Eric Von Ripper, Kabad, Ducks discussed on Boring Books for Bedtime


Give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he strode was a broken down plow horse that had outlived almost everything but it's viciousness he was gone and shaggy-haired with the you neck and head like a hammer. His rusty main entail were tangled and knotted with burs one. I had lost its pupil and was glaring and spectral but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it still. He must've had fire and metal in his day. If we may judge from the name he bore of gunpowder. He had in fact been a favourite steed. His masters the call. Eric von ripper. Who was a furious writer and had infused very probably some of his own spirit into the animal for old and broken down as he loved. There was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young philly in the country. Knickebocker was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle his sharp elbows stuck out. Like grasshoppers he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand like a sceptre and as his horse jogged on the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping a pair of wings. A small hat rested on the top of his nose for so his scanty strip forehead might be called and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail such was the appearance of kabad and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of hans upon river and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. It was as i have said a fine tone all day. The sky was clear and serene and nature wore that rich and golden livery which way always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow while some trees of the tender kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dies of orange purple and scarlet streaming files of wild. Ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark of squirrel might be heard from the groves of beach and hickory nuts and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighbouring stubblefield. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets in the fullness of their revelry they fluttered chirping and frolicking from bush to bush and tree tree capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin the favourite game of stripling sportsmen with its loud querulous note and the twittering black birds flying in sable clouds and the golden winged woodpecker with his crimson crest. His broad black gorge it and splendid plumage and the cedar bird with its red tipped wings and yellow tips tail and its little montero cap of feathers and the blue jay. That noisy cox comb in his gay light blue coat and a white under close screaming and chattering nodding and bobbing and bowing and pretending to be on good terms with every song. Stir up the grove.

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