No hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle.
The saddle is a place for dreaming when there's hours of trail ahead.
Sit tall in the saddle and hold your head up high. Keep your eyes fixed where the trail meets the sky, and live like you ain't afraid to die. Don't be scared...just enjoy the ride.
Life's a rodeo and all you have to do is stay in the saddle.
TRUE Courage is when you are scared to death and STILL saddle up and ride in!
Saddle your dreams before you ride em.
Harrier twisted himself sideways on his saddle to stare at him [Tiercel]. 'You had a vision,' he said flaty. Yes. No. I don't know. I...Yes. No.
If the world were a logical place, men would ride side saddle.
If you want to be a good saddler, saddle the worst horse; for if you can tame one, you can tame all.
A song is like a saddle: you ride it for a while, and if it's the right kind of song you can sing it for the rest of your life.
No one ever came to grief-except honorable grief-through riding horses. No hour of life is lost that is spent in the saddle. Young men have often been ruined through owning horses, or through backing horses, but never through riding them; unless of course they break their necks, which, taken at a gallop, is a very good death to die.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
The way I see it, every time a man gets up in the morning he starts his life over. Sure, the bills are there to pay, and the job is there to do, but you don't have to stay in a pattern. You can always start over, saddle a fresh horse and take another trail.
When you are feeling too dull and too domesticated get on a horse, sit tall in the saddle, and for a moment live in a world that feels like risk and adventure.
I have not tired of the wilderness; rather I enjoy its beauty and the vagrant life I lead, more keenly all the time. I prefer the saddle to the street car and the star sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities.
Spending that many hours in the saddle gave a man plenty of time to think. That's why so many cowboys fancied themselves Philosophers.
The one thing I do not want to be called is First Lady. It sounds like a saddle horse.
Poor humanity, to saddle the gods with such a responsibility and throw in a vindictive temper. What griefs they hatch for themselves, what festering sores for us, what tears for our prosperity! This is not piety, this oft-repeated show of bowing a veiled head before a graven image; this bustling to every altar; this kow-towing and prostration on the ground with palms outspread before the shrines of the gods; this deluging of vow on vow. True piety lies rather in the power to contemplate the universe with a quiet mind.
Sit loosely in the saddle.
My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.
Every present occasion will catch the senses of the vain man; and with that bridle and saddle you may ride him.
Men, you are about to embark on a great crusade to stamp out runaway decency in the west. Now you men will only be risking your lives, whilst I will be risking an almost certain Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor.
What did you expect? 'Welcome, sonny?' 'Make yourself at home?' 'Marry my daughter?' You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know . . . morons.
Golf cannot be played in anger, or in any mood of emotiional excess. Half the golf balls struck by amateurs are hit if not in rage surely in bewilderment, or gloom, or in cynicism, or even hysterically - all of those emotional excesses must be contained by the professional. Which is why balance is one of the essential ingredients of golf. Professionals invariably trudge phlegmatically around the course - whatever emotions are seething within - with the grim yet placid and bored look of cowpokes, slack-bodied in their saddles, who have been tending the same herd for two months.
Through an arrow loop in the wall she saw a familiar horse and rider tearing across the camp toward the healing rooms. Brigan pulled up at Nash's feet and dropped from the saddle. The two brothers threw their arms around each other and embraced hard. Shortly thereafter he stepped into the healing rooms and leaned in the doorway, looking across at her quietly. Brocker's son with the gentle gray eyes. She abandoned all pretense of decorum and ran at him.
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