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**Elena**
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Postby **Elena** » Thu Aug 16, 2007 7:11 am

Once upon a time there was a Prince who, through no fault of his own was cast under a spell by an evil witch. The curse was that the Prince could speak only one word each year. However, he could save up the words so that if he did not speak for a whole year, then the following year he was allowed to speak two words. (This was before the time of letter writing or signlanguage.)

One day he met abeautiful princess (ruby lips, golden hair, sapphire eyes,) and fell madly in love. With the greatest difficulty he decided to refrain from speakingfor two whole years so that he could look at her and say "my darling". But at the end of the two years he wished to tell her that he loved her.

Because of this he waited three more years without speaking (bringing the total number of silent years to 5).But at the end of these five years he realized that he had to ask her to marry him. So he waited ANOTHER four years without speaking.

Finally as the ninth year of ! silence ended, his joy knew no bounds.
Leading the lovely princess to the most secluded and romantic place in that beautiful royal garden the prince heaped a hundred red roses on her lap, knelt before her, and taking her hand in his, said huskily, "My darling,I love you! Will you marry me?" And the princess tucked a strand of golden hair behind a dainty ear, opened her sapphire eyes in wonder, and parting her ruby lips, said:



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scroll down......

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......Well, guess what she said ...........

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......come on, guess what could she have said ......

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"Pardon . . . ?

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**Elena**
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Postby **Elena** » Thu Aug 16, 2007 7:16 am

"Mom" I said to her each day "I love you with all my heart"
"but I'm afraid if you left it would tear my life apart"
Then she smiled and looked at me and said "I will never leave"
I would smile and hug her tight and she would say "Only if you believe"
"Believe in what?" I asked her then
And the only answer she gave was "You just wait and see"
And soon the time came for me to move away and be out on my own.
The thought of being away from home scared me oh so much
But my mom smiled and said to me "Honey, just believe"
As I walked out into the world with my mother no longer by my side
I said to myself, "Honey, just believe"
and with those words I was comforted .

Soon I had a family and a life all my own.
My mother was still my friend but now I'd always say
"Mother, I love you so much. Don't you ever leave!"
Then of course she'd say to me "Honey, just believe."
Soon my mother became old and sick and couldn't be on her own.
So she moved in my house with me and my new family.
Everyone loved her so much.

She was such a delight until one day she started losing her fight.
She became very ill and couldn't get out of bed
So every night I'd sit with her until one night when she said
"Honey now I must go but you will not be alone as I said
I will never leave only if you believe"
"Mother don't go" I cried as I held her in my arms
"I love you too much to let you go. Please don't leave me here alone"
"Honey you will never be alone," she said crying along with me
"I love you more than life itself you just have to believe"

My mother fell limp in my arms and I screamed out with pain.
Pain in my heart that hurt so bad cause she left me all alone
Soon I became so sad and no one could comfort me.
Everyday I'd sit and think she left me all alone.
Then one day I heard a voice saying "Honey, just believe"
"Just believe" I thought to myself
"But believe in what?" I said
Then I realized all along
I'd never been alone cause the voice that whispered
to believe was my mother in my heart.
So now I tell my Sely each day
"You will never be alone honey. Just believe"

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**Elena**
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Postby **Elena** » Thu Aug 16, 2007 7:33 am

A touching story and A good reminder: "Take time to appreciate what you have now." -- Don't miss reading this one SOURCE UNKNOWN...
nevertheless... really good.

On the last day before Christmas, I hurried to go to the supermarket to buy the remaining of the gift I didn't manage to buy earlier.
When I saw all the people there, I started to complain tomyself,"It is going to take forever here and I still have so many other places to go.
Christmas really is getting more and more annoying every year.How I wish I could just lie down, go to sleep and only wake up after it..."
Nonetheless, I made my way to the toy section, and there I started to curse the prices, wondering if after all kids really playwith such expensive toys.

While looking in the toy section, I noticed a small boy of about 5 years old, pressing a doll against his chest. He kept on touching the hair of the
doll and looked so sad. I wondered who was this doll for. Then the little boy turned to the old woman next to him, "Granny, are you sure I don't have
enough money?"

The old lady replied, "You know that you don't have enough money to buy this doll, my dear."

Then she asked him to stay here for 5 minutes while she went to look around. She left quickly. The little boy was still holding the doll in his hand.

Finally, I started to walk toward him and I asked him who did he want to give this doll to.
"It is the doll that my sister loved most and wanted so much for this Christmas. She was so sure that Santa Claus would bring it to her."

I replied to him that may be Santa Claus will bring it to her, after all, and not to worry.
But he replied to me sadly. "No, Santa Claus can not bring it to her where she is now. I have to give the doll to my mother so that she can give it to her when she goes there."His eyes were so sad while saying this. "My sister has gone to be with God. Daddy says that Mummy will also go to see God very
soon, so I thought that she could bring the doll with her to give it to my sister."

My heart nearly stopped. The little boy looked up at me and said, "I told daddy to tell mummy not to go yet. I asked him to wait until I come back from the supermarket."
Then he showed me a very nice photo of him where he was laughing. He then told me, "I also want mummy to take this photo with her so that she will not forget me." I love my mummy and I wish she doesn't have to leave me but daddy says that she has to go to be with
my little sister."
Then he looked again at the doll with sad eyes, very quietly.I quickly reached for my wallet and took a few notes and said to the boy, "What if we
checked again, just in case if you have enough money?"

"Ok," he said. "I hope that I have enough."

I added some of my money to his without him seeing and we started to count it. There was enough for the doll, and even some spare money. The little boy said, "Thank you God for giving me enough money."
Then he looked at me and added, "I asked yesterday before I slept for God to make sure I have enough money to buy this doll so that mummy can give it
to my sister. He heard me." "I also wanted to have enough money to buy a white rose for my mummy, but I didn't dare to ask God too much. But He gave
me enough to buy the doll and the white rose."

"You know, my mummy loves white rose."

A few minutes later, the old lady came again and I left with my trolley. I finished my shopping in a totally different state from when I started. I couldn't get the little boy out of my mind.

Then I remembered a local newspaper article 2 days ago, which mentioned of a drunk man in a truck who hit a car where there was one young lady and a
little girl. The little girl died right away, and the mother was left in a critical state. The family had to decide whether to pull the plug on the
life-assisting machine, because the young lady would not be able to get out of the coma.

Was this the family of the little boy?

Two days after this encounter with the little boy, I read in the newspaper that the young lady had passed away.I couldn't stop myself and went to buy a bunch of white roses and I went to the mortuary where the body of the young woman was exposed for people to see and make last wish before burial.

She was there, in her coffin, holding a beautiful white rosein her hand with the photo of the little boy and the doll placed over her chest. I left the place crying, feeling that my life had been changed forever. The love that this little boy had for his mother and his sister is still, to that day, hard to imagine. And in a fraction of a second, a drunk man
had taken all this away from him.

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Bambang
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Postby Bambang » Thu Aug 16, 2007 2:07 pm

Thank you for the stories.

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Postby Bambang » Sat Aug 18, 2007 8:17 am

**Elena** wrote:YES, SIR!!! :D

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash, and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.
And there's one more - that's seventeen!
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my spine is weak.
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent - my spine ain't straight.
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is-
...WHAT?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is...Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
by Shel Silverstein



Such a creative kid :!:

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**Elena**
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Location: Moscow

Postby **Elena** » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:22 am

There is very instructive incident involving the life of Alexander, the great Greek king.

Alexander, after conquering many kingdoms, was returning home. On the way, he fell ill and it took him to his death bed. With death staring him in his face, Alexander realized how his conquests, his great army, his sharp sword and all his wealth were of no consequence.

He now longed to reach home to see his mother's face and bid her his last adieu. But, he had to accept the fact that his sinking health would not permit Him to reach his distant homeland. So,
the mighty conqueror lay prostrate and pale, helplessly waiting to breathe his last. He called his generals and said, "I will depart from this world soon,

I have three wishes, please carry them out without fail." With tears flowing down .Their cheeks, the generals agreed to abide by their king's last wishes.

"My first desire is that," said Alexander, "My physicians alone must carry my coffin." After a pause, he continued, "Secondly, I desire that when my coffin is being carried to the grave, the path leading to the graveyard be strewn with gold, silver and precious stones which I have collected in my treasury.

" The king felt exhausted after saying this. He took a minute's rest and continued. "My third and last wish is that both my hands be kept dangling out of my coffin."

The people who had gathered there wondered at the king's strange wishes. But no one dare bring the question to their lips. Alexander's favorite general kissed his hand and pressed them to his heart. "O king, we assure you that your wishes will all be fulfilled. But tell us why do you make such strange wishes?"

At this Alexander took a deep breath and said: "I would like the world to know of the three lessons I have just learnt. I want my physicians to carry my coffin because people should realize that no doctor can really cure any body. They are powerless and cannot save a person from the clutches of death. So let not people take life for granted.


The second wish of strewing gold, silver and other riches on the way to the graveyard is to tell People that not even a fraction of gold will come with me. I spent all my life earning riches but cannot take anything with me. Let people realize that it is a sheer waste of time to chase wealth.

And about my third wish of having my hands dangling out of the coffin, I wish people to know that I came empty handed into this world and empty handed I go out of this world."

With these words, the king closed his eyes. Soon he let death conquer him and breathed his last. . . . .

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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:39 am

**Elena** wrote:The story begins like this...

'How long will you be poring over that newspaper? Will you come here right away and make your darling daughter eat her food?'

I tossed the paper away and rushed to the scene. My only daughter Sindu looked frightened. Tears were welling up in her eyes. In front of her was a bowl filled to its brim with Curd Rice.

Sindu is a nice child, quite intelligent for her age. She has just turned eight. She particularly detested Curd Rice. My mother and my wife are orthodox, and believe firmly in the 'cooling effects' of Curd Rice!

I cleared my throat, and picked up the bowl. "Sindu, darling, why don't you take a few mouthful of this Curd Rice? Just for Dad's sake, dear. And, if you don't, your Mom will shout at me.'

I could sense my wife's scowl behind my back. Sindu softened a bit, and wiped her tears with the back of her hands. 'OK, Dad. I will eat - not just a few mouthfuls, but the whole lot of this. But, you should...' Sindu hesitated. 'Dad, if I eat this entire Curd Rice, will you give me whatever I ask for?'

'Oh sure, darling'.

'Promise?'

'Promise'. I covered the pink soft hand extended by my daughter with mine, and clinched the deal.

'Ask Mom also to give a similar promise', my daughter insisted. My wife slapped her hand on sindu's, muttering 'Promise', without any emotion.

Now I became a bit anxious. 'Sindumma, you shouldn't insist on getting a computer or any such expensive items. Dad does not have that kind of money right now. OK?'

'No, Dad. I do not want anything expensive'. Slowly and painfully, she finished eating the whole quantity. I was silently angry with my wife and my mother for forcing my child eat something that she detested.

After the ordeal was through, Sindu came to me with her eyes wide with expectation. All our attention was on her. 'Dad, I want to have my head shaved off, this Sunday!' was her demand!

'Atrocious!' shouted my wife, 'a girl child having her head shaved off? Impossible!' .

'Never in our family!' my mother rasped. 'She has been watching too much of television. Our culture is getting totally spoiled with these TV programs!'

'Sindumma, why don't you ask for something else? We will be sad seeing you with a clean-shaven head.'

'No, Dad. I do not want anything else', Sindu said with finality.

'Please, Sindu, why don't you try to understand our feelings?' I tried to plead with her.

'Dad, you saw how difficult it was for me to eat that Curd Rice'. Sindu was in tears. 'And you promised to grant me whatever I ask for. Now, you are going back on your words. Was it not you who told me the story of King Harishchandra, and its moral that we should honour our promises no matter what?'

It was time for me to call the shots. 'Our promise must be kept.'

'Are you out your mind?' chorused my mother and wife.

'No. If we go back on our promises, she will never learn to honour her own. Sindu, your wish will be fulfilled.'

With her head clean-shaven, Sindu had a round-face, and her eyes looked big & beautiful.

On Monday morning, I dropped her at her school. It was a sight to watch my hairless Sindu walking towards her classroom. She turned around and waved. I waved back with a smile. Just then, a boy alighted from a car, and shouted, 'Sinduja, please wait for me!'

What struck me was the hairless head of that boy. 'May be, that is the in-stuff', I thought.

'Sir, your daughter Sinduja is great indeed!' Without introducing herself, a lady got out of the car, and continued, 'That boy who is walking along with your daughter is my son Harish. He is suffering from ... leukaemia.'

She paused to muffle her sobs. 'Harish could not attend the school for the whole of the last month. He lost all his hair due to the side effects of the chemotherapy. He refused to come back to school fearing the unintentional but cruel teasing of the schoolmates. Sinduja visited him last week, and promised him that she will take care of the teasing issue. But, I never imagined she would sacrifice her lovely hair for the sake of my son! Sir, you and your wife are blessed to have such a noble soul as your daughter.'

I stood transfixed. And then, I wept. 'My little Angel, will you grant me a boon? Should there be another birth for me, will you be my mother, and teach me what Love is?'


a very touching story.

This world would be peaceful if it were filled with such little girls.

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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:49 am

**Elena** wrote:Realise

There was once this guy who is very much in love with his girl. This
romantic guy folded 1,000 pieces of paper cranes as a gift to his girl. Although, at that time he was just a small fry in his company, his future doesn't seem too bright, they were very happy together. Until one day, his girl told him she was going to Paris and will never come back. She also told him that she cannot visualize any future for the both of them, so they went their own ways there and then...Heartbroken, the guy agreed. But when he regained his confidence, he worked hard day and night, slogging his body and mind just to make something out of himself. Finally with all the hard work and the help of friends, this guy had set up his own company ...
You never fail until you stop trying. One rainy day, while this guy was driving, he saw an elderly couple sharing an umbrella in the rain
walking to some destination. Even with the umbrella, they were still drenched. It didn't take him long to realize they were his girl's parents. With a heart in getting back at them, he drove slowly beside the couple,wanting them to spot him in his luxury sedan. He wanted them to know that he wasn't the same any more; he had his own company, car, condo, etc. He made it! What he saw next confused him, the couple was walking towards a cemetery, and so he got out of his car and followed...and he saw his girl, a photograph of her smiling sweetly as ever at him from her tombstone and he saw his paper cranes right beside her...Her parents saw him. He asked them why this had happened. They explained, she did not leave for France at all. She was ill with cancer. She had believed that he will make it someday, but she did not want to be his obstacle... therefore she had chosen to leave him. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have. She had wanted her parents to put his paper cranes beside her, because, if the day comes when fate brings him to her again...he can take some of those back with him... Once you have loved, you will always love. For what's in your mind may escape but what's in your heart will remain forever. The guy just wept...The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside her knowing you can't have her, see her or be with her ever again.........hope you understand.
Find time to realize that there is one person who means so much to you, for you might wake up one morning losing that person who you thought meant nothing to you.



That's the real love.

Love doesn't always mean that we have to own the one or the thing.


***Elena*** wrote:KINDNESS

One day, a poor boy who was selling goods from door to door to pay his
way through school, found he had only one thin dime left, and he was hungry.He decided he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, he lost his nerve when a lovely young woman opened the door. Instead of a meal he asked for a drink of water. She thought he looked hungry so brought him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, "How much do I owe you?" "You don't owe me anything," she replied "Mother has taught us never to accept payment for a kindness." He said... "Then I thank you from my heart."
As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt; stronger physically, but his faith in God and man was strong also. He had been ready to give up and quit.Years later that young woman became critically ill. The local doctors were baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called in specialists to study her rare disease. Dr. Howard Kelly was called in for the consultation. When he heard the name of the town she came from, a strange light filled his eyes. Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her room. Dressed in his doctor's gown he went in to see her. He recognized her at once. He went back to the consultation room determined to do his best to save her life. From that day he gave special attention to the case. After a long struggle, the battle was won. Dr. Kelly requested the business office to pass the final bill to him for approval. He looked at it, then wrote something on the edge and the bill was sent to her room. She feared to open it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her life to pay for it all. Finally, she looked, and something caught ; her attention on the side as She read these words..... "Paid in full with one glass of milk." (Signed) Dr. Howard Kelly. Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed: "Thank You, GOD, that Your love has spread abroad through human hearts and hands."
[/quote]

Whatever the good things we are doing now, will be fruitfull in the future, or at least in hearafter life.
Last edited by Bambang on Mon Aug 20, 2007 8:03 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Bambang
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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:51 am

**Elena** wrote:"Mom" I said to her each day "I love you with all my heart"
"but I'm afraid if you left it would tear my life apart"
Then she smiled and looked at me and said "I will never leave"
I would smile and hug her tight and she would say "Only if you believe"
"Believe in what?" I asked her then
And the only answer she gave was "You just wait and see"
And soon the time came for me to move away and be out on my own.
The thought of being away from home scared me oh so much
But my mom smiled and said to me "Honey, just believe"
As I walked out into the world with my mother no longer by my side
I said to myself, "Honey, just believe"
and with those words I was comforted .

Soon I had a family and a life all my own.
My mother was still my friend but now I'd always say
"Mother, I love you so much. Don't you ever leave!"
Then of course she'd say to me "Honey, just believe."
Soon my mother became old and sick and couldn't be on her own.
So she moved in my house with me and my new family.
Everyone loved her so much.

She was such a delight until one day she started losing her fight.
She became very ill and couldn't get out of bed
So every night I'd sit with her until one night when she said
"Honey now I must go but you will not be alone as I said
I will never leave only if you believe"
"Mother don't go" I cried as I held her in my arms
"I love you too much to let you go. Please don't leave me here alone"
"Honey you will never be alone," she said crying along with me
"I love you more than life itself you just have to believe"

My mother fell limp in my arms and I screamed out with pain.
Pain in my heart that hurt so bad cause she left me all alone
Soon I became so sad and no one could comfort me.
Everyday I'd sit and think she left me all alone.
Then one day I heard a voice saying "Honey, just believe"
"Just believe" I thought to myself
"But believe in what?" I said
Then I realized all along
I'd never been alone cause the voice that whispered
to believe was my mother in my heart.
So now I tell my Sely each day
"You will never be alone honey. Just believe"


Love your mother with all your heart, then you'll be blessed.

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Bambang
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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:52 am

**Elena** wrote:A touching story and A good reminder: "Take time to appreciate what you have now." -- Don't miss reading this one SOURCE UNKNOWN...
nevertheless... really good.

On the last day before Christmas, I hurried to go to the supermarket to buy the remaining of the gift I didn't manage to buy earlier.
When I saw all the people there, I started to complain tomyself,"It is going to take forever here and I still have so many other places to go.
Christmas really is getting more and more annoying every year.How I wish I could just lie down, go to sleep and only wake up after it..."
Nonetheless, I made my way to the toy section, and there I started to curse the prices, wondering if after all kids really playwith such expensive toys.

While looking in the toy section, I noticed a small boy of about 5 years old, pressing a doll against his chest. He kept on touching the hair of the
doll and looked so sad. I wondered who was this doll for. Then the little boy turned to the old woman next to him, "Granny, are you sure I don't have
enough money?"

The old lady replied, "You know that you don't have enough money to buy this doll, my dear."

Then she asked him to stay here for 5 minutes while she went to look around. She left quickly. The little boy was still holding the doll in his hand.

Finally, I started to walk toward him and I asked him who did he want to give this doll to.
"It is the doll that my sister loved most and wanted so much for this Christmas. She was so sure that Santa Claus would bring it to her."

I replied to him that may be Santa Claus will bring it to her, after all, and not to worry.
But he replied to me sadly. "No, Santa Claus can not bring it to her where she is now. I have to give the doll to my mother so that she can give it to her when she goes there."His eyes were so sad while saying this. "My sister has gone to be with God. Daddy says that Mummy will also go to see God very
soon, so I thought that she could bring the doll with her to give it to my sister."

My heart nearly stopped. The little boy looked up at me and said, "I told daddy to tell mummy not to go yet. I asked him to wait until I come back from the supermarket."
Then he showed me a very nice photo of him where he was laughing. He then told me, "I also want mummy to take this photo with her so that she will not forget me." I love my mummy and I wish she doesn't have to leave me but daddy says that she has to go to be with
my little sister."
Then he looked again at the doll with sad eyes, very quietly.I quickly reached for my wallet and took a few notes and said to the boy, "What if we
checked again, just in case if you have enough money?"

"Ok," he said. "I hope that I have enough."

I added some of my money to his without him seeing and we started to count it. There was enough for the doll, and even some spare money. The little boy said, "Thank you God for giving me enough money."
Then he looked at me and added, "I asked yesterday before I slept for God to make sure I have enough money to buy this doll so that mummy can give it
to my sister. He heard me." "I also wanted to have enough money to buy a white rose for my mummy, but I didn't dare to ask God too much. But He gave
me enough to buy the doll and the white rose."

"You know, my mummy loves white rose."

A few minutes later, the old lady came again and I left with my trolley. I finished my shopping in a totally different state from when I started. I couldn't get the little boy out of my mind.

Then I remembered a local newspaper article 2 days ago, which mentioned of a drunk man in a truck who hit a car where there was one young lady and a
little girl. The little girl died right away, and the mother was left in a critical state. The family had to decide whether to pull the plug on the
life-assisting machine, because the young lady would not be able to get out of the coma.

Was this the family of the little boy?

Two days after this encounter with the little boy, I read in the newspaper that the young lady had passed away.I couldn't stop myself and went to buy a bunch of white roses and I went to the mortuary where the body of the young woman was exposed for people to see and make last wish before burial.

She was there, in her coffin, holding a beautiful white rosein her hand with the photo of the little boy and the doll placed over her chest. I left the place crying, feeling that my life had been changed forever. The love that this little boy had for his mother and his sister is still, to that day, hard to imagine. And in a fraction of a second, a drunk man
had taken all this away from him.


Love has no border.

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Bambang
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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 7:58 am

**Elena** wrote:There is very instructive incident involving the life of Alexander, the great Greek king.

Alexander, after conquering many kingdoms, was returning home. On the way, he fell ill and it took him to his death bed. With death staring him in his face, Alexander realized how his conquests, his great army, his sharp sword and all his wealth were of no consequence.

He now longed to reach home to see his mother's face and bid her his last adieu. But, he had to accept the fact that his sinking health would not permit Him to reach his distant homeland. So,
the mighty conqueror lay prostrate and pale, helplessly waiting to breathe his last. He called his generals and said, "I will depart from this world soon,

I have three wishes, please carry them out without fail." With tears flowing down .Their cheeks, the generals agreed to abide by their king's last wishes.

"My first desire is that," said Alexander, "My physicians alone must carry my coffin." After a pause, he continued, "Secondly, I desire that when my coffin is being carried to the grave, the path leading to the graveyard be strewn with gold, silver and precious stones which I have collected in my treasury.

" The king felt exhausted after saying this. He took a minute's rest and continued. "My third and last wish is that both my hands be kept dangling out of my coffin."

The people who had gathered there wondered at the king's strange wishes. But no one dare bring the question to their lips. Alexander's favorite general kissed his hand and pressed them to his heart. "O king, we assure you that your wishes will all be fulfilled. But tell us why do you make such strange wishes?"

At this Alexander took a deep breath and said: "I would like the world to know of the three lessons I have just learnt. I want my physicians to carry my coffin because people should realize that no doctor can really cure any body. They are powerless and cannot save a person from the clutches of death. So let not people take life for granted.


The second wish of strewing gold, silver and other riches on the way to the graveyard is to tell People that not even a fraction of gold will come with me. I spent all my life earning riches but cannot take anything with me. Let people realize that it is a sheer waste of time to chase wealth.

And about my third wish of having my hands dangling out of the coffin, I wish people to know that I came empty handed into this world and empty handed I go out of this world."

With these words, the king closed his eyes. Soon he let death conquer him and breathed his last. . . . .


I like the moral of this story.

First, life and death is God's business.

Second, don't be too greedy in earning money.

Third, We'll bring nothing to the hereafter life except good deeds we do in this temporary world.

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Krisi
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Postby Krisi » Mon Aug 20, 2007 8:59 am

bambang wrote:I like the moral of this story.
First, life and death is God's business.
Second, don't be too greedy in earning money.
Third, We'll bring nothing to the hereafter life except good deeds we do in this temporary world.


Nice words uncle bambang.

I love the story too.

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Postby Krisi » Mon Aug 20, 2007 9:12 am

This is very touching. Felt sad.

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Postby **Elena** » Mon Aug 20, 2007 9:49 am

ITS A VERY NICE AND FUNNY SHORT STORY

The Romance of a Busy Broker by O.Henry

PITCHER, CONFIDENTIAL CLERK in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually
expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy `Good morning, Pitcher,' Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him. The young lady had been Maxwell's stenographer for a year. She was
beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forwent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it 8tted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell's desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence. The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.
`Well - what is it? Anything?' asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.
`Nothing,' answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile.
`Mr. Pitcher,' she said to the confidential clerk, `did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?'
`He did,' answered Pitcher. `He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples
this morning. It's 9.45 o'clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet.'
`I will do the work as usual, then,' said the young lady, `until someone comes to fill the place.' And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place. He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the `crowded hour of glorious life.' The broker's hour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms. And this day was Harvey Maxwell's busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher's face relaxed into something resembling animation. On the Exchange there were hurncanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker's offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe-dancer. He jumped from ticker to 'phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin. In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
`Lady from the Stenographer's Agency to see about the position,' said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
`What position?' he asked, with a frown.
`Position of stenographer,' said Pitcher. `You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.
`You are losing your mind, Pitcher,' said Maxwell. `Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect
satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There's no place open here, madam. Countermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don't bring any more of'em in here.'
The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed.
Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the `old man' seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world. The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell's Gustomers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine - strung to fall tension, going at fall speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities - here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature. When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the beloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the waking registers of the earth.
And through the window came a wandering - perhaps a lost odour - a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.
The odour brought her vividly, alinost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room - twenty steps away.
`By George, I'll do it now,' said Maxwell, half aloud. `I'll ask her now. I wonder I didn't do it long ago.'
He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.
She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on
her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
`Miss Leslie,' he began hurriedly, `I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven't had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please - those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific.'
`Oh, what are you talking about?' exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.
`Don't you understand?' said Maxwell restively. `I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I
snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They're calling me for the 'phone now. Tell 'em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won't you, Miss Leslie?'
The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker's neck.
`I know now,' she said softly. `It's this old business that has driven everything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened
at first. Don't you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at eight o'clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.'

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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 3:25 pm

The love of mothers to their children has no border.

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Postby Bambang » Mon Aug 20, 2007 3:36 pm

Bravo.

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**Elena**
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Postby **Elena** » Tue Aug 21, 2007 9:29 am

A Service Of Love also by O. Henry

When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.

That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine- tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f--, but that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married--for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat--something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be--sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor--janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close--let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long--enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister--you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light--his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock--you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every-- but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.
But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-- the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.
But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.
For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.
"Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General--General A. B. Pinkney's daughter--on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe--you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.
"My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper."
"That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two."
Delia came and hung about his neck.
"Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister."
"All right," said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump and a dear to do it."
"When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard," said Delia.
"Magister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park," said Joe. "And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them."
"I'm sure you will," said Delia, sweetly. "And now let's be thankful for Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast."
During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised and kissed at 7 o'clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times 7 o'clock when he returned in the evening.
At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8x10 (inches) centre table of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour.
Sometimes," she said, a little wearily, "Clementina tries me. I'm afraid she doesn't practise enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and that does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano--he is a widower, you know--and stands there pulling his white goatee. 'And how are the semiquavers and the demisemiquavers progressing?' he always asks.
"I wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portieres. And Clementina has such a funny little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia."
And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one--all legal tender notes--and laid them beside Delia's earnings.
"Sold that watercolour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria," he announced overwhelmingly.
"Don't joke with me," said Delia, "not from Peoria!"
"All the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first, he was game, though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another--an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight depot--to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it."
"I'm so glad you've kept on," said Delia, heartily. "You're bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before. We'll have oysters to-night."
"And filet mignon with champignons," said Joe. "Were is the olive fork?"
On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his hands.
Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and bandages.
"How is this?" asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously.
Clementina," she explained, "insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn't a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn't in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen. Pinkney!--Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody--they said the furnace man or somebody in the basement--out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up with. It doesn't hurt so much now."
"What's this?" asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages.
"It's something soft," said Delia, "that had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?" She had seen the money on the table.
"Did I?" said Joe; "just ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot to-day, and he isn't sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand, Dele?"
"Five o'clock, I think," said Dele, plaintively. "The iron--I mean the rabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen. Pinkney, Joe, when--"
"Sit down here a moment, Dele," said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat beside her and put his arm across her shoulders.
"What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?" he asked.
She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen. Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.
"I couldn't get any pupils," she confessed. "And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twentyfourth street laundry. And I think I did very well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don't you, Joe? And when a girl in the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You're not angry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn't got the work you mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.
"He wasn't from Peoria," said Joe, slowly.
"Well, it doesn't matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe --and--kiss me, Joe--and what made you ever suspect that I wasn't giving music lessons to Clementina?"
"I didn't," said Joe, "until to-night. And I wouldn't have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks."
"And then you didn't--"
"My purchaser from Peoria," said Joe, "and Gen. Pinkney are both creations of the same art--but you wouldn't call it either painting or music.
And then they both laughed, and Joe began:
"When one loves one's Art no service seems--"
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. "No," she said-- "just 'When one loves.'"

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Andrianna
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Postby Andrianna » Tue Aug 21, 2007 11:31 am

Oh! I'm crying... :cry: very-very impressive

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Bambang
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Postby Bambang » Wed Aug 22, 2007 4:51 pm

G r e a t

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Krisi
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Postby Krisi » Thu Sep 27, 2007 12:40 am

I love this, Elena...Image...

Burak
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:))

Postby Burak » Sat Sep 29, 2007 6:21 pm

Very nice :))


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