Legends of the Silver Stallion had been told for years now, whenever mountain stockmen met round the campfires or on the winding hill tracks. Songs were sung about him to the cattle and both songs and tales had become even… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“there grew up around the campfires stories of a great silver stallion seen galloping over wind-packed snow way up on the Ramshead Range; of a ghost horse that drank at the Crackenback River; of a horse that all men thought… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
There was some rhythm, some ecstasy in this dance of flight that expressed the fact that happiness which touches depths and rises beyond physical… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“I? I am the wind,’ said Thowra. ‘I come, I pass, and I am gone.’ The strange feathers moved up and down, the strange… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“All the love of the high, wild places, all the amazing joy in being alive sounded in his voice” — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“the oncoming night was filled with the mystery of unknown places and of distance, of things that happened long ago and happenings yet to… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“A long shaft of light came down from the sun behind the clouds and fell on the rearing, striking horses so that Thowra was… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
For God took a handful of blizzard snow, blew on it and created the horse. — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“Life and summer are fleeting,’ sang the bird. ‘Snow and dark, and the winter comes. Nothing remains the same.” — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“beauty such as theirs was something with which one lived joyously — racing with the wind, with storm and snow, dancing in the frost… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“Spring comes to the Australian Alps like an invisible spirit. There is not the tremendous surge of upthrust life that there is in the… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
“Dreams were dreams; only one facet of what might be the truth of the world” — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
Just then, down through the last glimmer of twilight, stepping high and free, like a cloud, a moth, a ghost in the shape of… — Elyne Mitchell Copy Share Image
