging streaking fleece, and as their mares almost imperceptibly fell into the long untrammelled undulating strides, Hugh felt the sense of change, the keen elemental pleasure one experienced too on board a ship which, leaving the choppy waters of the estuary, gives way to the pitch and swing of the open sea. A faint carillon of bells sounded in the distance, rising and falling, sinking back as if into the very substance of the day. Judas had forgotten; nay, Judas had been, somehow, redeemed.

Each day of the week, Kalist indulges himself in a different, secret ritual. On Mondays, he wears cologne. On Tuesdays, he eats meat for lunch. On Wednesdays, he places a bet after work. On Thursdays, he smokes one cigarette (but claims he’s not a smoker). On Fridays, he treats himself to his favourite pastime: horse practice – he grew up with horses and likes to try and emulate their distinctive whinnies, snorts, neighs, snuffles, sighs, grunts, fluttering nostrils, the occasional aggressive outburst and the especially beautiful nicker of a mare to her foal. And, on Saturdays, lest we forget, Maxwell D. Kalist drinks wine from a chalice.

When I heard the language of men uttered by my mare," continued Aravis, "I said to myself, the fear of death has disordered my reason and subjected me to delusions. And I became full of shame for none of my lineage ought to fear death more than the biting of a gnat. Therefore I addressed myself a second time to the stabbing, but Hwin came near to me and put her head in between me and the dagger and discoursed to me most excellent reasons and rebuked me as a mother rebukes her daughter. And now my wonder was so great that I forgot about killing myself and about Ahoshta and said, 'O my mare, how have you learned to speak like one of the daughters of men?' And Hwin told me what is known to all this company, that in Narnia there are beasts that talk, and how she herself was stolen from thence when she was a little foal. She told me also of the woods and waters of Narnia and the castles and the great ships, till I said, 'In the name of Tash and Azaroth and Zardeenah, Lady of the Night, I have a great wish to be in that country of Narnia,' 'O my mistress,' answered the mare, 'if you were in Narnia you would be happy, for in that land no maiden is forced to marry against her will.

They looked at my stomach and between my legs. They never said nothing to me. Only one looked at me. Looked at my face, I mean. I looked right back at him. He dropped his eyes and turned red. He knowed, I reckon, that maybe I weren't no horse foaling. But them others. They didn't know. They went on. I seed them talking to them white women: 'How you feel? Gonna have twins?' Just shucking them, of course, but nice talk. Nice friendly talk. I got edgy, and when them pains got harder, I was glad. Glad to have something else to think about. I moaned something awful. The pains wasn't as bad as I let on, but I had to let them people know having a baby was more than a bowel movement. I hurt just like them white women. Just 'cause I wasn't hooping and hollering before didn't mean I wasn't feeling pain. What'd they think? That just 'cause I knowed how to have a baby with no fuss that my behind wasn't pulling and aching like theirs? Besides, that doctor don't know what he talking about. He must never seed no mare foal. Who say they don't have no pain? Just 'cause she don't cry? 'Cause she can't say it, they think it ain't there? If they looks in her eyes and see them eyeballs lolling back, see the sorrowful look, they'd know.

The thought of foals being taken away from their mothers, ripped without warning from everything familiar and loved, then starved, clubbed, or sold for meat, tore her heart to shreds. Tears filled her eyes as she imagined Blue and the nurse mare, scared and confused and frantic, wondering why someone had taken their babies. She could almost feel the horrible, heavy pain in their chests, the terror and helplessness in their minds. It didn't matter that they were animals. Mares still possessed the maternal instinct. She had seen it with her own eyes when Bonnie Blue looked back at her newborn filly. It was love at first sight. Her mother had never looked at her that way, but Julia had studied enough interactions between mothers and daughters to recognize unconditional love when she saw it.

Domesticated horses are significantly more likely to miscarry than wild mares—as many as one in three. Researchers tried for years to figure out why. Was it the type of feed? Stress? The stallion’s mounting style? The answer was strikingly simple. To avoid these spontaneous abortions, you have to let the mare have sex with a familiar male. Like the gelada, a wild stallion who takes over a herd may kill any foals he has reason to suspect aren’t his. Still, monogamy isn’t the rule. After running blood tests on wild herds, scientists determined that roughly a third of foals aren’t sired by the dominant stallion. That stallion does get first dibs on reproduction, but mares also have “sneaky sex” with outsider males. Then they immediately seek out the stallion to try to have “cover-up” sex with him. If they don’t get the chance to have cover-up sex? That’s when they’ll usually abort.

Tonight," began Potapov, his wrinkled nose twitching above his thin lips, "we plan to pass a new resolution, not just for Ispas, but for all the villages in the region. Effective immediately and until further notice, every horse breeder, like you, Comrade Lazar, will not just try, but will ensure—no, he will guarantee—the pregnancy and birth of all female horses!" The fifty people in the hall fell silent, and Potapov asked, "Is that clear? Is there anything unclear in my words?" "Anything unclear in my words?" Isabel echoed him. "Yes, Comrade Potapov," Roman replied. "There are some unclear aspects." Isabelle and Sissy pinched him, and Isabelle mimicked Potapov's grating tenor, "One hundred percent pregnancy and birth of all female horses!" Sissy nearly burst into laughter. Roman detached himself from his wife and sister and strode to the aisle between the benches, where he could speak without their interruptions. "You claim to be an animal husbandry expert from Moscow?" Roman inquired. "Please enlighten us on how to achieve such remarkable outcomes." Ostap stood up—Ostap, who never spoke at these meetings! Even Yana was taken aback. "Excuse me," Ostap said, seemingly astonished at his own audacity, "but is that what they call female horses in Moscow, 'women mares'? Because here in Ukraine, we simply call them 'mares'." "Never mind that," dismissed Potapov. "And by the way, mares don't 'give birth'," Ostap added, his eyes ablaze with animosity and his voice dripping with scorn. "They foal." "Let's proceed," Potapov gestured towards the Lazar family members seated with Mirik and Petka. "Comrade Zhuk has informed me about you, the Lazar family," he stated. Petka immediately stood up and moved to another seat. Mirik also shifted his chair slightly further away—just a few centimeters, but it was enough! He distanced himself so as not to be associated with the troublesome Lazars, Isabelle realized. Incredible. As problematic as his wife.

When we reached the street that branched off into the western section of the city, I expected Saadi to conintue north, but he did not. We dismounted and walked side by side, leading our horses, until my house came into view. “You should leave,” I said to him, hoping I didn’t sound rude. “Let me help you take King to your stable.” I hesitated, unsure of the idea, then motioned for him to follow me as I cut across the property to approach the barn from the rear. After putting King in his private stall at the back of the building, sectioned off from the mares, I lit a lantern and grabbed a bucket. While Saadi watched me from the open door of the building, I went to the well to fill it. “You should really go now,” I murmured upon my return, not wanting anyone to see us or the light. He nodded and hung the lantern on its hook, but he did not leave. Instead, he took the bucket from me, placing it in King’s stall, and I noticed he had tossed in some hay. Brushing off his hands, he approached me. “Tell your family I returned the horse to your care, that our stable master found him too unruly and disruptive to serve us other than to sire an occasional foal.” “Yes, I will,” I mumbled, grateful for the lie he had provided. I had been so focused on recovering the stallion that explaining his reappearance had not yet entered my mind. Then an image of Rava, standing outside the barn tapping the scroll against her palm, surfaced. What was to prevent her return? “And your sister? What will you tell her?” He smirked. “You seem to think Rava is in charge of everything. Well, she’s not in charge of our stables. And our stable master will be content as long as we can still use the stallion for breeding. As for Rava, keep the horse out of sight and she’ll likely never know he’s back in your hands.” “But what if you’re wrong and she does find out?” “Then I’ll tell her that I have been currying a friendship with you. That you have unwittingly become an informant. That the return of the stallion, while retaining Cokyrian breeding rights, furthered that goal.” I gaped at him, for his words flowed so easily, I wondered if there was truth behind them. “And is that what this is really all about?” I studied his blue eyes, almost afraid of what they might reveal. But they were remarkably sincere when he addressed the question. “In a way, I suppose, for I am learning much from you.” He smiled and reached out to push my hair back from my face. “But it is not the sort of information that would be of interest to Rava.” His hand caressed my cheek, and he slowly leaned toward me until his lips met mine. I moved my mouth against his, following his lead, and a tingle went down my spine. With my knees threatening to buckle, I put my hands on his chest for balance, feeling his heart beating beneath my palms. Then he was gone. I stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do, then traced my still-moist lips, the taste of him lingering. This was the first time I’d been kissed, and the experience, I could not deny, had been a good one. I no longer cared that Saadi was Cokyrian, for my feelings on the matter were clear. I’d kiss him again if given the chance.

Above him, Thunderwing’s sky patrols circled, keeping an eye out for predators and raiding parties from other herds. The birds had ceased their singing, and the crickets began theirs. The herd was peaceful right now, a unit that worked together for the safety of everyone—except for him, the black foal. Only Silvercloud had sworn to protect him, partly because she was the lead mare and it was her duty, but mostly because she had promised his dam, and Lightfeather had believed that Star was good. Right now Silvercloud was standing alone under a tree.

Star swished his tail as if he could erase the day. “No. They talked about my mother.” Morningleaf narrowed her eyes. “Don’t listen to them. Your mother is a legend.” “I know,” Star whispered, nodding his head. Each century when the Hundred Year Star appeared, a black foal was born to one mare in Anok—and this century, that mare had been his dam, Lightfeather.

She flicked her ears and looked out over the herd. “I’m going to be a lead mare someday,” she said, ignoring his comment. “Why?” She blinked at him. “Why not?” Star tossed his thick mane. Morningleaf was born to lead and protect, but the job wasn’t without its dangers. Lead mares were responsible for leading migrations and for the safety of all the mares and foals.

After what seemed like a long while, they finally crested a ridge and entered Rockwing’s territory. As they swooped over an alpine lake and a meadow thronging with Mountain Herd steeds, Star looked down to see the herd grazing or preening their feathers. A gold dun mare tilted her head skyward as their shadows crossed the sun. She noticed Star and neighed, “It’s the black foal of Anok!

Before the first echo of her cry had faded, the meadow erupted into chaos. Foals stampeded, mares bared their teeth for battle, and warriors took flight, their eyes glowing with a violent mixture of awe and terror. Frostfire and the stallions holding Star landed at the northern edge of the grassy valley. When Star’s hooves touched the soil, he was let go.

The foals who survived were duds, and most starved to death. But Nightwing had been an exception—his mother had survived. Since a mare from a different herd was chosen each century to bear the black foal, the herd that received the special colt was known in Anok as the guardian herd.

Then she’d died with him curled between her front legs. He’d been too young to understand the words she’d spoken, but he knew they resided in him all the same, engraved deep in his memory. Lightfeather was a legend to some Sun Herd pegasi and an unlucky orphan to others. She’d been born to Snow Herd in the far north, the illegitimate foal of Icewing. But the lead mare there had driven Lightfeather and her mother out when she was just a filly.

The words pulled Star from his reverie. “All right. Let’s go.” They continued their descent and separated when they reached the long grass in the field. “There’s Mother,” said Echofrost. She and her brother kicked off and flew to Crystalfeather to nurse. The chestnut mare welcomed her foals with an anxious whinny.

Star and Morningleaf trotted to Silvercloud’s side. She nuzzled them and then noticed Star’s wound. “Star, what happened to your shoulder?” “He fell,” said Morningleaf, covering the truth. Star was grateful for her quick response because Morningleaf knew he didn’t like Silvercloud to worry about him. But Silvercloud was lead mare of Sun Herd and responsible for the safety of all the foals.

There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.” A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors. “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.” “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.” Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely… My dear Miss Farnum, Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence. St. Just He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down. “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.” “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene. “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay. “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.” “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie. “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?” “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?” “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.” “Did knights sleep in beds?” “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.” “I’ll ask Scout.” It

A great horseman or horsewoman has the curiosity of a foal, the patience of a mare and the drive of a stallion.

Tonight," said Potapov, and his wrinkled nose quivered above his thin lips, "we intend to adopt a new resolution, not only for Ispas, but for all the villages in the region. From this moment on, until further notice, every breeder of horses, like you, Comrade Lazar, will endeavor— No, he won't try, he will succeed! - Yes, he will succeed 100 percent The pregnancy and birth of all female mares!" The fifty people in the hall fell silent, and Potapov asked, "Is that clear? Something unclear in my words?" "Something unclear in my words?" Isabel came back after him. "Yes, Comrade Potapov," said Roman. "There are some unclear things." Isabelle and Sissy pinched him, and Isabelle continued to whisper in Potapov's unpleasant tenor voice, "One hundred percent pregnancy and birth of all female mares!" Sissy almost laughed out loud. Roman broke away from his wife and sister and walked to the aisle between the pews, from which He could speak without interruption from them. "You said you were an animal enclosure expert from Moscow?" Roman asked. "Please teach us how to achieve such extraordinary results." Ostap rose - Ostap, who never spoke at these assemblies! Even Yana was shocked. "Forgive me," said Ostap, seeming not to believe his own impudence, "but that's what they call female mares in Moscow, 'mares women'? Because here in Ukraine they simply say 'mares'." "Never mind," said Potapov. "And the mares, by the way, don't give birth," added Ostap with eyes burning with hatred and in a low voice with contempt. "They give birth." "Well, let's talk." Potapov pointed to the members of the Lazar family who were sitting with Mirik and Petka. "Comrade Zhuk told me about you, the Lazar family," Potapov said. Petka immediately got up and moved to another place. Mirik also moved his chair a little further - only a few centimeters, but still! He was staying away so he wouldn't be lumped in with those troublesome lazars, Isabelle thought. Unbelievable. Problematic like his wife, himself and his flesh. "We believe," said Potapov, "that you are using your horses by means of sabotage against the Soviet state." "And how do we do that?" asked Roman, who stood beside his brother. By having your mares give birth only once a year!" I don't create a horse, Comrade Potapov, I only quarter him." The mare's gestation period is eleven months," Roman said. "If you need to improve! Why do your horses, which you are apparently so famous for, only give birth to one foal per horse?" Potapov asked. "Why is their pregnancy so long? Almost a year? It's unthinkable! Can't you speed up the birth earlier and quarter them again? Or see if there's a way to make a mare carry two foals in one place? That would be very productive!" The members of the Lazar family looked forward and not at each other, lest they openly express contempt and be arrested for the crime of rowing under the Soviet Union. It is impossible to respect something that is despised, the Christian Jesus was right in that, Isabel thought, and wished that Roman would bite his tongue. Vitaly and Stan, Oleg Tretyak, the evicted Kubal, and most recently Andreyush - all these poor people were witnesses and victims of Stalin's total dedication to the reign of terror. Soon even the pretense that the rule of law exists will be abandoned. Yana got to her feet with an effort and held the chair rest. "I have to go," she said. "As you can see, I'm a pregnant female about to give birth. But maybe the experts from Moscow should spend some time around the stable during the calving season before they start giving recommendations." Yana nodded to Roman and Ostap and left the hall with a wobbly gait. Isabelle thought that Yana was slowing down for Potapov's sake. Just a few hours ago she jumped on the back of a horse and then got off above him without help and without effort. Potapov paid no attention to Yana's words or to her departure. "We need to solve th''e horse problem!" said the man.

Midwestern farmers bred the horses the city required—haphazardly at first, but with increasing expertise at selective improvement as the century advanced. By far the most popular workhorse in the United States was the Percheron, a breed that originated in the Perche region of France, about fifty miles southwest of Paris. Although it was long claimed that the Percheron breed was shaped in the Middle Ages when native Perche mares were bred with Arabian stallions brought back from the Crusades, no evidence other than oral tradition supports the claim. Some archeological evidence identifies the type as having Neolithic antecedents.8 All modern Percheron bloodlines trace to a warhorse named Jean Le Blanc, foaled in Le Perche in 1823 when Perche breeders were breeding a heavier horse for the American trade.

Imagine Melitene, land of plenty, under snow and ice and high blue skies; imagine it in spring, with the meltwater running off the mountains and the herds going up to the high pastures to graze and their milk scented with mint and citrus; imagine it in high summer, limpid in the day’s heat, with the hawks circling high above and the mares full fat with foal, swatting flies with their tails. Imagine that a man enters this idyll who does not know that he has come to paradise, who brings with him such ill luck as to make the statue of Fortune fall on her face at his passing and set the crows circling in murderous groups, eleven at a time, number of ill augur. Imagine such a man causing the minted milk to sour, and the men to sour with it, even before he gives the word to prosecute an unwinnable war, against the orders of his betters; or at least against Corbulo’s explicit command. Such a man was our new general and while you will have heard of the statue that fell on its face and the other ill omens – they became common enough currency in Rome soon after – you may not know that he disobeyed orders when he began his war.

He bared thick teeth. ‘I am Zacchariah. My price will be right. You show me now?’ In that moment, ten generations of horse-traders counted for more than half a lifetime in the legions. I was my father made young again, itching to make a sale. Abandoning the Eagle – I was a horse-trader, what did I care for a gold bird on a stick, however venerated by the Hebrews? – I gathered Pantera and Horgias about me, and trekked back to the inn of the Cedar Tree. Along the way, we collected Zacchariah’s well-muscled younger relatives, three other, unrelated, horse merchants who gazed at him with undisguised venom, a woman who claimed she could more accurately assess the sex of the foal our pregnant mare carried, a bone-setter who set to arguing with Horgias but gave up when his poor Greek met Horgias’ worse Greek – and Nicodemus and his seven zealots who stood about as we conducted our business, obviously waiting for a chance to inflict violence upon us.

In May I left Marina and once again headed for Moscow. I drove slowly across the Sinai Desert and Palestine, over the Lebanon and Syria to Iraq, talking with the bickering political leaders. One of Emire Abdullah's ministers, a courtly scholar named Samir Raifai, quoted to me a verse from Ibn an-Mu'tazz: 'The Pleiades in the latter part of the night resemble the opening of a silver-studded bridle.' He told me that an Arab prided himself most on three things: the birth of a boy, the emergence of a poet, and the foaling of a mare. He spoke at length about the emergence in Arabia of three great religions, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, because of the proximity of man and the eternal, the nearness of the stars, and the lack of any insignificant trifles to deflect philosophical contemplation. Then he added: 'Now I fear tranquility is gone. There are times of bitter trouble ahead, of killing.