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Korean beauty catches eye of PNoy | ABS-CBN News | Latest Philippine Headlines, Breaking News, Video, Analysis, Features

Korean beauty catches eye of PNoy | ABS-CBN News | Latest Philippine Headlines, Breaking News, Video, Analysis, Features.


i thing most filipinos are attracted to Korean beauty. there are so many boy group in Korea which is popular here in the Philippines especially to teenagers…



Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life.

Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity of the appetite, for adventure over the love of ease.  This often exists in a man of sixty more than a body of twenty.  Nobody grows old merely by a number of years.  We grow old by deserting our ideals.

Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.  Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust.

Whether sixty or sixteen, there is in every human being’s heart the lure of wonder, the unfailing child-like appetite of what’s next, and the joy of the game of living.  In the center of your heart and my heart there is a wireless station; so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer, courage and power from men and from the Infinite, so long are you young.

When the aerials are down, and your spirit is covered with snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you are grown old, even at twenty, but as long as your aerials are up, to catch the waves of optimism, there is hope you may die young at eighty.

actually there are many version of this poem. this poem really touches my father and me also

This poem is one of our activity in school wherein we must interpret it and write a letter of thanks to the speaker”Samuel Ullman”.

hopefully our group performed well and the very unexpected thing happened. We are one of the winners!! so glad to here that. After many loses of our team we still thankful that atleast we won once…


I was searching for some videos about java script then i saw a math lesson. I was amazed about what I watched! I realized that i still need to improve more and I should learn more things

these are the videos

I am just 15 years old. Maybe for older people they knew this already…but for me it is a great thing i must learn

English Project!



THE NOON SUN POURED FIERCELY DOWN UPON THE FIELDS. They stretched in undulating folds between the clumps of trees that marked each farmhouse; the different crops, ripe rye and yellowing wheat, pale-green oats, dark-green clover, spread a vast striped cloak, soft and rippling, over the naked body of the earth.

In the distance, on the crest of a slope, was an endless line of cows, ranked like soldiers, some lying down, others standing, their large eyes blinking in the burning light, chewing the cud and grazing on a field of clover as broad as a lake.

Two women, mother and daughter, were walking with a swinging step, one behind the other, towards this regiment of cattle. Each carried two zinc pails, slung outwards from the body on a hoop from a cask; at each step the metal sent out a dazzling white flash under the sun that struck full upon it.

The women did not speak. They were on their way to milk the cows. When they arrive, they set down one of their pails and approach the first two cows, making them stand up with a kick in the ribs from wooden-shod feet. The beast rises slowly, first on its forelegs, then with more difficulty raises its large hind quarters, which seem to be weighted down by the enormous udder of livid pendulous flesh.

The two Malivoires, mother and daughter, kneeling beneath the animal’s belly, tug with a swift movement of their hands at the swollen teat, which at each squeeze sends a slender jet of milk into the pail. The yellowish froth mounts to the brim, and the women go from cow to cow until they reach the end of the long line.

As soon as they finish milking a beast, they change its position, giving it a fresh patch of grass on which to graze.

Then they start on their way home, more slowly now, weighed down by the load of milk, the mother in front, the daughter behind.

Abruptly the latter halts, sets down her burden, Sits down, and begins to cry.

Madame Malivoire, missing the sound of steps behind her, turns round and is quite amazed.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

Her daughter Celeste, a tall girl with flaming red hair and flaming cheeks, flecked with freckles as though sparks of fire had fallen upon her face one day as she worked in the sun, murmurs, moaning softly, like a beaten child:

“I can’t carry the milk any further.”

Her mother looked at her suspiciously.

“What’s the matter with you?” she repeated.

“It drags too heavy, I can’t,” replied Celeste, who had collapsed and was lying on the ground between the two pails, hiding her eyes in her apron.

“What’s the matter with you, then?” said her mother for the third time. The girl moaned:

“I think there’s a baby on the way.” And she broke into sobs.

The old woman now in her turn set down her load, so amazed that she could find nothing to say. At last she stammered:

“You . . . you . . . you’re going to have a baby, you clod! How can that be?”

The Malivoires were prosperous farmers, wealthy and of a certain position, widely respected, good business folk, of some importance in the district.

“I think I am, all the same,” faltered Celeste.

The frightened mother looked at the weeping girl grovelling at her feet. After a few seconds she cried:

“You’re going to have a baby! A baby! Where did you get it, you slut?”

Celeste, shaken with emotion, murmured:

“I think it was in Polyte’s coach.”

The old woman tried to understand, tried to imagine, to realise who could have brought this misfortune upon her daughter. If the lad was well off and of decent position, an arrangement might be come to. The damage could still be repaired. Celeste was not the first to be in the same way, but it was annoying all the same, seeing their position and the way people talked.

“And who was it, you slut?” she repeated.

Celeste, resolved to make a clean breast of it, stammered:

“I think it was Polyte.”

At that Madame Malivoire, mad with rage, rushed upon her daughter and began to beat her with such fury that her hat fell off in the effort.

With great blows of the fist she struck her on the head, on the back, all over her body; Celeste, prostrate between the two pails, which afforded her some slight protection, shielded just her face with her hands.

All the cows, disturbed, had stopped grazing and turned round, staring with their great eyes. The last one mooed, stretching out its muzzle towards the women.

After beating her daughter till she was out of breath, Madame Malivoire stopped, exhausted; her spirits reviving a little, she tried to get a thorough understanding of the situation.

“— Polyte! Lord save us, it’s not possible! How could you, with a carrier? You must have lost your wits. He must have played you a trick, the good-for-nothing!”

Celeste, still prostrate, murmured in the dust:

“I didn’t pay my fare!”

And the old Norman woman understood.

Every week, on Wednesday and on Saturday, Celeste went to town with the farm produce, poultry, cream, and eggs.

She started at seven with her two huge baskets on her arm, the dairy produce in one, the chickens in the other, and went to the main road to wait for the coach to Yvetot.

She set down her wares and sat in the ditch, while the chickens with their short pointed beaks and the ducks with their broad flat bills thrust their heads between the wicker bars and looked about them with their round, stupid, surprised eyes.

Soon the bus, a sort of yellow box with a black leather cap on the top, came up, jerking and quivering with the trotting of the old white horse.

Polyte the coachman, a big, jolly fellow, stout though still young, and so burnt up by sun and wind, soaked by rain, and coloured with brandy that his face and neck were brick-red, cracked his whip and shouted from the distance:

“Morning, Mam’selle Celeste. In good health, I hope?”

She gave him her baskets, one after the other, which he stowed in the boot; then she got in, lifting her leg high up to reach the step, and exposing a sturdy leg clad in a blue stocking.

Every time Polyte repeated the same joke: “Well, it’s not got any thinner.”

She laughed, thinking this funny.

Then he uttered a “Gee up, old girl!” which started off the thin horse. Then Celeste, reaching for her purse in the depths of her pocket, slowly took out fivepence, threepence for herself and twopence for the baskets, and handed them to Polyte over his shoulder.

He took them, saying:

“Aren’t we going to have our little bit of sport to-day?”

And he laughed heartily, turning round towards her so as to stare at her at his ease.

She found it a big expense, the half-franc for a journey of two miles. And when she had no coppers she felt it still more keenly; it was hard to make up her mind to part with a silver coin.

One day, as she was paying, she asked:

“From a good customer like me you oughtn’t to take more than threepence.”

He burst out laughing.

“Threepence, my beauty; why, you’re worth more than that.”

She insisted on the point.

“But you make a good two francs a month out of me.”

He whipped up his horse and exclaimed:

“Look here, I’m an obliging fellow! We’ll call it quits for a bit of sport.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with an air of innocence.

He was so amused that he laughed till he coughed.

“A bit of sport is a bit of sport, damn it; a game for a lad and a lass, a dance for two without music.”

She understood, blushed, and declared:

“I don’t care for that sort of game, Monsieur Polyte.”

But he was in no way abashed, and repeated, with growing merriment:

“You’ll come to it some day, my beauty, a bit of sport for a lad and a lass!”

And since that day he had taken to asking her, each time that she paid her fare:

“Aren’t we going to have our bit of sport to-day?”

She, too, joked about it by this time, and replied:

“Not to-day, Monsieur Polyte, but Saturday, for certain!”

And amid peals of laughter he answered:

“Saturday, then, my beauty.”

But inwardly she calculated that, during the two years the affair had been going on, she had paid Polyte forty-eight whole francs, and in the country forty-eight francs is not a sum which can be picked up on the roadside; she also calculated that in two more years she would have paid nearly a hundred francs.

To such purpose she meditated that, one spring day as they jogged on alone, when he made his customary inquiry: “Aren’t we going to have our bit of sport yet?” She replied:

“Yes, if you like, Monsieur Polyte.”

He was not at all surprised, and clambered over the back of his seat, murmuring with a complacent air:

“Come along, then. I knew you’d come to it some day.”

The old white horse trotted so gently that she seemed to be dancing upon the same spot, deaf to the voice which cried at intervals, from the depths of the vehicle: “Gee up, old girl! Gee up, then!”

Three months later Celeste discovered that she was going to have a child.

All this she had told her mother in a tearful voice. Pale with fury, the old woman asked:

“Well, what did it cost?”

“Four months; that makes eight francs, doesn’t it?” replied Celeste.

At that the peasant woman’s fury was utterly unleashed, and, falling once more upon her daughter, she beat her a second time until she was out of breath. Then she rose and said:

“Have you told him about the baby?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“Because very likely he’d have made me pay for all the free rides!”

The old woman pondered awhile, then picked up her milkpails.

“Come on, get up, and try to walk home,” she said, and, after a pause, continued:

“And don’t tell him as long as he doesn’t notice anything, and we’ll make six or eight months’ fares out of him.”

And Celeste, who had risen, still crying, dishevelled and swollen round the eyes, started off again with dragging steps, murmuring:

“Of course I won’t say.”


The story was great. It was easy to understand and has a good thought. I liked the fact that it teaches us to use our minds or common sense. When the girl confessed to her mother was a great idea for me because for me telling your problem is one way of solving it. The person you told the problem will help you to solve it. Telling you problems to your mother is good for me because first of all she has the right to know it and i believe in the saying that “Mothers knows Best” especially to their sons and daughters. i also like it because of its diction that i can easily understand the story and the story touches my heart also.

A Father’s Story


by Andre Dubus

MY NAME IS Luke Ripley, and here is what I call my life: I own a stable of thirty horses, and I have young people who teach riding, and we board some horses too. This is in northeastern Massachusetts. I have a barn with an indoor ring, and outside I’ve got two fenced-in rings and a pasture that ends at a woods with trails. I call it my life because it looks like it is, and people I know call it that, but it’s a life I can get away from when I hunt and fish, and some nights after dinner when I sit in the dark in the front room and listen to opera. The room faces the lawn and the road, a two-lane country road. When cars come around the curve northwest of the house, they light up the lawn for an instant, the leaves of the maple out by the road and the hemlock closer to the window. Then I’m alone again, or I’d appear to be if someone crept up to the house and looked through a window: a big-gutted grey-haired guy, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, staring out at the dark woods across the road, listening to a grieving soprano.


The story was great too. Living very simple is a dream of most people like me because of  less problems in life, all you need to have was there and most importantly fresh air like in rural places. I liked the story because someday i am going to be a father also and i want my life to be like that also which was being simple. Also, the story was short but it tackles about a life which needs many paragraphs. I liked it because i can imagine the settings based on what has been told on the story. I can easily understand the story not because it is short but because it attracts me to read it.

Another Dimension

by Jill McCorkle

Ann has not been back to her childhood home in over two years, not since the death of her father, but her brother, Jimmy, has updated her on all the changes he and his new wife have made.Ann has not met the new wife but could tell from the pictures Jimmy sent at Christmas that she looks a lot like the ones before her: short, blond, young, some pedigree or another Jimmy will find worth telling. Ann’s luck with lasting relationships has been just as bad as his, the difference being she hasn’t married all of her boyfriends. “That’s because I’m honorable,” he said during his last divorce when she pointed this out. “Or stupid,” she responded, falling into the sarcastic sparring that had long ago become their way of communicating. Her first and only wedding ring was then in place on a finger she hoped might someday plump around it, claiming permanence, as she’d once admired on an older neighbor who, after forty years, couldn’t get hers over her knuckle. The trapped ring reminded Ann of a photograph she once saw, a tree grown around and embracing a tombstone, both recognizable for what they were and yet now joined and inseparable in the most natural way. But now she is returning, postdivorce, to collect Jimmy’s I told you so in person or maybe to see if she can return. Call it tired of running. Call it an exorcism.


This was another great story for me. The story only proves that God has a plan for us, maybe not today maybe not tomorrow but someday. I liked the story because it touches my heart and the point of it was direct.  The story tells about our decision in life,on how to choose a right decision. Decision affects greatly in our life especially when we talks about love because love conquers a large part of our life and that is also the reason why i liked it. The story tells us that people are different with each other and also their faith and people are the one who makes their own lives

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Bully illustration (part 3) (via Watercolour illustrator | screenprinter | Daniel Mackie)

this is so cool. Great progress. great illustration. Everything is great

Bully illustration (part 3) So continuing on from the last post… The men's style "bully illustration" I start putting the watercolour on. I tend to work one area at a time and stared with the little boys face, then on to those hammers. I work in layers working usually from light to dark. Then working up the hammers. I know there is going to be some graffiti in the background to echo those angles from the hammers so I'm not worried about them getting to dark. Finally the g … Read More

via Watercolour illustrator | screenprinter | Daniel Mackie

So Nice!

I’m so curios about their child. Is it scary or something good for everybody. I can’t wait to watch it I’m so excited!

First day of School

"the pencils"

My first day in school was thrilling for me coz of some rumors that i’ll be promoted. My mom likes it


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