Curled up at the base of the scales, fast asleep, was the oddest monster I'd seen yet. It had the head of crocodile with a lion's mane. The front half of its body was a lion, but the back end was sleek, brown, and fat - a hippo, I decided. The odd bit was, the animal was tiny - I mean, no larger than an average poodle, which I suppose made him a hippodoodle.
Quotes about mane (16 Quotes)
But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it. He stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and bristling mane were anything but playful. That he allowed the master these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love.
With his fantastic mane of multicoloured hair, Phury should have been in Hollywood's league with the ladies, but he'd stuck with his vow of celibacy. There was room for one and only one love in his life, and it had been slowly killing him for years.
The lion is the beast to fight He leaps along the plain, And if you run with all your might, He runs with all his mane.
See him, the gentle Bible beast, With lacquered hoofs and curling mane, His wondering journey from the East Half done, between the rock and plain.
A minute later the bailiff and four of his men rode past him on their journey back to Southampton, the other two having been chosen as grave-diggers. As they passed Alleyne saw that one of the men was wiping his sword-blade upon the mane of his horse. A deadly sickness came over him at the sight, and sitting down by the wayside he burst out weeping, with his nerves all in a jangle. It was a terrible world thought he, and it was hard to know which were the most to be dreaded, the knaves or the men of the law.
Long hair is considered bohemian, which may be why I grew it, but I keep it long because I love the way it feels, part cloak, part fan, part mane, part security blanket.
Many variables interact to affect mane development in wild lions. Several of these variables, including food, water, and social groupings, are controlled in zoological parks, where the (study found) climate has a major effect on mane development.
Even here, a male with more testosterone, that's better nourished, and displays all the good genes a female should be interested in will still have a better mane than the guy with a ratty mane next to him.
His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
The lion's mane is used by the male lion to make him look bigger when he wants to rule the pride.
While living, apparently, as modern men and women, using electric fans and electric irons, telephones and trains, and aeroplanes, when they can afford it, they nourish in their hearts a deep contempt for the childish conceit and bloated hopes of our age, and for the various recipes for saving, mankind, which zealous philosophers and politicians thrust into circulation. They know that nothing can save mankind, for mankind is reaching the end of its present cycle. The wave that carried it, for so mane millenniums, is about to break, with all the fury of acquired speed, and to merge once more into the depth of the unchanging Ocean of undifferentiated existence. It will rise again, some day, with abrupt majesty, for such is the law of waves. But in the meantime nothing can be done to stop it.
Now I feel like one of those Rodeo riders. I'm on top of a wild horse that won't stop jumping and kicking, and it is really exciting but I grab on to his ears and his mane and I'm screaming. The result is fun, but it's also scary
Maybe I couldn't make it. Maybe I don't have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don't know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I'm sick of the masquerade. I'm sick of pretending eternal youth. I'm sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I'm sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs I'm sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I'm sick of the Powder Room. I'm sick of pretending that some fatuous male's self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I'm sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I'm sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
There wasn't enough evidence to meet the elements of murder. But the bottom line is, I had a witness who was standing outside the apartment building when the incident occurred trimming some hedges, who owned the condo, who articulated that these four men rushed into the place. Based on what he said and some other information, it came out that it was a self-defense situation. It was going to be either a robbery, an aggravated assault or a murder. Mane had a right to defend himself. The prosecution couldn't disprove self-defense. The district attorney didn't have a whole lot of choice but to dismiss it.