The moral of Snow White is never eat apples.
Cinderella? Snow White? What's that? An illness?
FORTUNE'S FUN FACTS TO KNOW AND TELL: #37 Can you name the seven seas? Antartic, Artic, North Atlantic, South Atlantic, Indian, North Pacific, South Pacific. Can you name the seven dwarfs from Snow White? Doc, Dopey, Sneezy, Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy and Bashful.
Mummy dust to make me old; To shroud my clothes, the black of night; To age my voice, an old hag's cackle; To whiten my hair, a scream of fright; A blast of wind to fan my hate; A thunderbolt to mix it well -- Now begin thy magic spell! -- Walter Disney, "Snow White"
After Snow White used a couple rolls of film taking pictures of the seven dwarfs, she mailed the roll to be developed. Later she was heard to sing, "Some day my prints will come."
I used to be Snow White, but I drifted. -- Mae West
shooting pictures of the seven dwarfs and their antics. Then she
mails the exposed film to a cut rate photo service. It takes weeks
for the developed film to arrive in the mail, but that is all right
with Snow White. She clears the table, washes the dishes and sweeps
the floor, all the while singing "Someday my prints will come."
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields, See how these names are feted in the waving grass And by the streamers of the white cloud And whispers of the wind in the listening sky. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which Helene gave at her country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert, a man no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes, a Jesuit a robe courte * was presented to her, and in the garden by the light of the illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a long time of the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the consolations the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and the next. Helene was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes and to those of Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance, for which her partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with her future directeur de conscience, but the next evening Monsieur de Jobert came to see Helene when she was alone, and after that often came again.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.
Cats are smarter than dogs. You can not get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.
Pleasures are like poppies spread, / You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; / Or, like the snowflake in the river, / A moment white, then melts for ever.
The clear, sweet singer with the crown of snow Not whiter than the thoughts that housed below.
His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll.
But pleasures are like poppies spread, / You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; / Or, like the snowfall on the river, / A moment white--then melts for ever.
~Teeth.~--Teeth like falling snow for white.--~Cowley.~
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow<b>-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblems right meet of decency does yield.
And how is that to be done? In two ways. Go up the mountain, and the things in the plain will look very small; the higher you rise the more insignificant they will seem. Hold fellowship with God, and the threatening foes here will seem very, very unformidable. Another way is, pull up the curtain and gaze on what is behind it. The low foot-hills that lie at the base of some Alpine country may look high when seen from the plain, as long as the snowy summits are wrapped in mist; but when a little puff of wind comes and clears away the fog from the lofty peaks, nobody looks at the little green hills in front. So the world's hindrances and the world's difficulties and cares look very lofty till the cloud lifts. But when we see the great white summits, everything lower does not seem so very high after all. Look to Jesus, and that will dwarf the difficulties.--_Alex. McLaren._
I had an errand there: gathering water-lilies, green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady, the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter, to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted. Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her, in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle; there they open first in spring and there they linger latest. By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter, fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes. Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating! And that proved well for you--for now I shall no longer go down deep again along the forest-water, no while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time, not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water. -- J. R. R. Tolkien
The, uh, snowy mountains are like really cold, eh? And the, um, plains stretch out like my moms girdle, eh? There's lotsa beers and doughnuts for everyone, eh? So the last one to be peaceful and everything is a big idiot, Eh? So shut yer face up and dry yer mucklucks by the fire, eh? And dream about girls with their high beams on, eh? They may be cold, but that's okay! Beer's better that way! Eh? -- A, like, Tribute to the Great White North, eh? Beauty!
O Queen beyond the Western Sea!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!
Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!
Snow<b>-white! Snow<b>-white! We sing to thee
In a far land beyond the Sea.
O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sown,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see you silver blossom blown!
O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas.
-- J. R. R. Tolkien
He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips met? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?
"It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! The huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within the door before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
The venerable King observing next Ulysses, thus inquired. My child, declare Him also. Shorter by the head he seems Than Agamemnon, Atreus' mighty son, But shoulder'd broader, and of ampler chest; He hath disposed his armor on the plain, But like a ram, himself the warrior ranks Ranges majestic; like a ram full-fleeced By numerous sheep encompass'd snowy<b>-white.
Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry.
When they came out onto the beaten highroad--polished by sleigh runners and cut up by rough-shod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in the moonlight--the horses began to tug at the reins of their own accord and increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and breaking into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed from side to side, moving his ears as if asking: "Isn't it time to begin now?" In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing farther and farther off, the black horses driven by Zakhar could be clearly seen against the white >snow. From that sleigh one could hear the shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers.
"Pierre! Been back long?" someone shouted. Pierre raised his head. In a sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion Makarin dashed past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his head slightly bent. His face was fresh and rosy, his white-plumed hat, tilted to one side, disclosed his curled and pomaded hair besprinkled with powdery snow.
Now, from the South and West the Pequod was drawing nigh to Formosa and the Bashee Isles, between which lies one of the tropical outlets from the China waters into the Pacific. And so Starbuck found Ahab with a general chart of the oriental archipelagoes spread before him; and another separate one representing the long eastern coasts of the Japanese islands--Niphon, Matsmai, and Sikoke. With his snow<b>-white new ivory leg braced against the screwed leg of his table, and with a long pruning-hook of a jack-knife in his hand, the wondrous old man, with his back to the gangway door, was wrinkling his brow, and tracing his old courses again.
But not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual celebrity--Nay, you may call it an ocean-wide renown; not only was he famous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death, but he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions of a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or Caesar. Was it not so, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like an iceberg, who so long did'st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was oft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand Jack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the vicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan, whose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow<b>-white cross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale, marked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In plain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of Cetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar.
"One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there was a plague of white butterflies in heaven." All at once, Bossuet caught sight of Marius coming up the street towards the barrier with a peculiar air.
Both armies from their bloody work desist, And, bearing backward, form a spacious list. The Trojan hero, who receiv'd from fame The welcome sound, and heard the champion's name, Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls, Greedy of war where greater glory calls. He springs to fight, exulting in his force His jointed armor rattles in the course. Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows, Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows, His head divine obscure in clouds he hides, And shakes the sounding forest on his sides. The nations, overaw'd, surcease the fight; Immovable their bodies, fix'd their sight. Ev'n death stands still; nor from above they throw Their darts, nor drive their batt'ring-rams below. In silent order either army stands, And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. Th' Ausonian king beholds, with wond'ring sight, Two mighty champions match'd in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state.
A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness," from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.
So spake Ulysses; to whom Dolon thus, Son of Eumedes. I will all unfold, And all most truly. By the sea are lodged The Carians, the Pæonians arm'd with bows, The Leleges, with the Pelasgian band, And the Caucones. On the skirts encamp Of Thymbra, the Mæonians crested high, The Phrygian horsemen, with the Lycian host, And the bold troop of Mysia's haughty sons. But wherefore these inquiries thus minute? For if ye wish to penetrate the host, These who possess the borders of the camp Farthest removed of all, are Thracian powers Newly arrived; among them Rhesus sleeps, Son of Eïoneus, their Chief and King. His steeds I saw, the fairest by these eyes Ever beheld, and loftiest; snow itself They pass in whiteness, and in speed the winds, With gold and silver all his chariot burns, And he arrived in golden armor clad Stupendous! little suited to the state Of mortal man--fit for a God to wear! Now, either lead me to your gallant fleet, Or where ye find me leave me straitly bound Till ye return, and after trial made, Shall know if I have spoken false or true.
Thus marching on in military pride, Shouts of applause resound from side to side. Their casques adorn'd with laurel wreaths they wear, Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear. Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore; Their chains of burnish'd gold hung down before. Three graceful troops they form'd upon the green; Three graceful leaders at their head were seen; Twelve follow'd ev'ry chief, and left a space between. The first young Priam led; a lovely boy, Whose grandsire was th' unhappy king of Troy; His race in after times was known to fame, New honors adding to the Latian name; And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became. White were the fetlocks of his feet before, And on his front a snowy star he bore. Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred, Of equal age, the second squadron led. The last in order, but the first in place, First in the lovely features of his face, Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed, Queen Dido's gift, and of the Tyrian breed. Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains, With golden bits adorn'd, and purple reins.
17:2. And he was transfigured before them. And his face did shine as the sun: and his garments became white as snow.
The wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate, Begins at length the light of heav'n to hate, And loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees, To hasten on the death her soul decrees: Strange to relate! for when, before the shrine, She pours in sacrifice the purple wine, The purple wine is turn'd to putrid blood, And the white offer'd milk converts to mud. This dire presage, to her alone reveal'd, From all, and ev'n her sister, she conceal'd. A marble temple stood within the grove, Sacred to death, and to her murther'd love; That honor'd chapel she had hung around With snowy fleeces, and with garlands crown'd: Oft, when she visited this lonely dome, Strange voices issued from her husband's tomb; She thought she heard him summon her away, Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay. Hourly 't is heard, when with a boding note The solitary screech owl strains her throat, And, on a chimney's top, or turret's height, With songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night. Besides, old prophecies augment her fears; And stern Aeneas in her dreams appears, Disdainful as by day: she seems, alone, To wander in her sleep, thro' ways unknown, Guideless and dark; or, in a desart plain, To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain: Like Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear, He saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear; Or mad Orestes, when his mother's ghost Full in his face infernal torches toss'd, And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight, Flies o'er the stage, surpris'd with mortal fright; The Furies guard the door and intercept his flight.
Hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow<b>-white wings of small, unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air; but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong, troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.
And now pomp the peaceful kings appear: Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear; Twelve golden beams around his temples play, To mark his lineage from the God of Day. Two snowy coursers Turnus' chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, The second hope of Rome's immortal race. Adorn'd in white, a rev'rend priest appears, And off'rings to the flaming altars bears; A porket, and a lamb that never suffer'd shears. Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, And strews the beasts, design'd for sacrifice, With salt and meal: with like officious care He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair. Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds; With the same gen'rous juice the flame he feeds.
Nor, in some things, does the common, hereditary experience of all mankind fail to bear witness to the supernaturalism of this hue. It cannot well be doubted, that the one visible quality in the aspect of the dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pallor lingering there; as if indeed that pallor were as much like the badge of consternation in the other world, as of mortal trepidation here. And from that pallor of the dead, we borrow the expressive hue of the shroud in which we wrap them. Nor even in our superstitions do we fail to throw the same snowy mantle round our phantoms; all ghosts rising in a milk-white fog--Yea, while these terrors seize us, let us add, that even the king of terrors, when personified by the evangelist, rides on his pallid horse.
Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as the visible absence of colour; and at the same time the concrete of all colours; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows--a colourless, all-colour of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues--every stately or lovely emblazoning--the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colourless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge--pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear coloured and colouring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?
To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of the throne, and the mitre in the name of the attar; it is to ill-treat the thing which one is dragging, it is to kick over the traces; it is to cavil at the fagot on the score of the amount of cooking received by heretics; it is to reproach the idol with its small amount of idolatry; it is to insult through excess of respect; it is to discover that the Pope is not sufficiently papish, that the King is not sufficiently royal, and that the night has too much light; it is to be discontented with alabaster, with snow, with the swan and the lily in the name of whiteness; it is to be a partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy; it is to be so strongly for, as to be against.
"Possibly," remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. "And who is that?" he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant overcoat, with a big snow<b>-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.