Please do this ASAP! POINTS BRAINLIEST, THANKS! 5-STAR! More points once answered!
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He was white. White as memories lost. He was free. Free as
happiness is. He was fantasy, liberty, and excitement. He
filled and dominated the mountain valleys and surrounding
plains. He was a white horse that f looded my youth with
dreams and poetry.
Around the campfires of the country and in the sunny
patios of the town, the ranch hands talked about him with
enthusiasm and admiration. But gradually their eyes would
become hazy and blurred with dreaming. The lively talk
would die down. All thoughts fixed on the vision evoked by
the horse. Myth of the animal kingdom. Poem of the world
of men.
White and mysterious, he paraded his harem through
the summer forests with lordly rejoicing. Winter sent him
to the plains and sheltered hillsides for the protection of hisfemales. He spent the summer like an Oriental potentate in
his woodland gardens. The winter he passed like an illustrious
warrior celebrating a well-earned victory.
He was a legend. The stories told of the Wonder Horse were
endless. Some true, others fabricated. So many traps, so many
snares, so many searching parties, and all in vain. The horse
always escaped, always mocked his pursuers, always rose
above the control of man. Many a valiant cowboy swore to put
his halter and his brand on the animal. But always he had to
confess later that the mystic horse was more of a man than he.
I was fifteen years old. Although I had never seen the
Wonder Horse, he filled my imagination and fired my
ambition. I used to listen open-mouthed as my father and the
ranch hands talked about the phantom horse who turned into
mist and air and nothingness when he was trapped. I joined
in the universal obsession—like the hope of winning the
lottery—of putting my lasso on him some day, of capturing
him and showing him off on Sunday afternoons when the
girls of the town strolled through the streets.
It was high summer. The forests were fresh, green, and gay.
The cattle moved slowly, fat and sleek in the August sun and
shadow. Listless and drowsy in thelethargyof late afternoon,
I was dozing on my horse. It was time to round up the herd
and go back to the good bread of the cowboy camp. Already
my comrades would be sitting around the campfire, playing
the guitar, telling stories of past or present, or surrendering to
the languor of the late afternoon. The sun was setting behind
me in a riot of streaks and colors. Deep, harmonious silence.
I sit drowsily still, forgetting the cattle in the glade.
Suddenly the forest falls silent, a deafening quiet. The
afternoon comes to a standstill. The breeze stops blowing, but
it vibrates. The sun flares hotly. The planet, life, and time itself
have stopped in an inexplicable way. For a moment, I don’t
understand what is happening.
Then my eyes focus. There he is! The Wonder Horse! At
the end of the glade, on high ground surrounded by summer
green. He is a statue. He is an engraving. Line and form and
white stain on a green background. Pride, prestige, and art
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