Results for aman is a bieng in every given si... translation from English to Tagalog

life is a gift, never forget to enjoy and bask in every moment you are in
life is a gift, never forget to enjoy and bask in every moment you are in

in every corner of the globe there is a difficult
nangyayari lang ito

based on the picture i see, everything is different from what i see and it is now in our society situation that we should not procrastinate in any kind of situation you are a priest just because there is a chance that there is justice in every situation and in reality it shows the real desire of each other to have equal treatment without discrimination against each other
base sa larawan na nakikita ko ay may pag kakaiba ang lahat sa nakikita ko at naayun ito ngayon sa ating society na sitwasyon na dapat hindi tayo nag papalamangan sa anong uri man ng kalagayan mo tayo ay pari pariho lamang sapagkat may roong pag kakataon na merong katarungan sa bawat sitwasyon at sa riyalidad naman ay nag papakita ng tunay na pag nanais ng bawat isa na mag karoon na pantay pantay na pag tingin ng walang diskriminasyon sa isat isa

in every trial of life do not be afraid because in life there is hope and always there is a new morning and above all it is the god to accompany you
sa bawat pagsubok sa buhay wag kang matakot dahil habang may buhay may pag asa at laging may bagong umaga at higit sa lahat nadyan ang dios para samahan ka

because it is one of the most famous paintings by leonardo da vinci it is appreciated in every corner of the world especially us christians it is a very important part written in the bible stated there that one of the 12 people there had a traitor to him and it really happened that jesus betrayed one of his friends, judas
dahil ito ay isa sa pinakasikat na painting ni leonardo da vinci ito ay pinapahalagahan saang mang sulok ng mundo lalo na nating mga kristyano ito ay napakahalagang bahagi na nakasulat sa bible nakalagay doon na isa sa 12 na katao na nadoon ay mayroon isang magtatraydor sa kanya at totoo ngang nangyari iyo tinayardor si jesus sa isa sa kanyang kaibigan na si judas

i am john arthur born in 2007, january 10 youngest son of judy and arturo . my youth is so much fun since i met the team tbrt and i also love mutors and i always go to every mutor show to join the troops and we also join in the drag rice because life is a mutor here because you can feel your tiredness for a lifetime or your problems in every place you go and i also learned a little about mutor making thanks to jo n
ako si john arthur pinanganak taong 2007, january 10 bunsong anak nina judy at arturo . ang aking kabataan ay sobrang saya buhat nong nakilala ko ng team tbrt at nahilig din ako sa mga mutor at lagi ako nasasama sa bawat mutor show n sina salihan ng mga tropa at sumasali din kami sa mga drag rice masaya kasi nga buhay mutor dito mo kasi mararamdaman ang pag kawala ng pagod mo sabuhay or problem mo sa bawat lugar nyong napupuntahan at natuto din ako ng konti sa pag gawa ng mutor salamat kay jo n

classic short stories logo a day in the country by anton pavlovich chekhov (1860-1904) approximate word count: 2385 between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. a dark leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards the sun. red zigzags of lightning gleam here and there across it. there is a sound of far-away rumbling. a warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs up the dust. in a minute there will be a spurt of may rain and a real storm will begin. fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, looking for terenty the cobbler. the white-haired, barefoot child is pale. her eyes are wide-open, her lips are trembling. "uncle, where is terenty?" she asks every one she meets. no one answers. they are all preoccupied with the approaching storm and take refuge in their huts. at last she meets silanty silitch, the sacristan, terenty's bosom friend. he is coming along, staggering from the wind. "uncle, where is terenty?" "at the kitchen-gardens," answers silanty. the beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens and there finds terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket, is standing near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunken eyes at the dark storm-cloud. on his long crane-like legs he sways in the wind like a starling-cote. "uncle terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "uncle, darling!" terenty bends down to fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread with a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look at something little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved. "ah! servant of god, fyokla," he says, lisping tenderly, "where have you come from?" "uncle terenty," says fyokla, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the cobbler's coat. "brother danilka has had an accident! come along!" "what sort of accident? ough, what thunder! holy, holy, holy . what sort of accident?" "in the count's copse danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't get it out. come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out!" "how was it he put his hand in? what for?" "he wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out of the hole for me." "the day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble ."terenty shook his head and spat deliberately. "well, what am i to do with you now? i must come i must, may the wolf gobble you up, you naughty children! come, little orphan!" terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, begins striding down the village street. he walks quickly without stopping or looking from side to side, as though he were shoved from behind or afraid of pursuit. fyokla can hardly keep up with him. they come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards the count's copse that lies dark blue in the distance. it is about a mile and a half away. the clouds have by now covered the sun, and soon afterwards there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. it grows dark. "holy, holy, holy " whispers fyokla, hurrying after terenty. the first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty road. a big drop falls on fyokla's cheek and glides like a tear down her chin. "the rain has begun," mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust with his bare, bony feet. "that's fine, fyokla, old girl. the grass and the trees are fed by the rain, as we are by bread. and as for the thunder, don't you be frightened, little orphan. why should it kill a little thing like you?" as soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. the only sound is the patter of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the parched road. "we shall get soaked, fyokla," mutters terenty. "there won't be a dry spot left on us .ho-ho, my girl! it's run down my neck! but don't be frightened, silly .the grass will be dry again, the earth will be dry again, and we shall be dry again. there is the same sun for us all." a flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above their head. there is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to fyokla that something big, heavy, and round is rolling over the sky and tearing it open, exactly over her head. "holy, holy, holy " says terenty, crossing himself. "don't be afraid, little orphan! it is not from spite that it thunders." terenty's and fyokla's feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wet clay. it is slippery and difficult to walk, but terenty strides on more and more rapidly. the weak little beggar-girl is breathless and ready to drop. but at last they go into the count's copse. the washed trees, stirred by a gust of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. terenty stumbles over stumps and begins to slacken his pace. "whereabouts is danilka?" he asks. "lead me to him." fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of a mile, points to danilka. her brother, a little fellow of eight, with hair as red as ochre and a pale sickly face, stands leaning against a tree, and, with his head on one side, looking sideways at the sky. in one hand he holds his shabby old cap, the other is hidden in an old lime tree. the boy is gazing at the stormy sky, and apparently not thinking of his trouble. hearing footsteps and seeing the cobbler he gives sickly smile and says: "a terrible lot of thunder, terenty .i've never heard so much thunder in all my life." "and where is your hand?" "in the hole .pull it out, please, terenty!" the wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed danilka's hand: he could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. terenty snaps off the broken piece, and the boy's hand, red and crushed, is released. "it's terrible how it's thundering," the boy says again, rubbing his hand. "what makes it thunder, terenty?" "one cloud runs against the other," answers the cobbler. the party come out of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards the darkened road. the thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling is heard far away beyond the village. "the ducks flew by here the other day, terenty," says danilka, still rubbing his hand. "they must be nesting in the gniliya zaimishtcha marshes .fyokla, would you like me to show you a nightingale's nest?" "don't touch it, you might disturb them," says terenty, wringing the water out of his cap. "the nightingale is a singing-bird, without sin. he has had a voice given him in his throat, to praise god and gladden the heart of man. it's a sin to disturb him." "what about the sparrow?" "the sparrow doesn't matter, he's a bad, spiteful bird. he is like a pickpocket in his ways. he doesn't like man to be happy. when christ was crucified it was the sparrow brought nails to the jews, and called 'alive! alive!' " a bright patch of blue appears in the sky. "look!" says terenty. "an ant-heap burst open by the rain! they've been flooded, the rogues!" they bend over the ant-heap. the downpour has damaged it; the insects are scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily trying to carry away their drowned companions. "you needn't be in such a taking, you won't die of it!" says terenty, grinning. "as soon as the sun warms you, you'll come to your senses again .it's a lesson to you, you stupids. you won't settle on low ground another time." they go on. "and here are some bees," cries danilka, pointing to the branch of a young oak tree. the drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch. there are so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. many of them are settled on one another. "that's a swarm of bees," terenty informs them. "they were flying looking for a home, and when the rain came down upon them they settled. if a swarm is flying, you need only sprinkle water on them to make them settle. now if, say, you wanted to take the swarm, you would bend the branch with them into a sack and shake it, and they all fall in." little fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. her brother looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it. "hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "do you know where you got that from, fyokla, old girl? there are spanish flies on some tree in the wood. the rain has trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck—that's what has made the swelling." the sun appears from behind the clouds and floods the wood, the fields, and the three friends with its warm light. the dark menacing cloud has gone far away and taken the storm with it. the air is warm and fragrant. there is a scent of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley. "that herb is given when your nose bleeds," says terenty, pointing to a woolly-looking flower. "it does good." they hear a whistle and a rumble, but not such a rumble as the storm-clouds carried away. a goods train races by before the eyes of terenty, danilka, and fyokla. the engine, panting and puffing out black smoke, drags more than twenty vans after it. its power is tremendous. the children are interested to know how an engine, not alive and without the help of horses, can move and drag such weights, and terenty undertakes to explain it to them: "it's all the steam's doing, children . the steam does the work . you see, it shoves under that thing near the wheels, and it you see it works " they cross the railway line, and, going down from the embankment, walk towards the river. they walk not with any object, but just at random, and talk all the way . danilka asks questions, terenty answers them terenty answers all his questions, and there is no secret in nature which baffles him. he knows everything. thus, for example, he knows the names of all the wild flowers, animals, and stones. he knows what herbs cure diseases, he has no difficulty in telling the age of a horse or a cow. looking at the sunset, at the moon, or the birds, he can tell what sort of weather it will be next day. and indeed, it is not only terenty who is so wise. silanty silitch, the innkeeper, the market-gardener, the shepherd, and all the villagers, generally speaking, know as much as he does. these people have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs. danilka looks at terenty and greedily drinks in every word. in spring, before one is weary of the warmth and the monotonous green of the fields, when everything is fresh and full of fragrance, who would not want to hear about the golden may-beetles, about the cranes, about the gurgling streams, and the corn mounting into ear? the two of them, the cobbler and the orphan, walk about the fields, talk unceasingly, and are not weary. they could wander about the world endlessly. they walk, and in their talk of the beauty of the earth do not notice the frail little beggar-girl tripping after them. she is breathless and moves with a lagging step. there are tears in her eyes; she would be glad to stop these inexhaustible wanderers, but to whom and where can she go? she has no home or people of her own; whether she likes it or not, she must walk and listen to their talk. towards midday, all three sit down on the river bank. danilka takes out of his bag a piece of bread, soaked and reduced to a mash, and they begin to eat. terenty says a prayer when he has eaten the bread, then stretches himself on the sandy bank and falls asleep. while he is asleep, the boy gazes at the water, pondering. he has many different things to think of. he has just seen the storm, the bees, the ants, the train. now, before his eyes, fishes are whisking about. some are two inches long and more, others are no bigger than one's nail. a viper, with its head held high, is swimming from one bank to the other. only towards the evening our wanderers return to the village. the children go for the night to a deserted barn, where the corn of the commune used to be kept, while terenty, leaving them, goes to the tavern. the children lie huddled together on the straw, dozing. the boy does not sleep. he gazes into the darkness, and it seems to him that he is seeing all that he has seen in the day: the storm-clouds, the bright sunshine, the birds, the fish, lanky terenty. the number of his impressions, together with exhaustion and hunger, are too much for him; he is as hot as though he were on fire, and tosses from side to side. he longs to tell someone all that is haunting him now in the darkness and agitating his soul, but there is no one to tell. fyokla is too little and could not understand. "i'll tell terenty to-morrow," thinks the boy. the children fall asleep thinking of the homeless cobbler, and, in the night, terenty comes to them, makes the sign of the cross over them, and puts bread under their heads. and no one sees his love. it is seen only by the moon which floats in the sky and peeps caressingly through the holes in the wall of the deserted barn.
classic short stories logo a day in the country by anton pavlovich chekhov (1860-1904) approximate word count: 2385 between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. a dark leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards the sun. red zigzags of lightning gleam here and there across it. there is a sound of far-away rumbling. a warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs up the dust. in a minute there will be a spurt of may rain and a real storm will begin. fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, looking for terenty the cobbler. the white-haired, barefoot child is pale. her eyes are wide-open, her lips are trembling. "uncle, where is terenty?" she asks every one she meets. no one answers. they are all preoccupied with the approaching storm and take refuge in their huts. at last she meets silanty silitch, the sacristan, terenty's bosom friend. he is coming along, staggering from the wind. "uncle, where is terenty?" "at the kitchen-gardens," answers silanty. the beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens and there finds terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long legs, and bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket, is standing near the vegetable plots, looking with drowsy, drunken eyes at the dark storm-cloud. on his long crane-like legs he sways in the wind like a starling-cote. "uncle terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "uncle, darling!" terenty bends down to fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread with a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look at something little, foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved. "ah! servant of god, fyokla," he says, lisping tenderly, "where have you come from?" "uncle terenty," says fyokla, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the cobbler's coat. "brother danilka has had an accident! come along!" "what sort of accident? ough, what thunder! holy, holy, holy . what sort of accident?" "in the count's copse danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't get it out. come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out!" "how was it he put his hand in? what for?" "he wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out of the hole for me." "the day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble ."terenty shook his head and spat deliberately. "well, what am i to do with you now? i must come i must, may the wolf gobble you up, you naughty children! come, little orphan!" terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, begins striding down the village street. he walks quickly without stopping or looking from side to side, as though he were shoved from behind or afraid of pursuit. fyokla can hardly keep up with him. they come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards the count's copse that lies dark blue in the distance. it is about a mile and a half away. the clouds have by now covered the sun, and soon afterwards there is not a speck of blue left in the sky. it grows dark. "holy, holy, holy " whispers fyokla, hurrying after terenty. the first rain-drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty road. a big drop falls on fyokla's cheek and glides like a tear down her chin. "the rain has begun," mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust with his bare, bony feet. "that's fine, fyokla, old girl. the grass and the trees are fed by the rain, as we are by bread. and as for the thunder, don't you be frightened, little orphan. why should it kill a little thing like you?" as soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. the only sound is the patter of rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the parched road. "we shall get soaked, fyokla," mutters terenty. "there won't be a dry spot left on us .ho-ho, my girl! it's run down my neck! but don't be frightened, silly .the grass will be dry again, the earth will be dry again, and we shall be dry again. there is the same sun for us all." a flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above their head. there is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to fyokla that something big, heavy, and round is rolling over the sky and tearing it open, exactly over her head. "holy, holy, holy " says terenty, crossing himself. "don't be afraid, little orphan! it is not from spite that it thunders." terenty's and fyokla's feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wet clay. it is slippery and difficult to walk, but terenty strides on more and more rapidly. the weak little beggar-girl is breathless and ready to drop. but at last they go into the count's copse. the washed trees, stirred by a gust of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. terenty stumbles over stumps and begins to slacken his pace. "whereabouts is danilka?" he asks. "lead me to him." fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of a mile, points to danilka. her brother, a little fellow of eight, with hair as red as ochre and a pale sickly face, stands leaning against a tree, and, with his head on one side, looking sideways at the sky. in one hand he holds his shabby old cap, the other is hidden in an old lime tree. the boy is gazing at the stormy sky, and apparently not thinking of his trouble. hearing footsteps and seeing the cobbler he gives sickly smile and says: "a terrible lot of thunder, terenty .i've never heard so much thunder in all my life." "and where is your hand?" "in the hole .pull it out, please, terenty!" the wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed danilka's hand: he could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. terenty snaps off the broken piece, and the boy's hand, red and crushed, is released. "it's terrible how it's thundering," the boy says again, rubbing his hand. "what makes it thunder, terenty?" "one cloud runs against the other," answers the cobbler. the party come out of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards the darkened road. the thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling is heard far away beyond the village. "the ducks flew by here the other day, terenty," says danilka, still rubbing his hand. "they must be nesting in the gniliya zaimishtcha marshes .fyokla, would you like me to show you a nightingale's nest?" "don't touch it, you might disturb them," says terenty, wringing the water out of his cap. "the nightingale is a singing-bird, without sin. he has had a voice given him in his throat, to praise god and gladden the heart of man. it's a sin to disturb him." "what about the sparrow?" "the sparrow doesn't matter, he's a bad, spiteful bird. he is like a pickpocket in his ways. he doesn't like man to be happy. when christ was crucified it was the sparrow brought nails to the jews, and called 'alive! alive!' " a bright patch of blue appears in the sky. "look!" says terenty. "an ant-heap burst open by the rain! they've been flooded, the rogues!" they bend over the ant-heap. the downpour has damaged it; the insects are scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily trying to carry away their drowned companions. "you needn't be in such a taking, you won't die of it!" says terenty, grinning. "as soon as the sun warms you, you'll come to your senses again .it's a lesson to you, you stupids. you won't settle on low ground another time." they go on. "and here are some bees," cries danilka, pointing to the branch of a young oak tree. the drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch. there are so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. many of them are settled on one another. "that's a swarm of bees," terenty informs them. "they were flying looking for a home, and when the rain came down upon them they settled. if a swarm is flying, you need only sprinkle water on them to make them settle. now if, say, you wanted to take the swarm, you would bend the branch with them into a sack and shake it, and they all fall in." little fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. her brother looks at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it. "hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "do you know where you got that from, fyokla, old girl? there are spanish flies on some tree in the wood. the rain has trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck—that's what has made the swelling." the sun appears from behind the clouds and floods the wood, the fields, and the three friends with its warm light. the dark menacing cloud has gone far away and taken the storm with it. the air is warm and fragrant. there is a scent of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley. "that herb is given when your nose bleeds," says terenty, pointing to a woolly-looking flower. "it does good." they hear a whistle and a rumble, but not such a rumble as the storm-clouds carried away. a goods train races by before the eyes of terenty, danilka, and fyokla. the engine, panting and puffing out black smoke, drags more than twenty vans after it. its power is tremendous. the children are interested to know how an engine, not alive and without the help of horses, can move and drag such weights, and terenty undertakes to explain it to them: "it's all the steam's doing, children . the steam does the work . you see, it shoves under that thing near the wheels, and it you see it works " they cross the railway line, and, going down from the embankment, walk towards the river. they walk not with any object, but just at random, and talk all the way . danilka asks questions, terenty answers them terenty answers all his questions, and there is no secret in nature which baffles him. he knows everything. thus, for example, he knows the names of all the wild flowers, animals, and stones. he knows what herbs cure diseases, he has no difficulty in telling the age of a horse or a cow. looking at the sunset, at the moon, or the birds, he can tell what sort of weather it will be next day. and indeed, it is not only terenty who is so wise. silanty silitch, the innkeeper, the market-gardener, the shepherd, and all the villagers, generally speaking, know as much as he does. these people have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs. danilka looks at terenty and greedily drinks in every word. in spring, before one is weary of the warmth and the monotonous green of the fields, when everything is fresh and full of fragrance, who would not want to hear about the golden may-beetles, about the cranes, about the gurgling streams, and the corn mounting into ear? the two of them, the cobbler and the orphan, walk about the fields, talk unceasingly, and are not weary. they could wander about the world endlessly. they walk, and in their talk of the beauty of the earth do not notice the frail little beggar-girl tripping after them. she is breathless and moves with a lagging step. there are tears in her eyes; she would be glad to stop these inexhaustible wanderers, but to whom and where can she go? she has no home or people of her own; whether she likes it or not, she must walk and listen to their talk. towards midday, all three sit down on the river bank. danilka takes out of his bag a piece of bread, soaked and reduced to a mash, and they begin to eat. terenty says a prayer when he has eaten the bread, then stretches himself on the sandy bank and falls asleep. while he is asleep, the boy gazes at the water, pondering. he has many different things to think of. he has just seen the storm, the bees, the ants, the train. now, before his eyes, fishes are whisking about. some are two inches long and more, others are no bigger than one's nail. a viper, with its head held high, is swimming from one bank to the other. only towards the evening our wanderers return to the village. the children go for the night to a deserted barn, where the corn of the commune used to be kept, while terenty, leaving them, goes to the tavern. the children lie huddled together on the straw, dozing. the boy does not sleep. he gazes into the darkness, and it seems to him that he is seeing all that he has seen in the day: the storm-clouds, the bright sunshine, the birds, the fish, lanky terenty. the number of his impressions, together with exhaustion and hunger, are too much for him; he is as hot as though he were on fire, and tosses from side to side. he longs to tell someone all that is haunting him now in the darkness and agitating his soul, but there is no one to tell. fyokla is too little and could not understand. "i'll tell terenty to-morrow," thinks the boy. the children fall asleep thinking of the homeless cobbler, and, in the night, terenty comes to them, makes the sign of the cross over them, and puts bread under their heads. and no one sees his love. it is seen only by the moon which floats in the sky and peeps caressingly through the holes in the wall of the deserted barn.