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A STAG overpowered by heat came to a spring to drink.  WEIMEI OB Seeing his
own shadow reflected in the water, he greatly admired the size
and variety of his horns, but felt angry with himself for having
such slender and weak feet.  While he was thus contemplating
himself, a Lion appeared at the pool and crouched to spring upon
him.  The Stag immediately took to flight, and exerting his
utmost speed, as long as the plain was smooth and open kept
himself easily at a safe distance from the Lion.  But entering a
wood he became entangled by his horns, and the Lion quickly came
up to him and caught him.  When too late, he thus reproached
himself:  “Woe is me! How I have deceived myself! These feet which
would have saved me I despised, and I gloried in these antlers
which have proved my destruction.”

What is most truly valuable is often underrated.Menroe 888

“Hey, ‘Bones,’ ” my brother, Parker, asked me, “what are you going to be for Halloween?”flower yilly The elementary school party started at 7:00 PM. The winner of the prize for the most original costume got two free tickets for the Sunday matinee. Parker was dressed and ready to go. I watched him parade in front of the mirror in his pirate costume. He’s so handsome, I thought. All the girls in the fifth and sixth grades were madly in love with him. I’d spent the afternoon defending myself from his rubber dagger.” I’m not going!” I replied.” Why not?”" No costume.”"That’s dumb,” he said. “You hardly need a costume. You’re already a perfect scarecrow!” I was used to these observations. Furthermore, he spoke the truth. At twelve, I was already six feet tall and weighed eighty-nine pounds. Tack on red hair and freckles and it added up to one thing: I was a scarecrow. School days were charged with searing taunts. “Down in front.” “How’s the weather up there?” “Are those skis or shoes?” It was hard to smile back, and even harder to make friends. I tried plastering my hair down flat on the top of my head and prying the heels off my shoes. I took scalding hot baths, hoping I’d shrink. In bed at night, I put my feet against the footboard, hands against the headboard and pushed, hoping to press myself back together. Nothing worked. So I saved nickels and dimes in a cider jug to pay the future surgeon who would find fame in Ripley’s Believe It or Not by cutting six inches of bone from the legs of the tallest girl in the world and making her the same height as everybody else. “When I grow up,” I told Parker, as he brandished his cutlass in front of the mirror, “I’m going to live on an island where there’s no one to stare.” My brother raised his eye patch and looked at me hard.”Sounds awful,” he said, and left for the party. Alone, I listened to the cheerless night and pictured the costumes my classmates had bought. I had tried on a few, too, but nothing fit. I could picture my classmates in their costumes, having a wonderful time. As I wandered about the house, I remembered happier days-before Mommy and Daddy were separated. When Daddy lived with us, he always made me feel loved and wanted. Seeing him now for short visits wasn’t the same. The more I brooded, the more my self-pity grew. Then I spotted a broomstick standing in the kitchen corner. Maybe I could make a costume, I thought. Outside, a sheet and pillowcase billowed on the clothesline. I could be a witch or a ghost. Then my gaze fell on the back of the cellar door. My father’s old plaid work sh irt, faded overalls, jacket and cap were hanging right where he had left them.”I could be a hobo,” I murmured as I buried my face in the dusty clothes. But Parker’s taunt kept coming back at me. “You’re a scarecrow.” As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Well then, a scarecrow was what I’d be. The closer I got to the school, the louder the cheers and clapping became, and the more my fears grew. What if they laughed at me? Worse still, what if they didn’t do anything? Hiding behind the tool shed next to the gym, I pulled everything out of the pillowcase and started to dress. Because I was so tall, I could peek through the high window and see everybody taking turns on the stage in quest of the coveted prize. Ghosts, princesses, monsters, cowboys, soldiers and brides-they were all there, clad in store-bought costumes, fragile dreams for one night. My teeth were chattering. Would they clap for me? Would they whistle and cheer? My stomach ached from anticipation.I’ll run home! I decided. No one would know I had been there. But Parker came on stage and glanced at the window. It was too late. He had seen me. If I left now, he’d call me chicken. I watched him bow to the audience and listened to the squeals from the girls as he leaped on chairs and tables and parried with his sword. Next, a small gorilla climbed on top of a ladder and ate a banana. Lincoln gave a brief address. Cleopatra danced with a rubber snake in her hands, and a soldier marched and twirled his gun. Only Tarzan remained. Maneuvering carefully through the entrance, I went in, held my breath and prayed, Please, God, don’t let me make a fool of myself. The applause was so loud for the King of the jungle when he gave his call and swung on a curtain rope that no one seemed to notice me walk slowly to the center of the stage. A pillowcase covered my head. With arms outstretched and hands clutching the broomstick inserted through the sleeves of an old plaid shirt, I wore a felt hat and faded overalls stuffed with straw. The room was suddenly still.
Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. The only sound I heard was the hammering of my own heart. I’m going to die, I thought, right here in front of everybody. The world was tilting, and my ears were ringing when the hood slid down my nose, just enough so I could peer through the eyeholes. And that’s when I saw my classmates for the first time, as they really were. Petite blonde fairies with golden wands-and steel braces on their teeth. A baseball hero with a bat and mitt-and bottle-thick eyeglasses. A boxer with fighting gloves-sitting in a wheelchair. Someone asked, “Hey, who is that?” “Parker’s sister!” They looked at one another, surprise brightening their faces. Clapping and cheering filled the room. The principal came up on stage. “The first prize for the most original costume goes to…” I never heard my name, only Parker, fear in his voice, saying, “I’ll hold those tickets for her. She can’t let go of that broomstick or her shirt will fall off.” Later, classmates came over to talk with me. “How’d you ever get such a good idea?” “Parker,” I said. “Where did you get the costume?” “My daddy.” And in that single moment, I recaptured a memory that had almost slipped away. I was sitting on Daddy’s lap and I heard him say, “I love you, sweetheart, just the way God made you.” I felt his fingers riffling my hair, and I smiled inside, glad that God had made me a scarecrow. I left the party early, but not before Nancy had said, “You’ll come over to my house sometime, won’t you?” and Elaine had confided, “I get goosebumps every time Mr. Allen is our substitute teacher. Don’t you?” I didn’t want to stay and dance-the boys’ heads came only to the middle of my chest. But on my way home, I decided that Parker was right. A deserted island would be pretty awful. I waited up for Parker that night. I wanted to hear about the fun I’d missed. “Did you dance a lot?” I asked. “Sort of,” he said. “If you think it’s any fun for a fifthgrade guy to dance with a bunch of puny third- and fourth-graders!” He kicked at the fringe on the rug and started up the stairs. zhong hua niu bian
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “Here’s your two tickets.” “Thanks.” “It’s going to be a double feature. One’s The Wizard o f Oz. Ray Bolger plays a scarecrow.” He had reached the fourth step. We stood eye to eye. “And the other’s The Sea Hawk,” I said. “Can you believe it? Errol Flynn plays a pirate!” “Are you taking anyone special?” Parker asked. “Yes,” I said. “Wanna go?”

My senior year of high school WEIMEI OB was an extremely hectic one, to say the least. If I wasn’t studying and worrying about my grades, I was juggling multiple extracurricular activities or attempting to make sense of my plans for college. It seemed as if my life had turned into one crazy cloud of confusion and I was stumbling around blindly, hoping to find some sort of direction.Finally, as senior year began to wind down, I got a part-time job working at the local coffee shop. I had figured that the job would be easy and, for the most part, stress-free. I pictured myself pouring the best gourmet coffees, making delicious doughnuts, and becoming close friends with the regular customers.What I hadn’t counted on were the people with enormous orders who chose to use the drive-thru window, or the women who felt that the coffee was much too creamy, or the men who wanted their iced coffees remade again and again until they reached a certain level of perfection. There were moments when I was exasperated with the human race as a whole, simply because I couldn’t seem to please anyone. There was always too much sugar, too little ice, and not enough skim milk. Nevertheless, I kept at it.One miserable rainy day, one of my regular customers came in looking depressed and defeated. My co-worker and I asked what the problem was and if we could help, but the customer wouldn’t reveal any details. He just said he felt like crawling into bed, pulling the sheets up over his head, and staying there for a few years. I knew exactly how he felt.Before he left, I handed him a bag along with his iced coffee. He looked at me questioningly because he hadn’t ordered anything but the coffee. He opened the bag and saw that I had given him his favorite type of doughnut.“It’s on me,” I told him. “Have a nice day.”He smiled and thanked me before turning around and heading back out into the rain.The next day was a horrible one. The rain was still spilling down from the sky in huge buckets and everyone in my town seemed to be using the drive-thru window because no one wanted to brave the black skies or the thunder and lightning.I spent my afternoon hanging out the window, handing people their orders and waiting as they slowly counted their pennies. I tried to smile as the customers complained about the weather, but it was difficult to smile as they sat in their temperature-controlled cars with the windows rolled up, while I dealt with huge droplets of water hanging from my visor, a shirt that was thoroughly soaked around the collar, and an air conditioner that blasted out cold air despite the fact that it was only sixty-seven degrees outside. On top of that, no one felt like tipping that day. Every time I looked into our tip jar, with its small amount of pennies, I grew more depressed.Around seven o’c lock that evening, however, my day took a turn for the better. I was in the middle of making another pot of vanilla hazelnut decaf when the customer from the day before drove up to the window. But instead of ordering anything, he handed me a single pink rose and a little note. He said that not too many people take the time to care about others and he was glad there were still people like me in the world. I was speechless and very touched; I hadn’t thought that I had done anything incredible. After a moment, I came to my senses and thanked him. He told me I was welcome and with a friendly wave he drove away.I waited until I saw his Jeep exit the parking lot, then I ran to the back of the shop and read the note. It read: Christine, Thanks for being so sweet, kind and thoughtful yesterday. I was sincerely touched by you. It is so nice to meet someone that’s genuinely nice, warm and sensitive and unselfish. Please don’t change your ways because I truly believe that you will excel. Have a great day! HankAs time went on, I did come across more complaining customers. But anytime I felt depressed or just plain sick of coffee, I thought of Hank and his kindness. Then I would smile, hold my head up high, clear my throat and ask politely, “How can I help you?”Menroe 888

Monsieur Signy l’Abbaye was a master artist in his day, Mojo Warriorwho in 1392 was ready to retire. It was the month of May. But Guiliano Bartoli, a rich Italian patron, sent for him saying, “I’d like a portrait of myself on my banquet room wall. Could you paint it? It’s 20 feet tall.”
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Contemplating this request, Monsieur l’Abbaye shook his head. “I’m ready to retire, so I’m not available for hire. I’m sorry. I simply can’t paint your portrait.” But seeing the disappointment in Senior Bartoli’s eyes, he continued, “Well, there’s a possibility if you can find it in your heart to allow me to explore the limits of my abilities. Not for money mind you, but for food and a bed instead. Furthermore, you need not even pose because my memory’s excellent. Already I can see your portrait and how to derive it. But I insist, Senior Bartoli, while I work your portrait stays private — even from you!”

This is strange, thought the patron, but he also thought about how highly the artist had been recommended. “Of course,” he said “Anything you wish, but I insist upon paying you at least something for your effort. Let’s draw up a contract.”

Now a glint came to Monsieur l’Abbaye’s eyes as he gazed upon that 20-foot wall and thought of all that space, such a wonderful place for schemes and things to give imagination wings. Because, unknown to Senior Bartoli, or anyone else for that matter, for all of his career (which was 45 years) Monsieur L’Abbaye had yearned to paint in his own way. And what way was that? Certainly not the style of Byzantine or of Proto-Renaissance. No. Monsieur Signy l’Abbaye had hungered to break free of restraints. But the guild, his craft and livelihood, would never have allowed it so he followed their rules although never proud of it. Of course he didn’t reveal this to Senior Bartoli.

Signing the contract, they sealed the agreement.

Immediately the master artist threw a high curtain in front of the wall, a curtain through which Senior Bartoli couldn’t see at all. He tried to peek, but Monsieur l’Abbaye insisted on total privacy for his artistic techniques.

A week passed. “How is it coming?” asked the hopeful Senior Bartoli.

Answering him from behin d the curtain, Monsieur l’Abbaye said, “It’s coming quite well. You know, at the age of eight I was apprentice to the great Ambrogio Lorenzetti. I could never dishonor his name. He taught me the art of grinding pigment, laying plaster, sometimes slowly, sometimes faster. He taught me how to draw and, most important, not to hurry. My training was rigorous and after certification even more vigorous. Senior Bartoli, a masterpiece… takes a while at least.”

Reluctantly, Senior Bartoli withdrew.

A month passed. “How is it coming?” Senior Bartoli asked.

“It’s coming well,” said Monsieur l’Abbaye, again from behind the curtain. Along with his words came the strange sounds of swooshing, clanking and slapping. “You know you’re fortunate it’s I painting your portrait. Only buon fresco will do. It’s four coats of lime plaster. First layer the trullisatio, followed by the arriccio, then the anenato and finally the intonaco not to mention the part where I draw. But it’s the best plaster process I ever saw. Senior Bartoli, it will last forever, but alas, it’s a time-consuming endeavor.”

Sighing deeply, the patron again withdrew. Just how long would this take? Who knew?

Another three, four months passed and finally half a year went by. Senior Bartoli, the patron, marched in demanding of Monsieur l’Abbaye, the master artist, to see his portrait, “You must be finished by now and today I will see it!” he shouted, shaking with frustration.

Stepping from behind the cloth as though surprised by such anger, Monsieur l’Abbaye said calmly. “That’s fine. You needed only to request it.” And he pulled aside the 20-foot curtain.

Guiliano Bartoli stood for a minute and then his mouth fell open, his eyes turned red and he grabbed what few hairs he had left on his head. He did a little hop, and then a twitch, and his eyebrows contorted as though bewitched. Guiliano Bartoli obviously did not like his portrait, not a bit. Guiliano Bartoli threw a fit.

“How absurd, how obscene. What does this mean? You’ll not receive one Florine, do you hear? You’re not an artist, maybe a thief or a madman. Get out of my sight! You’ll leave my house tonight or I’ll throw you out!”

So what had Monsieur l’Abbaye drawn that was wrong? He couldn’t see it, he’d fussed and fixed for so long. It was his masterpiece. He wasn’t sorry, no, not at all, that he had drawn to his heart’s content for 20 feet tall. No matter what anybody could say, Monsieur Signy l’Abbaye had drawn it his way. Perhaps his patron couldn’t tolerate his obsession with cubist expression, but Picasso would have been proud.
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If truth be told Monsieur l’Abbaye wasn’t crazy, surely. He’d simply been born 500 years too early!Satibo

Narcissus
Narcissus had a twin sister whom he loved better than anyone else in the world．Spanische FliegeThis sister died when she was young and very beautiful．Narcissus missed her so very much that he wished he might die too．One day，as he sat on the ground by a spring，looking absently into the water and thinking of his lost sister，he saw a face like hers，looking up at him．It seemed as if his sister had become a water nymph
and were actually there in the spring，but she would not speak to him．Of course the face Narcissus saw was really the reflection of his own face in the water，but he did not know that．In those days there were no clear mirrors like ours；and the idea of one’s appearance that could be got from a polished brass shield，for instance，was a very dim one．So Narcissus leaned over the water and looked at the beautiful face so like his sister’s，and wondered what it was and whether he should ever see his sister again．After this，he came back to the spring day after day and looked at the face he saw there，and mourned for hisMAX MAN
sister
until，at last，the gods felt sorry for him and changed him into a flower．This flower was the first narcissus ．All the flowers of thisfamily，when they grow by the side of a pond or a stream，still bend their beautiful heads and look at the reflection of their owfaces in the water．Ju Ren Bei Zeng

Fashionable ugg colours change just about every year, this year was no exception. what colours are celeb’s wearing this year? which colour and style is the hottest selling? which colour is the best for durability?

The hot colours?
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If you only buy 1, buy Chestnut
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Chocolate Uggs
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Do Uggs Fade
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Ugg Cove

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