10 studeni 2011

Vale Tyre Services - Rims And Tires For Cars - Solid Wheelchair Tyres.

Vale Tyre Services

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  • performance of duties or provision of space and equipment helpful to others; "the mayor tried to maintain city services"; "the medical services are excellent"

  • (service) be used by; as of a utility; "The sewage plant served the neighboring communities"; "The garage served to shelter his horses"

  • An act of assistance

  • The action of helping or doing work for someone

  • (service) work done by one person or group that benefits another; "budget separately for goods and services"

  • Assistance or advice given to customers during and after the sale of goods

  • A written or spoken farewell

  • Vale, name commonly known as Gabriel Jose Vale Valera, who is a Venezuelan philosopher, playwright, novelist, poet, literary critic, painter, sculptor and architect; self-taught. He was born in Caracas (February 23, 1979), city where takes his elementary education.

  • valley: a long depression in the surface of the land that usually contains a river

  • Vale is a former municipality in Vestfold county, Norway. The administrative centre was Sorby.

  • A port on the Mediterranean Sea in southern Lebanon; pop. 14,000. Founded in the 2nd millennium bc as a colony of Sidon, it was for centuries a Phoenician port and trading center

  • Sur: a port in southern Lebanon on the Mediterranean Sea; formerly a major Phoenician seaport famous for silks

  • Tyre (Arabic: , '; Phoenician: , , '; ????, Tzor; Tiberian Hebrew , '; Akkadian: ???? ; Greek: ', Tyros; Sur; Tyrus) is a city in the South Governorate of Lebanon.

  • tire: hoop that covers a wheel; "automobile tires are usually made of rubber and filled with compressed air"

070608 025

070608  025

Dale Leach reads Pvt. John Davis, who was a participant at the Battle of Gettysburg, 1863 prayer sent home to his mother in a letter. The details are as follows:

A Road Twice Marched

The morning had dawned clean and bright with a persistent fog still hanging, suspended, as if a silken vale, over the rolling land here on the Redding Farm just 4 miles north of a place on the map named Gettysburg in western Pennsylvania. The previous two days had been quite different as we had fought fierce and desperate battles with the determined enemy in unusually warm and humid weather that could be characterized by mists and driving, incessant rain. Such miserable conditions lent an almost surreal quality to these killing fields as the acrid smoke of continual gun fire mixed with the damp mist that hung like a shroud over us. We could aptly be described as ghostly silhouettes – both friend and foe alike – painted indistinctly as apparitions upon this awful canvass of war. Such unearthly and God-forsaken conditions had not gone without complaint because it seemed to us, of the 4th Co., 83 P.V.I., 2nd BTN, of Birney’s 1st Division, that our patience had been sorely tried these past two days with abject misery caused not only from battles themselves but also the indignities of camp life. Intolerant conditions such as sleeping in rain soaked and inadequate tents, meager rations, and the long walk that was required to fill our canteens or to gather pre-cut wood. Yes with our sorely tested morale born of such conditions as these, grumbling, coupled with occasional profanities, were oft repeated among our tired ranks. Yet this bright, Sunday morning seemed somehow hopeful with the promise of dryer conditions as our company commander, Capt. Pauley Baltzer, came round with orders to attend a camp-fire, church service at 9:30 sharp.

Many of us gathered here on this bright morn were also saddened to note that this day would be our final one for us who had traveled so far to pay homage to these deeply honored fields of glory to participate with 15,000 other reenacters in the 145th Battle Anniversary of Gettysburg. Yes, fully 9 of us from Co. A of the 13th U.S. Infantry – 1st. Sgt Tom Whitesides, Curtis Lewis, Howard Story, Bob Lockwood, Rick Stauffer, Howard Rose, Matt Strommer, myself: Dale Leach, and even a rebel spy: Mark Pike – had traveled over 1700 miles from Houston, TX for the privilege of honoring all those who had fought and died here on these blood-soaked fields some 145 years before. Yet all was not pleasant these past 2-1/2 days for us contemporary, arm-chair soldiers because we often complained, as stated before, about wet tents & bedding; the drudgery of walking so far for ‘the call of nature’ or to gather water or pre-cut firewood. Some of us modern day ‘conquerors’ also had the audacity to complain about the ‘dance’ that was required to avoid the occasional ‘road-apple’ left perilously in our pathways by the many horses of the cavalry as we made our way to fetch water. However: our petty complaints were utter sacrilege in comparison real hardships endured by our forefathers, those long years before, who had also marched upon this same hallowed ground of Gettysburg. Yes: ‘sacrilege’ it was to complain about little inconveniences such as marching to the ‘battleground’ each day when our forefathers had marched 20 or 30 miles each day for weeks only to be formed into battle formation once the site of battle was finally reached! Sacrilege it was to complain about walking a few yards for pre-cut firewood when these same forefathers had to forage and then cut & split their own wood. This list of inconsistencies is almost endless but they would eventually all be brought into sharp perspective, for many of us there of July 6th, 2008, with one such soldier of old, Pvt. John Davis, who had come here also in 1863 to these same fields of Gettysburg.

It was with sober reflection about such inconsistencies that caused many of us feel positively unworthy by comparison, on that July 6th, 2008 Sunday morning, as we gathered around the campfire for our 83rd PVI church service. With the regimental Chaplain officiating and 1st Lt. David Strichko assisting, we began with the apt 1869 hymn: ‘Rescue The Perishing’. And so it was that I also had come here to fulfill the the previous request of Valire Reyes, a good friend and member of the Sarah Emma Seelye Auxiliary and D.U.V.C.W. member in Houston, to read a treasured prayer written by one of her Civil War ancestors, Pvt. John Davis, in 1863. This seemed a most perfect opportunity to connect ‘our present’ with ‘their past’. Perhaps ‘perfect opportunity’ is not even an apt term for this touching prayer relevance it provided to our worship service that others expressed afterward when I introduced this soldier of 1863 – John Davis – and the circumstances for which he penned his humble prayer and sent it back home to his mother, Anna Jane Davis: (s

ruiseńor 01 - rossinyol - rufous nightingale - luscinia megarhynchos

ruiseńor 01 - rossinyol - rufous nightingale - luscinia megarhynchos



En China, como sabes muy bien, el Emperador es chino, y chinos son todos los que lo rodean. Hace ya muchos anos de lo que voy a contar, mas por eso precisamente vale la pena que lo oigais, antes de que la historia se haya olvidado.
El palacio del Emperador era el mas esplendido del mundo entero, todo el de la mas delicada porcelana. Todo en el era tan precioso y fragil, que habia que ir con mucho cuidado antes de tocar nada. El jardin estaba lleno de flores maravillosas, y de las mas bellas colgaban campanillas de plata que sonaban para que nadie pudiera pasar de largo sin fijarse en ellas. Si, en el jardin imperial todo estaba muy bien pensado, y era tan extenso, que el propio jardinero no tenia idea de donde terminaba. Si seguias andando, te encontrabas en el bosque mas esplendido que quepa imaginar, lleno de altos arboles y profundos lagos. Aquel bosque llegaba hasta el mar, hondo y azul; grandes embarcaciones podian navegar por debajo de las ramas, y alli vivia un ruisenor que cantaba tan primorosamente, que incluso el pobre pescador, a pesar de sus muchas ocupaciones, cuando por la noche salia a retirar las redes, se detenia a escuchar sus trinos.
- ?Dios santo, y que hermoso! - exclamaba; pero luego tenia que atender a sus redes y olvidarse del pajaro; hasta la noche siguiente, en que, al llegar de nuevo al lugar, repetia: - ?Dios santo, y que hermoso!
De todos los paises llegaban viajeros a la ciudad imperial, y admiraban el palacio y el jardin; pero en cuanto oian al ruisenor, exclamaban: - ?Esto es lo mejor de todo!
De regreso a sus tierras, los viajeros hablaban de el, y los sabios escribian libros y mas libros acerca de la ciudad, del palacio y del jardin, pero sin olvidarse nunca del ruisenor, al que ponian por las nubes; y los poetas componian bellos poemas sobre el pajaro que cantaba en el bosque, junto al profundo lago.
Aquellos libros se difundieron por el mundo, y algunos llegaron a manos del Emperador. Se hallaba sentado en su sillon de oro, leyendo y leyendo; de vez en cuando hacia con la cabeza un gesto de aprobacion, pues le satisfacia leer aquellas magnificas descripciones de la ciudad, del palacio y del jardin. «Pero lo mejor de todo es el ruisenor», decia el libro.
«?Que es esto? - penso el emperador -. ?El ruisenor? Jamas he oido hablar de el. ?Es posible que haya un pajaro asi en mi imperio, y precisamente en mi jardin? Nadie me ha informado. ?Esta bueno que uno tenga que enterarse de semejantes cosas por los libros!»
Y mando llamar al mayordomo de palacio, un personaje tan importante, que cuando una persona de rango inferior se atrevia a dirigirle la palabra o hacerle una pregunta, se limitaba a contestarle: «?P!». Y esto no significa nada.
- Segun parece, hay aqui un pajaro de lo mas notable, llamado ruisenor - dijo el Emperador -. Se dice que es lo mejor que existe en mi imperio; ?por que no se me ha informado de este hecho?
- Es la primera vez que oigo hablar de el -se justifico el mayordomo-. Nunca ha sido presentado en la Corte.
- Pues ordeno que acuda esta noche a cantar en mi presencia -dijo el Emperador-. El mundo entero sabe lo que tengo, menos yo.
- Es la primera vez que oigo hablar de el - repitio el mayordomo -. Lo buscare y lo encontrare.
?Encontrarlo?, ?donde? El dignatario se canso de subir Y bajar escaleras y de recorrer salas y pasillos. Nadie de cuantos pregunto habia oido hablar del ruisenor. Y el mayordomo, volviendo al Emperador, le dijo que se trataba de una de esas fabulas que suelen imprimirse en los libros.
- Vuestra Majestad Imperial no debe creer todo lo que se escribe; son fantasias y una cosa que llaman magia negra.
- Pero el libro en que lo he leido me lo ha enviado el poderoso Emperador del Japon - replico el Soberano; por tanto, no puede ser mentiroso. Quiero oir al ruisenor. Que acuda esta noche a, mi presencia, para cantar bajo mi especial proteccion. Si no se presenta, mandare que todos los cortesanos sean pateados en el estomago despues de cenar.
- ?Tsing-pe! - dijo el mayordomo; y vuelta a subir y bajar escaleras y a recorrer salas y pasillos, y media Corte con el, pues a nadie le hacia gracia que le patearan el estomago. Y todo era preguntar por el notable ruisenor, conocido por todo el mundo menos por la Corte.
Finalmente, dieron en la cocina con una pobre muchacha, que exclamo: - ?Dios mio! ?El ruisenor? ?Claro que lo conozco! ?que bien canta! Todas las noches me dan permiso para que lleve algunas sobras de comida a mi pobre madre que esta enferma. Vive alla en la playa, y cuando estoy de regreso, me paro a descansar en el bosque y oigo cantar al ruisenor. Y oyendolo se me vienen las lagrimas a los ojos, como si mi madre me besase. Es un recuerdo que me estremece de emocion y dulzura.
- Pequena lavaplatos - dijo el mayordomo -, te dare un empleo fijo en la cocina y permiso para presenciar la comida del Emperador, si puedes traernos al ruisenor

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