Rocsi 9. Constelatialeu 9. Aperitive si gustari apetisante. Aperitiv felii de bagheta cu ciuperci sote picante. Chec aperitiv cu verdeturi, spuma de branza si fistic. Tartine cu unt aromat, branza brie si nuca.
Aperitiv tarta floarea soarelui cu spanac. Rulada de vitel cu nuci. Chec aperitiv mozaic. Aperitive pentru masa de Craciun sau Revelion. Aperitiv rulada cu crema de branza si ciuperci. Retete de post. Humus reteta cu ardei copti. Pasta de fasole cu sos de ceapa caramelizata.
Ciorba de loboda rosie - Reteta video. Mancare de ardei copti cu rosii si cimbru. Pilaf cu praz si masline. Placinte cu varza calita, de post. Desert tort ciocolatos - de post. Cozonac cu Fanta de post. Desert prajitura de post. RO FEB Desert prajitura cu crema de portocale. Locul unde vezi ce e nou, ce e hot si ce merita citit! Supa de pasare cu There was an old door in this playground, on which the boys had a custom of carving their names.
It was completely covered with such inscriptions. He bites. Steerforth--who cut his name very deep and very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There was another boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me.
There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door, until the owners of all the names--there were five-and-forty of them in the school then, Mr. He bites! It was the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped at, on my way to, and when I was in, my own bed. I remember dreaming night after night, of being with my mother as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr. In the monotony of my life, and in my constant apprehension of the re-opening of the school, it was such an insupportable affliction!
I had long tasks every day to do with Mr. Mell; but I did them, there being no Mr. Before, and after them, I walked about--supervised, as I have mentioned, by the man with the wooden leg. How vividly I call to mind the damp about the house, the green cracked flagstones in the court, an old leaky water-butt, and the discoloured trunks of some of the grim trees, which seemed to have dripped more in the rain than other trees, and to have blown less in the sun!
At one we dined, Mr. Mell and I, at the upper end of a long bare dining-room, full of deal tables, and smelling of fat. Then, we had more tasks until tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a blue teacup, and I out of a tin pot. All day long, and until seven or eight in the evening, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the schoolroom, worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing-paper, making out the bills as I found for last half-year.
When he had put up his things for the night he took out his flute, and blew at it, until I almost thought he would gradually blow his whole being into the large hole at the top, and ooze away at the keys. I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting with my head upon my hand, listening to the doleful performance of Mr. I picture myself with my books shut up, still listening to the doleful performance of Mr.
Mell, and listening through it to what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind on Yarmouth flats, and feeling very sad and solitary. I picture myself going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting on my bed-side crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty. I picture myself coming downstairs in the morning, and looking through a long ghastly gash of a staircase window at the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-house with a weathercock above it; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work: which is only second, in my foreboding apprehensions, to the time when the man with the wooden leg shall unlock the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr. I cannot think I was a very dangerous character in any of these aspects, but in all of them I carried the same warning on my back.
Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh to me. I suppose we were company to each other, without talking.
I forgot to mention that he would talk to himself sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and grind his teeth, and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he had these peculiarities: and at first they frightened me, though I soon got used to them.
Down the gulch a brook clattered amid its ice with the sound of a perpetual breaking of glass. All the forest looked drenched and forlorn. The skyline was a ragged enclosure of gray cliffs and hemlocks and pines. If one had been miraculously set down in this gulch one could have imagined easily that the nearest human habitation was hundreds of miles away, if it were not for an old half-discernible wood-road that led towards the brook.
Who's there? The hush endured for some seconds, and then the voice of the challenger was again raised, this time with a distinctly querulous note in it.
Why don't you answer when I holler? Don't you know you're likely to get shot? The majestic scowl of official wrath was upon the brow of Reeves Margate, a long stick was held in the hollow of his arm as one would hold a rifle, and he strode grimly to the other boy. You've got to answer when I holler, anyhow. Willie says so.
But the Phelps boy became very angry. Can't I, hey? I'll show you whether I can or not! I'll show you, Reeves Margate! Here's a man tryin' to run a-past the guard. Hey, fellers! The voice of Willie could be heard exhorting his followers to charge swiftly and bravely.
The chieftain's face was dark with wrath. Can't you play it right? The sentry was yelling out his grievance. That ain't no way. If you're goin' to play, you've got to play it right. It ain't no fun if you go spoilin' the whole thing this way. Whereupon the remainder of the band yelled out, with one triumphant voice: "War to the knife! War to the knife! I remember it, Willie. Don't I, Willie? Evidently he was trying to develop in his mind a plan for dealing correctly with this unusual incident.
He felt, no doubt, that he must proceed according to the books, but unfortunately the books did not cover the point precisely. However, he finally said to Homer Phelps, "You are under arrest. The latter clearly did not intend to be seized. He backed away, expostulating wildly. He even seemed somewhat frightened.
They moved slowly, watching the desperate light in his eyes. The chieftain stood with folded arms, his face growing darker and darker with impatience. At length he burst out: "Oh, seize him, I tell you!
Why don't you seize him? Grab him by the leg, Dannie! Hurry up, all of you! Seize him, I keep a-say-in'! But, to tell the truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from laying hands of violence upon little Phelps under these conditions. Perhaps it was because they were only playing, whereas he was now undeniably serious.
At any rate, they looked very sick of their occupation. You're no good at all! You've got to be seized, you know. That ain't the way. It ain't any fun if you keep a-dodgin' that way.
Stand still, can't you! You've got to be seized. That's the way to play it. Don't you see? You've got to play it the right way. You've got to be seized, an' then we'll hold a trial on you, an'--an' all sorts of things. He continued doggedly to repeat, "I don't want to play that way!
Don't be so mean. You're a-spoilin' everything. We won't hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit. It's all just playin'. What's the matter with you? He showed some signs of the beginning of weakness. Not a thing. The Phelps boy was marched off between Dan Earl and a Margate twin.
The party proceeded to their camp, which was hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a miserable little hut with a pine-bark roof, which so frankly and constantly leaked that existence in the open air was always preferable.
At present it was noisily dripping melted snow into the black mouldy interior. In front of this hut a feeble fire was flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery snow was of the color of lead. The party having arrived at the camp, the chief leaned against a tree, and balancing on one foot, drew off a rubber boot. From this boot he emptied about a quart of snow. He squeezed his stocking, which had a hole from which protruded a lobster-red toe.
He resumed his boot. They did it. Don't you understand? The chief made a swift gesture, and turned in despair to the others. He does it all wrong! Wait till I ask you. Now wait. I--" "Thunder an' lightnin'! What in the mischief--" But there was an interruption from Jimmie Trescott, who shouldered a twin aside and stepped to the front.
I'll show 'im how to do it. Now all you fellers with guns stand there in a row! Get out of the way, Homer! Standing there before his judge--unarmed, slim, quiet, modest--he was ideal. The chief beamed upon him, and looked aside to cast a triumphant and withering glance upon Homer Phelps. He said: "There! That's the way to do it. You've got to have a trial first. You've got to fetch up a lot of people first who'll say I done it. Here, Reeves, you be first witness. Did the prisoner do it?
He was at the point where the roads forked. Finally he hazarded, "Yes. Now, Dan, you be a witness. Did he do it? They blindfolded Jimmie under his careful directions.
He waded a few paces into snow, and then turned and stood with quiet dignity, awaiting his fate. The chief marshalled the twins and Dan Earl in line with their sticks.
He gave the necessary commands: "Load! It was beautiful. They acclaimed him joyously. The chief was particularly grateful.
He was always trying to bring off these little romantic affairs, and it seemed, after all, that the only boy who could ever really help him was Jimmie Trescott.
Jimmie, blown out like a balloon-fish with pride of his performance, swaggered to the fire and took seat on some wet hemlock boughs. One of the twins came fortunately upon a small cedar-tree the lower branches of which were dead and dry. An armful of these branches flung upon the sick fire soon made a high, ruddy, warm blaze, which was like an illumination in honor of Jimmie's success.
The boys sprawled about the fire and talked the regular language of the game. Our wild, free life is--there ain't nothin' to compare with our wild, free life. An' don't you forgit, either, that Dead-shot Demon, the leader of the Red Raiders, never forgits a friend.
Since his disgraceful refusal to be seized and executed he had been hovering unheeded on the outskirts of the band. He seemed very sorry; he cast a wistful eye at the romantic scene. He knew too well that if he went near at that particular time he would be certain to encounter a pitiless snubbing. So he vacillated modestly in the background. At last the moment came when he dared venture near enough to the fire to gain some warmth, for he was now bitterly suffering with the cold.
He sidled close to Willie Dalzel. No one heeded him. Eventually he looked at his chief, and with a bright face said, "Now--if I was seized now to be executed, I could do it as well as Jimmie Trescott, I could. Why didn't you do it? He wagged his shoulders in misery. We executed you, we did. Didn't we, fellers? Hey, fellers, didn't we? You're dead, Homer. You can't play any more. You're dead. It was Jimmie Trescott," he said, in a low and bitter voice, his eyes on the ground.
He would have given the world if he could have retracted his mad refusals of the early part of the drama. You're dead, you are. In the mean time the dead lad hovered near the fire, looking moodily at the gay and exciting scene.
After the fight the gallant defenders returned one by one to the fire, where they grandly clasped hands, calling each other "old pard," and boasting of their deeds.
Parenthetically, one of the twins had an unfortunate inspiration. Did you see me kill the Indy-un chief? The roving and inventive eye of the chief chanced upon Homer Phelps.
Here's a dead man! Come on, fellers, here's a dead man! We've got to bury him, you know. The unhappy boy saw clearly his road to rehabilitation, but mind and body revolted at the idea of burial, even as they had revolted at the thought of execution. I don't want to be buried! Think you're made of glass? Come on, fellers, get the grave ready! The victim surveyed these preparations with a glassy eye. When all was ready, the chief turned determinedly to him: "Come on now, Homer. We've got to carry you to the grave.
Get him by the legs, Jim! Phelps had now passed into that state which may be described as a curious and temporary childish fatalism. He still objected, but it was only feeble muttering, as if he did not know what he spoke. In some confusion they carried him to the rectangle of hemlock boughs and dropped him. Then they piled other boughs upon him until he was not to be seen. The chief stepped forward to make a short address, but before proceeding with it he thought it expedient, from certain indications, to speak to the grave itself.
Lie still until I get through. The chief took off his hat. Those who watched him could see that his face was harrowed with emotion. Bowie-knife Joe was a brave man an' a good pard, but--he's gone now-gone. And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples th' upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the first Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abyss, And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That, to the height of this great argument, I may assert Eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men.
Say first--for Heaven hides nothing from thy view, Nor the deep tract of Hell--say first what cause Moved our grand parents, in that happy state,. Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off From their Creator, and transgress his will For one restraint, lords of the World besides. Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? Th' infernal Serpent; he it was whose guile, Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equalled the Most High, If he opposed, and with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God, Raised impious war in Heaven and battle proud, With vain attempt.
Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew, Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded, though immortal.
But his doom Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes, That witnessed huge affliction and dismay, Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate. At once, as far as Angels ken, he views The dismal situation waste and wild.
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames No light; but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all, but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
Such place Eternal Justice has prepared For those rebellious; here their prison ordained In utter darkness, and their portion set, As far removed from God and light of Heaven As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole. Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell! There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side, One next himself in power, and next in crime, Long after known in Palestine, and named Beelzebub.
Citate, aforisme, maxime, proverbe tocmai bune de citit noaptea, atunci cand nu ai somn si incerci sa-ti deslusesti visele si sa risipesti intunericul din viata ta Noapte buna!
Toate ideile sunt numai ale tale pentru ca toata lumea doarme. Willis "Ma gandesc adeseori ca noaptea este mult mai vie si mai bogat colorata decat ziua.
Ea aduce la lumina regretele zilei. Knowles "Sunt nopti cand lupii sunt tacuti si numai luna urla. Nu ne-ai fost daruita pentru somn! Noaptea, cand cuvintele se vestejesc iar lucrurile capata viata. Atunci cand analiza destructiva a zilei e sfarsita, si tot ceea ce este cu adevarat important redevine intreg si logic din nou. Atunci cand omul isi readuna sinele fragmentat si creste cu seninatatea unui arbore. O raza crescuta in intunecime! Tu ai bucuria sa adancesti superficiala zi. Fischer "Ceea ce iau din noptile mele adaug zilelor mele.
Rowling "Oricat ar fi noaptea de lunga, tot vin odata zorile. Daca nu ar fi intuneric, nu am zari niciodata stelele. Imi dau seama ca incepand din leagan am fost aidoma restului rasei umane - niciodata intru totul intreg la minte in timpul noptii.
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