Stag Deer Quotes

The most dreadful part of all," the old stag answered, "is that the dogs believe what the hound just said. They believe it, they pass their lives in fear, they hate Him and themselves and yet they'd die for His sake.

Debarred from public worship, David was heartsick. Ease he did not seek, honour he did not covet, but the enjoyment of communion with God was an urgent need of his soul; he viewed it not merely as the sweetest of all luxuries, but as an absolute necessity, like water to a stag. Like the parched traveler in the wilderness, whose skin bottle is empty, and who finds the wells dry, he must drink or die – he must have his God or faint. His soul, his very self, his deepest life, was insatiable for a sense of the divine presence. . . . Give him his God and he is as content as the poor deer which at length slakes its thirst and is perfectly happy; but deny him his Lord, and his heart heaves, his bosom palpitates, his whole frame is convulsed, like one who gasps for breath, or pants with long running. Dear friend, dost thou know what this is, by personally having felt the same? It is a sweet bitterness. The next best thing to living in the light of the Lord’s love is to be unhappy till we have it, and to pant hourly after it – hourly, did I say? Thirst is a perpetual appetite, and not to be forgotten, and even thus continually is the heart’s longing after God. When it is as natural for us to long for God as for an animal to thirst, it is well with our souls, however painful our feelings

My name is Lord of the Forest”, said the stag. Regan nodded. Every stag she'd ever met had been named Lord of the Forest, even when there was another stag only a few feet away. Deer didn't understand irony.

Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.

As Darwin noted, “It is certain that with almost all animals there is a struggle between the males for the possession of the female.” When males of a species battle it out directly, be it through the clashing antlers of deer, the stabbing horns of the stag beetle, the head butting of stalk-eyed flies, or the bloody battles of massive elephant seals, they win access to females by driving off competitors. Selection will favor any trait that promotes such victories so long as the increased chance of getting mates more than offsets any reduced survival. This kind of selection produces armaments: stronger weapons, larger body size, or anything that helps a male win physical contests.

Psalm 42. As the running deer seeks the flowing brook, even so my soul longs for you, O God.

It was early evening twilight when we came around a corner… and there in the road was a red deer stag. He leapt up the bank beside the road and then paused, looking back over his shoulder as we passed. Like a scene in a dream I watched him as he watched me. He was so close… so still and so beautiful. There was an instant of knowing that my heart was as trapped in this beautiful wildness as my eyes were caught in his calm curious gaze. It was a slowly growing realisation that I had fallen in love a third time… with this lovely, cold strange world of water and stone, sharp light and deep shadows. And I would never be the same again.

As if the virus itself is listening, the she-deer standing in front of him is racked by a huge cough, her skinny body spasming and shuddering before her legs give way and she collapses on to the ground. The other deer crowd round, nudging her back up again while the stag watches.

The master and mistress of the house and the rest of the Blood -even the Crux himself- brought our food, poured the wine, did our bidding. The centerpiece was a roasted stag. crowned with gilded antlers and stuffed with songbirds; they had hunted well. We were forbidden to kill the deer that fattened on our coleworts and stole our grain, and the venison tasted all the better for the salt of revenge.

And now, for the first time, the Lion was quite silent. He was going to and fro among the animals. And every now and then he would go up to two of them (always two at a time) and touch their noses with his. He would touch two beavers among all the beavers, two leopards among all the leopards, one stag and one deer among all the deer, and leave the rest. Some sorts of animal he passed over altogether. But the pairs which he had touched instantly left their own kinds and followed him. At last he stood still and all the creatures whom he had touched came and stood in a wide circle around him. The others whom he had not touched began to wander away. Their noises faded gradually into the distance. The chosen beasts who remained were now utterly silent, all with their eyes fixed intently upon the Lion. The cat-like ones gave an occasional twitch of the tail but otherwise all were still. For the first time that day there was complete silence, except for the noise of running water. Digory’s heart beat wildly; he knew something very solemn was going to be done. He had not forgotten about his Mother, but he knew jolly well that, even for her, he couldn’t interrupt a thing like this. The Lion, whose eyes never blinked, stared at the animals as hard as if he was going to burn them up with his mere stare. And gradually a change came over them. The smaller ones—the rabbits, moles, and such-like—grew a good deal larger. The very big ones—you noticed it most with the elephants—grew a little smaller. Many animals sat up on their hind legs. Most put their heads on one side as if they were trying very hard to understand. The Lion opened his mouth, but no sound came from it; he was breathing out, a long, warm breath; it seemed to sway all the beasts as the wind sways a line of trees. Far overhead from beyond the veil of blue sky which hid them the stars sang again; a pure, cold, difficult music. Then there came a swift flash like fire (but it burnt nobody) either from the sky or from the Lion itself, and every drop of blood tingled in the children’s bodies, and the deepest, wildest voice they had ever heard was saying: “Narnia, Narnia, Narnia, awake. Love. Think. Speak. Be walking trees. Be talking beasts. Be divine waters.

A stag suddenly appeared in front of them.  It was a majestic beast with a yellow glow and its head held high.  “A human hunter killed my mother, therefore the boy must die!” it declared in righteous anger, lowering its twelve pronged antlers at Tobias. Zachary knew instantly that it was a magical deer: partially because it glowed, but mostly because it talked. 

Titty-Fuck If you titty-fuck a deer, will a stag blurt out, 'What the buck!'?

When Tina walks closer, as if smelling her scent––the creature's long neck juts up from lapping at Adam's ale. It has a face that is too wide for a human being's and its eyes are like perfectly round fish-eyes! Its gaze is so terrifying that Juniper arches her back instinctively, but is so scared that she is essentially paralyzed by its wide-eyed stare. Those empty crystalline eyes looking unwaveringly forward!   The creature that had once been perceivably angelic is now a walking horror show. Its nose is melded into its face, like a replica of the tender pink nose of a rabbit, and its lips are petite and taut. Drops of dew solidify on its mane, like a fleece of pearls. Juniper feels warm liquid running down her leg. This is the first time, since her dance with near-death, during her early childhood––that she has felt true fear. It looks straight at her, unblinking, like a deer in headlights would. But––the look isn't comparable to the livelihood of a stag or deer or anything resembling an animal or human! The vacant stare is beyond stomach churning. Even when the daylight's reflection on the water casts a shimmer upon its face: the eyes are endlessly deep and abyssal. Feeling as though they completely consume whoever they cast a glance upon. Consuming all of a person's essence, in a single gaze!

The many joys of leadership, he thought, chuckling. “What’s funny?” Larry asked, looking at him. “Just thinking of the parents,” Mitchell replied. Larry rolled his eyes. “Better you than me, Mitchell. Anyway, I’ve got Bruce over at Deer Stag checking out the damage in the cellar. Soon as he gives me a report, I’ll pass it on to you.

Bruce, what’s going on?” Larry asked when he picked up. “You need to come here,” Bruce said. “You need to come over to Deer Stag. You’re not going to believe this.” “Is it bad?” Larry asked, concern filling his voice. Bruce shook his head as he answered, “Larry, I don’t know. Just get over here.” “Okay.

Yesterday she had been wondering about deer and their antlers: Somebody must understand, but she did not, how the antlers knew, each successive year, that they must grow more points or branches than the previous year, the old pair having been shed after the rutting season. Was it some sort of hormone, which didn't get broken down but just accumulated season after season in the maturing stag? All she knew about antlers was that the blood supply was in the velvet. It was said that squirrels ate fallen antlers for the calcium and other minerals. That was why you didn't find them all over the place in these Brookline woods. Probably tasted a little salty, crunchy like the bones of quail. Perhaps she should get her mother to serve platters of thin-sliced antlers at the wedding lunch tomorrow, as hors d'oeuvres. If antlers were nutritious, perhaps horn was beneficial after all, rhinoceros horn, for example. Except that horn was keratin- like toenails, not bone- like skull.

 "...a large white stag leaped onto the road in front of Johann. Deer often roamed the grassy fields along the forest’s edge, but the youth had never seen one like this before, one so magnificent. Its sapphire eyes stared until they locked on his, drawing him into a vastness unfathomed, stirring in him a desire for something more. Something adventurous and exciting. Extraordinary or even supernatural. A longing for truths yet unknown.

When Communist Party chiefs in Russia went fishing, scuba divers plunged underwater and put fish on the hooks. When they went hunting, specially bred elk, stag, and deer were made to saunter across the field in point-blank range. Everyone had a wonderful time. When the king of Afghanistan visited the Tajik resort of Tiger Gorge, he blew away the last Turan tiger in the country.

We’ve all got to start,’ Mac pointed out. ‘And Dad said in his letter that you were to have the chance of killing a good stag. I know how you feel; I felt the same about my first stag: butterflies in the tummy?

Rubbish. Poppycock. Lies, all of it lies.” Brooke strode to the lead, then halted and turned to face the group. Everyone tripped to a standstill. “Legends,” he continued, “always have a logical explanation. This is clearly a cautionary tale, concocted by old, toothless grandmothers. Everyone knows the old earl was rabid about hunting, and he had these woods stocked with exotic game— peacock, boar, and yes, even stag. Everyone knows his lands were a magnet for poachers, and that he dealt with trespassers harshly. Of course the locals created this man-deer nonsense. They wanted to scare young people, discourage them from wandering off into the woods.” “Well, if that was their intent”— Cecily looked around the group—“ it doesn’t seem to have worked.” “That’s right.” Portia released Denny’s arm and continued on the path. “Here we are, plunging ever deeper into these cursed woods, unarmed and intrigued. Fearless.” Brooke grabbed her elbow. “A thin line separates boldness from stupidity.” “Yes.” Smiling sweetly, Portia looked at his hand on her arm. “You’re treading it.

She was the moon goddess. She sat on a throne made of pure silver and wore a crescent moon as a crown. Some say she wore a coat made from the skin of stags she’d hunted. Once she bathed naked beneath a full moon, and she realized she was being watched by a man named Actaeon. In revenge, she threw a handful of water at him. When the water touched him, he turned into a red deer. Then she whistled for his hounds and they came. Within moments, they had shredded their poor master to bits. But that’s what happens when you betray a woman of magic.

A man-beast?” Portia asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, I do like the sound of this.” She put pencil to paper again. Brooke leaned over her shoulder. “Are you taking notes for your novel or adding to your list?” “That depends,” she said coolly, “on what manner of beast we’re discussing.” She looked to Denny. “Some sort of large, ferocious cat, I hope? All fangs and claws and fur?” “Once again I must disappoint you,” Denny replied. “No fangs, no claws. It’s a stag.” “Oh, prongs! Even better.” More scribbling. “What do they call this . . . this man-beast? Does it have a name?” “Actually,” said Denny, “most people in the region avoid speaking of the creature at all. It’s bad luck, they say, just to mention it. And a sighting of the beast . . . well, that’s an omen of death.” “Excellent. This is all so inspiring.” Portia’s pencil was down to a nub. “So is this a creature like a centaur, divided at the waist? Four hooves and two hands?” “No, no,” Cecily said. “He’s not half man, half beast in that way. He transforms, you see, at will. Sometimes he’s a man, and other times he’s an animal.” “Ah. Like a werewolf,” Portia said. Brooke laughed heartily. “For God’s sake, would you listen to yourselves? Curses. Omens. Prongs. You would honestly entertain this absurd notion? That Denny’s woods are overrun with a herd of vicious man-deer?” “Not a herd,” Denny said. “I’ve never heard tell of more than one.” “We don’t know that he’s vicious,” Cecily added. “He may be merely misunderstood.” “And we certainly can’t call him a man-deer. That won’t do at all.” Portia chewed her pencil thoughtfully. “A werestag. Isn’t that a marvelous title? The Curse of the Werestag.” Brooke turned to Luke. “Rescue me from this madness, Merritt. Tell me you retain some hold on your faculties of reason. What say you to the man-deer?” “Werestag,” Portia corrected. Luke circled the rim of his glass with one thumb. “A cursed, half-human creature, damned to an eternity of solitude in Denny’s back garden?” He shot Cecily a strange, fleeting glance. “I find the idea quite plausible.

bathroom to repair some of the pipes.” Mitchell closed his eyes and shook his head. He took a deep breath before he looked at Larry again. Deer Stag was the oldest house on campus, and it was also on the historic register. Even the smallest of repairs required Mitchell to fill

TRACE THE DEER TO ITS LAIR. —EDWARD OF NORWICH, 1373

Guardian Of The Forest by Stewart Stafford Follow the stag, a voice whispered, For he is the guardian of the forest, Fleeing danger to well-worn tracks, Rejuvenating stream water sheen. Pulchritudinous spiked crown atop, Surveying all subjects of his realm, From snow-capped ermine peaks, Defying resistance of challengers. Hunters inch closer to their quarry, In bloodlust desecration, blinded, To the martyred immortal nobility, Soaring to the Heavens in rebirth. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.