skip to main
|
skip to sidebar
31 julho 2012
5 1/2
- O
lhem eu feliz e sarapintada! :)
A
minha pequerrucha, já com 5 meses e meio.
1 comentário:
Carla
disse...
Ai como o tempo passa...tão grande que ela está!!!
31/07/12, 14:49
Enviar um comentário
Mensagem mais recente
Mensagem antiga
Página inicial
Subscrever:
Enviar feedback (Atom)
Translator
NOVO LIVRO: A Aventura dos Acentos
Livro infantil, educativo, recomendado para crianças dos 6 aos 10 anos. Clique na imagem para fazer o download grátis.
A Bem-Trapilho vende-se aqui:
Bem-Trapilho
Novidade: Caderno Bem-Trapilho!!!
Há 11 anos
Vamos brincar? (Blog da M.)
M de menina...
July Wild
Há 12 anos
BT Club
Faça parte do BT Club e poderá ganhar um presente Bem-Trapilho grátis.
Veja como,
aqui
!
Come join the BT Club and you can win a free Bem-Trapilho gift.
Se how to do it,
here
!
Mais fotos: | More pictures:
www.
flick
r
.com
Esse é um módulo do Flickr que mostra fotos e vídeos públicos de
potero_74
. Faça seu próprio módulo
aqui
.
Obrigada pela visita
Free Counter
O mundo aqui!
Etiquetas
actividades educativas
agendas
anéis
Animais
arte
aventais
batons
bijutaria
bolsas
bonés
bordados
brincos
brindes de aniversário
brinquedos
BT Club
carimbos
Carnaval
cartões
colares
coleccionismo
curiosidades
découpage
desenho
dia a dia
do baú
ecologia
encomendas
escola
Escritos
espectáculos
exposições
Feiras
Férias
Fimo
fotografia
fraldas
fusing
ganchos
gravidez
halloween
ilustração
introspecções
jóias
L.
links (tome nota)
livro de reclamações
livros
M.
malas
manualidades
maridão
materiais
música
Natal
Páscoa
passear
pinturas
ponto cruz
porta-chaves
postais
pregadeiras
prendas e mimos
pulseiras
reciclagem
retratos
sabonetes
selos
Slings / Porta-bebés
solidariedade
Super Saldos
t-shirts
velas
workshops
Aldeia Global
visitors location counter
Utilidades
clique aqui
Interesses:
Se o meu apartamento falasse
It is a tale of love and lovers that they tell in the low-lit Causeway that slinks from West India Dock Road to the dark waste of waters beyond. In Pennyfields, too, you may hear it; and I do not doubt that it is told in far-away Tai-Ping, in Singapore, in Tokio, in Shanghai, and those other gay-lamped haunts of wonder whither the wandering people of Limehouse go and whence they return so casually. It is a tale for tears, and should you hear it in the lilied tongue of the yellow men, it would awaken in you all your pity. In our bald speech it must, unhappily, lose its essential fragrance, that quality that will lift an affair of squalor into the loftier spheres of passion and imagination, beauty and sorrow. It will sound unconvincing, a little ... you know ... the kind of thing that is best forgotten. Perhaps.... But listen. It is Battling Burrows, the lightning welter-weight of Shadwell, the box o’ tricks, the Tetrarch of the ring, who enters first. Battling Burrows, the pride of Ratcliff, Poplar and Limehouse, and the despair of his manager and backers. For he loved wine, woman and song; and the boxing world held that he couldn’t last long on that. There was any amount of money in him for his parasites if only the damned women could be cut out; but again and again would he disappear from his training quarters on the eve of a big fight, to consort with Molly and Dolly, and to drink other things than barley-water and lemon-juice. Wherefore Chuck Lightfoot, his manager, forced him to fight on any and every occasion while he was good and a money-maker; for at any moment the collapse might come, and Chuck would be called upon by his creditors to strip off that “shirt” which at every contest he laid upon his man. Battling was of a type that is too common in the eastern districts of London; a type that upsets all accepted classifications. He wouldn’t be classed. He was a curious mixture of athleticism and degeneracy. He could run like a deer, leap like a greyhound, fight like a machine, and drink like a suction-hose. He was a bully; he had the courage of the high hero. He was an open-air sport; he had the vices of a French decadent. It was one of his love adventures that properly begins this tale; for the girl had come to Battling one night with a recital of terrible happenings; of an angered parent, of a slammed door.... In her arms was a bundle of white rags. Now Battling, like so many sensualists, was also a sentimentalist. He took that bundle of white rags; he paid the girl money to get into the country; and the bundle of white rags had existed in and about his domicile in Pekin Street, Limehouse, for some eleven years. Her position was nondescript; to the casual observer it would seem that she was Battling’s relief punch-ball—an unpleasant post for any human creature to occupy, especially if you are a little girl of twelve, and the place be the one-room household of the lightning welter-weight. When Battling was cross with his manager ... well, it is indefensible to strike your manager or to throw chairs at him, if he is a good manager; but to use a dogwhip on a small child is permissible and quite as satisfying; at least he found it so. On these occasions, then, when very cross with his sparring partners, or overflushed with victory and juice of the grape, he would flog Lucy. But he was reputed by the boys to be a good fellow. He only whipped the child when he was drunk; and he was only drunk for eight months of the year. For just over twelve years this bruised little body had crept about Poplar and Limehouse. Always the white face was scarred with red, or black-furrowed with tears; always in her steps and in her look was expectation of dread things. Night after night her sleep was broken by the cheerful Battling’s brute voice and violent hands; and terrible were the lessons which life taught her in those few years. Yet, for all the starved face and the transfixed air, there was a lurking beauty about her, a something that called you in the soft curve of her cheek that cried for kisses and was fed with blows, and in the splendid mournfulness that grew in eyes and lips. The brown hair chimed against the pale face, like the rounding of a verse. The blue cotton frock and the broken shoes could not break the loveliness of her slender figure or the shy grace of her movements as she flitted about the squalid alleys of the docks; though in all that region of wasted life and toil and decay, there was not one that noticed her, until.... Now there lived in Chinatown, in one lousy room over Mr. Tai Fu’s store in Pennyfields, a wandering yellow man, named Cheng Huan. Cheng Huan was a poet. He did not realise it. He had never been able to understand why he was unpopular; and he died without knowing. But a poet he was, tinged with the materialism of his race, and in his poor listening heart strange echoes would awake of which he himself was barely conscious. He regarded things differently from other sailors; he felt things more passionately, and things which they felt not at all; so he lived alone instead of at one of the lodging-houses. Every evening he would sit at his window and watch the street. Then, a little later, he would take a jolt of opium at the place at the corner of Formosa Street. He had come to London by devious ways. He had loafed on the Bund at Shanghai. The fateful intervention of a crimp had landed him on a boat. He got to Cardiff, and sojourned in its Chinatown; thence to Liverpool, to Glasgow; thence, by a ticket from the Asiatics’ Aid Society, to Limehouse, where he remained for two reasons—because it cost him nothing to live there, and because he was too lazy to find a boat to take him back to Shanghai. So he would lounge and smoke cheap cigarettes, and sit at his window, from which point he had many times observed the lyrical Lucy. He noticed her casually. Another day, he observed her, not casually. Later, he looked long at her; later still, he began to watch for her and for that strangely provocative something about the toss of the head and the hang of the little blue skirt as it coyly kissed her knee. Then that beauty which all Limehouse had missed smote Cheng. Straight to his heart it went, and cried itself into his very blood. Thereafter the spirit of poetry broke her blossoms all about his odorous chamber. Nothing was the same. Pennyfields became a happy-lanterned street, and the monotonous fiddle in the house opposite was the music of his fathers. Bits of old song floated through his mind: little sweet verses of Le Tai-pih, murmuring of plum blossom, ricefield and stream. Day by day he would moon at his window, or shuffle about the streets, lighting to a flame when Lucy would pass and gravely return his quiet regard; and night after night, too, he would dream of a pale, lily-lovely child. And now the Fates moved swiftly various pieces on their sinister board, and all that followed happened with a speed and precision that showed direction from higher ways. It was Wednesday night in Limehouse, and for once clear of mist. Out of the coloured darkness of the Causeway stole the muffled wail of reed instruments, and, though every window was closely shuttered, between the joints shot jets of light and stealthy voices, and you could hear the whisper of slippered feet, and the stuttering steps of the satyr and the sadist. It was to the café in the middle of the Causeway, lit by the pallid blue light that is the symbol of China throughout the world, that Cheng Huan came, to take a dish of noodle and some tea. Thence he moved to another house whose stairs ran straight to the street, and above whose doorway a lamp glowed like an evil eye. At this establishment he mostly took his pipe of “chandu” and a brief chat with the keeper of the house, for, although not popular, and very silent, he liked sometimes to be in the presence of his compatriots. Like a figure of a shadowgraph he slid through the door and up the stairs. The chamber he entered was a bit of the Orient squatting at the portals of the West. It was a well-kept place where one might play a game of fan-tan, or take a shot or so of li-un, or purchase other varieties of Oriental delight. It was sunk in a purple dusk, though here and there a lantern stung the gloom. Low couches lay around the walls, and strange men decorated them: Chinese, Japs, Malays, Lascars, with one or two white girls; and sleek, noiseless attendants swam from couch to couch. Away in the far corner sprawled a lank figure in brown shirting, its nerveless fingers curled about the stem of a spent pipe. On one of the lounges a scorbutic nigger sat with a Jewess from Shadwell. Squatting on a table in the centre, beneath one of the lanterns, was a musician with a reed, blinking upon the company like a sly cat, and making his melody of six repeated notes. The atmosphere churned. The dirt of years, tobacco of many growings, opium, betel nut, and moist flesh allied themselves in one grand assault against the nostrils. As Cheng brooded on his insect-ridden cushion, of a sudden the lantern above the musician was caught by the ribbon of his reed. It danced and flung a hazy radiance on a divan in the shadow. He saw—started—half rose. His heart galloped, and the blood pounded in his quiet veins. Then he dropped again,—crouched, and stared. O lily-flowers and plum blossoms! O silver streams and dim-starred skies! O wine and roses, song and laughter! For there, kneeling on a mass of rugs, mazed and big-eyed, but understanding, was Lucy ... his Lucy ... his little maid. Through the dusk she must have felt his intent gaze upon her; for he crouched there, fascinated, staring into the now obscured corner where she knelt. But the sickness which momentarily gripped him on finding in this place his snowy-breasted pearl passed and gave place to great joy. She was here; he would talk with her. Little English he had, but simple words, those with few gutturals, he had managed to pick up; so he rose, the masterful lover, and, with feline movements, crossed the nightmare chamber to claim his own. If you wonder how Lucy came to be in this bagnio, the explanation is simple. Battling was in training. He had flogged her that day before starting work; he had then had a few brandies—not many; some eighteen or nineteen—and had locked the door of his room and taken the key. Lucy was, therefore, homeless, and a girl somewhat older than Lucy, so old and so wise, as girls are in that region, saw in her a possible source of revenue. So there they were, and to them appeared Cheng. From what horrors he saved her that night cannot be told, for her ways were too audaciously childish to hold her long from harm in such a place. What he brought to her was love and death. For he sat by her. He looked at her—reverently yet passionately. He touched her—wistfully yet eagerly. He locked a finger in her wondrous hair. She did not start away; she did not tremble. She knew well what she had to be afraid of in that place; but she was not afraid of Cheng. She pierced the mephitic gloom and scanned his face. No, she was not afraid. His yellow hands, his yellow face, his smooth black hair ... well, he was the first thing that had ever spoken soft words to her; the first thing that had ever laid a hand upon her that was not brutal; the first thing that had deferred in manner towards her as though she, too, had a right to live. She knew his words were sweet, though she did not understand them. Nor can they be set down. Half that he spoke was in village Chinese; the rest in a mangling of English which no distorted spelling could possibly reproduce. But he drew her back against the cushions and asked her name, and she told him; and he inquired her age, and she told him; and he had then two beautiful words that came easily to his tongue. He repeated them again and again: “Lucia ... l’il Lucia.... Twelve.... Twelve.” Musical phrases they were, dropping from his lips, and to the child who heard her name pronounced so lovingly, they were the lost heights of melody. She clung to him, and he to her. She held his strong arm in both of hers as they crouched on the divan, and nestled her cheek against his coat. Well ... he took her home to his wretched room. “Li’l Lucia, come-a-home ... Lucia.” His heart was on fire. As they slipped out of the noisomeness into the night air and crossed the West India Dock Road into Pennyfields, they passed unnoticed. It was late, for one thing, and for another ... well, nobody cared particularly. His blood rang with soft music and the solemnity of drums, for surely he had found now what for many years he had sought—his world’s one flower. Wanderer he was, from Tuan-tsen to Shanghai, Shanghai to Glasgow, Cardiff ... Liverpool ... London. He had dreamed often of the women of his native land; perchance one of them should be his flower. Women, indeed, there had been. Swatow ... he had recollections of certain rose-winged hours in coast cities. At many places to which chance had led him a little bird had perched itself upon his heart, but so lightly and for so brief a while as hardly to be felt. But now—now he had found her in this alabaster Cockney child. So that he was glad and had great joy of himself and the blue and silver night, and the harsh flares of the Poplar Hippodrome. You will observe that he had claimed her, but had not asked himself whether she were of an age for love. The white perfection of the child had captivated every sense. It may be that he forgot that he was in London and not in Tuan-tsen. It may be that he did not care. Of that nothing can be told. All that is known is that his love was a pure and holy thing. Of that we may be sure, for his worst enemies have said it. Slowly, softly they mounted the stairs to his room, and with almost an obeisance he entered and drew her in. A bank of cloud raced to the east and a full moon thrust a sharp sword of light upon them. Silence lay over all Pennyfields. With a bird-like movement, she looked up at him—her face alight, her tiny hands upon his coat—clinging, wondering, trusting. He took her hand and kissed it; repeated the kiss upon her cheek and lip and little bosom, twining his fingers in her hair. Docilely, and echoing the smile of his lemon lips in a way that thrilled him almost to laughter, she returned his kisses impetuously, gladly. He clasped the nestling to him. Bruised, tearful, with the love of life almost thrashed out of her, she had fluttered to him out of the evil night. “O li’l Lucia!” And he put soft hands upon her, and smoothed her and crooned over her many gracious things in his flowered speech. So they stood in the moonlight, while she told him the story of her father, of her beatings, and starvings and unhappiness. “O li’l Lucia.... White Blossom.... Twelve.... Twelve years old!” As he spoke, the clock above the Milwall Docks shot twelve crashing notes across the night. When the last echo died, he moved to a cupboard, and from it he drew strange things ... formless masses of blue and gold, magical things of silk, and a vessel that was surely Aladdin’s lamp, and a box of spices. He took these robes, and, with tender, reverent fingers, removed from his White Blossom the besmirched rags that covered her and robed her again, and led her then to the heap of stuff that was his bed, and bestowed her safely. For himself, he squatted on the floor before her, holding one grubby little hand. There he crouched all night, under the lyric moon, sleepless, watchful; and sweet content was his. He had fallen into an uncomfortable posture, and his muscles ached intolerably. But she slept, and he dared not move nor release her hand lest he should awaken her. Weary and trustful, she slept, knowing that the yellow man was kind and that she might sleep with no fear of a steel hand smashing the delicate structure of her dreams. In the morning, when she awoke, still wearing her blue and yellow silk, she gave a cry of amazement. Cheng had been about. Many times had he glided up and down the two flights of stairs, and now at last his room was prepared for his princess. It was swept and garnished, and was an apartment worthy a maid who is loved by a poet-prince. There was a bead curtain. There were muslins of pink and white. There were four bowls of flowers, clean, clear flowers to gladden the White Blossom and set off her sharp beauty. And there was a bowl of water, and a sweet lotion for the bruise on her cheek. When she had risen, her prince ministered to her with rice and egg and tea. Cleansed and robed and calm, she sat before him, perched on the end of many cushions as on a throne, with all the grace of the child princess in the story. She was a poem. The beauty hidden by neglect and fatigue shone out now more clearly and vividly, and from the head sunning over with curls to the small white feet, now bathed and sandalled, she seemed the living interpretation of a Chinese lyric. And she was his; her sweet self and her prattle, and her bird-like ways were all his own. Oh, beautifully they loved. For two days he held her. Soft caresses from his yellow hands and long, devout kisses were all their demonstration. Each night he would tend her, as might mother to child; and each night he watched and sometimes slumbered at the foot of her couch. But now there were those that ran to Battling at his training quarters across the river, with the news that his child had gone with a Chink—a yellow man. And Battling was angry. He discovered parental rights. He discovered indignation. A yellow man after his kid! He’d learn him. Battling did not like men who were not born in the same great country as himself. Particularly he disliked yellow men. His birth and education in Shadwell had taught him that of all creeping things that creep upon the earth the most insidious is the Oriental in the West. And a yellow man and a child. It was ... as you might say ... so ... kind of ... well, wasn’t it? He bellowed that it was “unnacherel.” The yeller man would go through it. Yeller! It was his supreme condemnation, his final epithet for all conduct of which he disapproved. There was no doubt that he was extremely annoyed. He went to the Blue Lantern, in what was once Ratcliff Highway, and thumped the bar, and made all his world agree with him. And when they agreed with him he got angrier still. So that when, a few hours later, he climbed through the ropes at the Netherlands to meet Bud Tuffit for ten rounds, it was Bud’s fight all the time, and to that bright boy’s astonishment he was the victor on points at the end of the ten. Battling slouched out of the ring, still more determined to let the Chink have it where the chicken had the axe. He left the house with two pals and a black man, and a number of really inspired curses from his manager. On the evening of the third day, then, Cheng slipped sleepily down the stairs to procure more flowers and more rice. The genial Ho Ling, who keeps the Canton store, held him in talk some little while, and he was gone from his room perhaps half-an-hour. Then he glided back, and climbed with happy feet the forty stairs to his temple of wonder. With a push of a finger he opened the door, and the blood froze on his cheek, the flowers fell from him. The temple was empty and desolate; White Blossom was gone. The muslin hangings were torn down and trampled underfoot. The flowers had been flung from their bowls about the floor, and the bowls lay in fifty fragments. The joss was smashed. The cupboard had been opened. Rice was scattered here and there. The little straight bed had been jumped upon by brute feet. Everything that could be smashed or violated had been so treated, and—horror of all—the blue and yellow silk robe had been rent in pieces, tied in grotesque knots, and slung derisively about the table legs. I pray devoutly that you may never suffer what Cheng Huan suffered in that moment. The pangs of death, with no dying; the sickness of the soul which longs to escape and cannot; the imprisoned animal within the breast which struggles madly for a voice and finds none; all the agonies of all the ages—the agonies of every abandoned lover and lost woman, past and to come—all these things were his in that moment. Then he found voice and gave a great cry, and men from below came up to him; and they told him how the man who boxed had been there with a black man; how he had torn the robes from his child, and dragged her down the stairs by her hair; and how he had shouted aloud for Cheng and had vowed to return and deal separately with him. Now a terrible dignity came to Cheng, and the soul of his great fathers swept over him. He closed the door against them, and fell prostrate over what had been the resting-place of White Blossom. Those without heard strange sounds as of an animal in its last pains; and it was even so. Cheng was dying. The sacrament of his high and holy passion had been profaned; the last sanctuary of the Oriental—his soul dignity—had been assaulted. The love robes had been torn to ribbons; the veil of his temple cut down. Life was no longer possible; and life without his little lady, his White Blossom, was no longer desirable. Prostrate he lay for the space of some five minutes. Then, in his face all the pride of accepted destiny, he arose. He drew together the little bed. With reverent hands he took the pieces of blue and yellow silk, kissing them and fondling them and placing them about the pillow. Silently he gathered up the flowers, and the broken earthenware, and burnt some prayer papers and prepared himself for death. Now it is the custom among those of the sect of Cheng that the dying shall present love-gifts to their enemies; and when he had set all in order, he gathered his brown canvas coat about him, stole from the house, and set out to find Battling Burrows, bearing under the coat his love-gift to Battling. White Blossom he had no hope of finding. He had heard of Burrows many times; and he judged that, now that she was taken from him, never again would he hold those hands or touch that laughing hair. Nor, if he did, could it change things from what they were. Nothing that was not a dog could live in the face of this sacrilege. As he came before the house in Pekin Street, where Battling lived, he murmured gracious prayers. Fortunately, it was a night of thick river mist, and through the enveloping velvet none could observe or challenge him. The main door was open, as are all doors in this district. He writhed across the step, and through to the back room, where again the door yielded to a touch. Darkness. Darkness and silence, and a sense of frightful things. He peered through it. Then he fumbled under his jacket—found a match—struck it. An inch of a candle stood on the mantelshelf. He lit it. He looked around. No sign of Burrows, but ... Almost before he looked he knew what awaited him. But the sense of finality had kindly stunned him; he could suffer nothing more. On the table lay a dog-whip. In the corner a belt had been flung. Half across the greasy couch lay White Blossom. A few rags of clothing were about her pale and slim body; her hair hung limp as her limbs; her eyes were closed. As Cheng drew nearer and saw the savage red rails that ran across and across the beloved body, he could not scream—he could not think. He dropped beside the couch. He laid gentle hands upon her, and called soft names. She was warm to the touch. The pulse was still. Softly, oh, so softly, he bent over the little frame that had enclosed his friend-spirit, and his light kisses fell all about her. Then, with the undirected movements of a sleep-walker, he bestowed the rags decently about her, clasped her in strong arms, and crept silently into the night. From Pekin Street to Pennyfields it is but a turn or two, and again he passed unobserved as he bore his tired bird back to her nest. He laid her upon the bed, and covered the lily limbs with the blue and yellow silks and strewed upon her a few of the trampled flowers. Then, with more kisses and prayers, he crouched beside her. So, in the ghastly Limehouse morning, they were found—the dead child, and the Chink, kneeling beside her, with a sharp knife gripped in a vice-like hand, its blade far between his ribs. Meantime, having vented his wrath on his prodigal daughter, Battling, still cross, had returned to the Blue Lantern, and there he stayed with a brandy tumbler in his fist, forgetful of an appointment at Premierland, whereby he should have been in the ring at ten o’clock sharp. For the space of an hour Chuck Lightfoot was going blasphemously to and fro in Poplar, seeking Battling and not finding him, and murmuring in tearful tones: “Battling—you dammanblasted Battling—where are yeh?” His opponent was in his corner sure enough, but there was no fight. For Battling lurched from the Blue Lantern to Pekin Street. He lurched into his happy home, and he cursed Lucy, and called for her. And finding no matches, he lurched to where he knew the couch should be, and flopped heavily down. Now it is a peculiarity of the reptile tribe that its members are impatient of being flopped on without warning. So, when Battling flopped, eighteen inches of writhing gristle upreared itself on the couch, and got home on him as Bud Tuffit had done the night before—one to the ear, one to the throat, and another to the forearm. Battling went down and out. And he, too, was found in the morning, with Cheng Huan’s love-gift coiled about his neck.
Há 23 minutos
STREET ART UTOPIA
10 Stunning New Street Art Murals From Around the World (June 2025)
Há 1 dia
prateleira-de-baixo
As perguntas são como cerejas
Há 2 semanas
Wild Olive
pattern // a little teapot
Há 5 semanas
milimbo
BIM BANG BOOKS
Há 5 meses
anafonso ilustra
Há 6 meses
MiA BiJu
The price of Nvidia stock falls again. The Reasons for the Further Decline in Share Prices.
Há 6 meses
Cores e Coisas
13 de Outubro
Há 8 meses
Jin Sanjo
Pimpinelas
Há 1 ano
Santa Nostalgia
Santa Nostalgia - No Sapo
Há 1 ano
Letra Pequena
Um pássaro na cabeça
Há 2 anos
Margarida Botelho
Planetário BBBoom! em Lisboa
Há 2 anos
ingthings
Het bos in..
Há 4 anos
Cria Cria
ลิงค์ดูบอล
Há 4 anos
mundo flo
About September
Há 4 anos
Peixinhos no Sotão
Quero terminar...
Há 5 anos
Senhor de Si
Há 5 anos
Maria João Worm
Este Natal
Há 5 anos
Pink Penguin
Printable holiday messages
Há 5 anos
Ilustração de Carla Antunes
Encontros nas Escolas
Há 5 anos
perdi o fio à meada
Percurso Pedestre Vila Sassetti — Castelo dos Mouros
Há 5 anos
Casinha de Pano
Anjinhas e santinhas
Há 5 anos
Tita Carré - Agulha e tricot
Xale Trigueiro em tricot
Há 5 anos
Máquina de Voar ® Editora
Novidades fresquinhas em parceria com a Up To Kids®
Há 6 anos
ritacor
unfinished lines
Há 6 anos
Ilustraciones infantiles
Há 6 anos
Creative Kismet
Happy Holidays!
Há 6 anos
paulinas
Pistas, Soumaya
Há 6 anos
Design*Sponge
Discover the Secrets of Making Money From Your Art
Há 6 anos
Geninne's Art Blog
September!
Há 6 anos
macati
Cute cat sensory necklace - Alzheimer
Há 6 anos
The Great Craft Disaster
Hello world!
Há 6 anos
Atelier Susana Tavares
How to heal through art with the Fairies
Há 7 anos
Képia
As Pernas das mesas
Há 7 anos
caprichitos
Deseos mágicos!!!
Há 7 anos
Beijos de Algodão
Covão da Ametade, Serra da Estrela
Há 7 anos
sailing sailing
Yang Harus Anda Ketahui Tentang Insulin
Há 7 anos
fleurfatale
Run/Sweat/Smile/Fly/Repeat
Há 7 anos
Golly Bard's Drawing Room
Studio: New Paintings
Há 7 anos
Sonho Lilás
Cadeira Feita com Pregadores de Madeira
Há 7 anos
DeCorESalteado
O estádio do J.
Há 7 anos
yara kono
Há 7 anos
rafa kids
Lamps from natural materials
Há 7 anos
IlustraSim
Há 8 anos
Atelier Ao Meu Gosto
[ Lunch Bag #67 ]
Há 8 anos
Lady Desidia
Imprimibles navideños
Há 8 anos
Coisas de Fazer
Preparando o Natal
Há 8 anos
De ponto em nó
As amostras de tricot - 4 - Que amostras fazer para mostruário?
Há 8 anos
marlowa
My art in Orlando
Há 8 anos
my ramblings
san francisco tourists
Há 9 anos
beijaflor
workshop 7 maio 2016!
Há 9 anos
Tralhas da Formiga
Alcofa azul e laranja
Há 9 anos
Lojinha da Juca
Chapéus e bonecos... / Hats and dolls
Há 9 anos
vermelho devagarinho
sua cabra
Há 9 anos
simone rea illustratore
Há 9 anos
Para muestra un botón
Hola mundo!
Há 9 anos
misspink
Mi web por fin!
Há 9 anos
projectos 3r
Sop ikan patin ala super chef
Há 9 anos
Loja da Pão de Ló-58
Há 9 anos
MARCA DE ÁGUA
#C665 - Conjunto colares "Mar Infinito"
Há 10 anos
Chá de Baunilha
Chá de Baunilha Baby para Marina / Chá de Baunilha Baby to Marina
Há 10 anos
à beira do Coração
Sonhador
Há 10 anos
cocó na fralda
Adeus Clix
Há 10 anos
trinta-por-uma-linha
HISTÓRIA DA FORMIGA... NO PÚBLICO
Há 10 anos
Saídos da Concha
Three Baby Jumpsuits :: Três Macaquinhos de Bebé
Há 10 anos
herzensart journal
well it´s about time
Há 10 anos
atelier encantado| handmade crafts
Blocos de Notas " Sentir e Expandir "
Há 10 anos
nordic craft
A coloring book for grown-ups: Secret Garden review
Há 10 anos
Caderno de Pintar
Feliz 2015!
Há 10 anos
kase-faz
* feliz natal *
Há 10 anos
Atelier / Galerie - Le Super Marché de ta Mère! - a.s.b.l.
Programme des ateliers pour enfants de novembre, décembre 2014 et janvier 2015
Há 10 anos
WISHES&HEROS
Há 10 anos
Avó Fuxica
Texturas de outono
Há 10 anos
Zai-Zai
Em desenvolvimento
Há 10 anos
Birra de Sono
Da Bemposta
Há 10 anos
maçã riscada
calções de verão e saco a combinar!
Há 10 anos
águas furtadas - portuguese design space
Ainda e modo de festa... este sábado temos o 7 Aniversário do Centro Comercial Bombarda e das Águas Furtadas neste espaço..
Há 11 anos
Kreart - Bijuterias em Massa Fimo
DAN CORMIER - THE BROKEN INTERNET PROJECT / INSPIRATION IN THE DIGITAL AGE
Há 11 anos
reimão
com o doce sabor da primavera
Há 11 anos
Las manualidades de Sara; bisutería, madera, punto de cruz
Entrevista Beads Perles. Muchas gracias.
Há 11 anos
Fofos de Belas
Atividades de vida prática, salame de chocolate
Há 11 anos
Natty Crafts
Manta Patchwork
Há 11 anos
LimonVerde's Craft and Art World
40's inspired braided headband hairstyle
Há 11 anos
[ Pi-po-qui-tas com Art ]
Novidades...
Há 11 anos
Pozinhos de Perlimpimpim...
Do not let your mustache...
Há 11 anos
Caixa dos Pirolitos
Jovem inventa máquina para limpar o plástico acumulado nos oceanos em poucos anos
Há 11 anos
Paloma Valdivia Ilustraciones
Mi sardina para Lisboa
Há 12 anos
Dina Ladina
Há 12 anos
a.mãe.dos.muitos
Almofada Dresden Plate
Há 12 anos
Código de cores
Hermoso
Há 12 anos
Blog
Dia Internacional do Livro Infantil
Há 12 anos
La mesa de trabajo
Há 12 anos
nanouke
No Knitting Here.. or wait...
Há 12 anos
En Colores
Há 12 anos
Loja Pó de Arroz
Pó de Arroz no Facebook***
Há 12 anos
Elsa Mora
My New Website
Há 12 anos
Kup Kup Land
Meteora Part II
Há 12 anos
Sara na Lua
Mini workshops de Natal
Há 12 anos
aiaimatilde
AGENDA 2013
Há 12 anos
Sigaliot Designs
Port of dreams - שבת בנמל יפו
Há 12 anos
Tfani's Creations
Remerciement en carte cadeaux ...
Há 12 anos
um pouquinho mais de qualquer coisinha...
A criatividade da minha família: uma aventura na minha terra
Há 13 anos
Borboleta Azul-Imagens Para Decoupage
Damas Antigas
Há 13 anos
La niña que pinta
La Niña y su violin ♥ - Feliz dia del amor
Há 13 anos
Ideias para partilhar
Como decorar um abajour shabby chic
Há 13 anos
afonso cruz
Os Livros Que Devoraram o Meu Pai: a capa sérvia
Há 13 anos
VerdeBlue
Mais uns trabalhinhos
Há 13 anos
Planeta Chocolate
Praia do Meco
Há 13 anos
corcoise
Space is the place
Há 13 anos
Faz de Conta
(1220) + (1221) Colares com Medalhão
Há 14 anos
LiLi M.
A few flea market finds/Een paar vlooienmarkt vondsten
Há 14 anos
made in ♥ love
Um Domingo in ♥ love
Há 14 anos
Dibujos en el agua
"Muñeca de trapo"
Há 14 anos
Projecto PIPA
Apresentação AniMusica 2010
Há 14 anos
Bijuteria Casaca
Natal 2010
Há 14 anos
A Montra da Cristina
FEIRA DE ARTESANATO - PINHAL DE FRADES
Há 14 anos
3R
Qual é a sua sugestão para a aplicação do 3R no dia-a-dia?
Há 14 anos
Apple & Eve
3 Cara Untuk Hidup Bahagia Dan Sehat
Há 14 anos
Feel 4 felt - Trabalhos e workshops em feltro artesanal de Helena Pinto
Novo blog
Há 14 anos
Pupo - Arte e Decoração
Santo António
Há 15 anos
linhasdecores.
Há 15 anos
Um Quarto de Ideias
Redireccionado - Redirected
Há 15 anos
tapazolli illustration
vector
Há 15 anos
Casinha dos moldes
Bonequinha
Há 15 anos
Rosa's & Massas
NASCIMENTO DO AFONSO
Há 15 anos
Precilia Correia ♥♥♥
Escape portugaise...
Há 16 anos
Josmara Artes
ALMOFADA DE AMAMENTAÇÃO
Há 16 anos
Chaminés de Fadas
Era uma vez uma Fadinha...
Há 17 anos
Le petit monde de Mzelle Marcelle
Cor de Cereja
flor-de-vento
Aline's Wonderland
Spool Sewing
Aurora Cacciapuoti Illustrator
fadas&princesas
Adelaide Barbosa
caraça de papel
noussnouss - blog
Sophia... Sofes...Fia... Fi...
a is for anika
Coisas de Maria
design a dozen
Pano pra Mangas
Moda Bake Shop
sara teixeira
ediTORIal by Tori Spelling
A Ervilha Cor de Rosa
Arquivo
►
2014
(8)
►
março
(3)
►
fevereiro
(2)
►
janeiro
(3)
►
2013
(108)
►
dezembro
(7)
►
novembro
(17)
►
outubro
(8)
►
setembro
(9)
►
agosto
(10)
►
julho
(5)
►
junho
(7)
►
maio
(8)
►
abril
(13)
►
março
(3)
►
fevereiro
(12)
►
janeiro
(9)
▼
2012
(140)
►
dezembro
(6)
►
novembro
(16)
►
outubro
(11)
►
setembro
(3)
►
agosto
(7)
▼
julho
(14)
episódio: Fast but not Furious
5 1/2
alphabeto 3D
Olhem-me esta safada!
... tchuki, tchuki, tchuki ...
as noites...
origami: cao e gato
parabéns
Sou uma crescida!!! Já não preciso ficar recostada!
5 meses
vida de criança
invenções e tropelias
esta noite...
what's up
►
junho
(16)
►
maio
(18)
►
abril
(19)
►
março
(10)
►
fevereiro
(9)
►
janeiro
(11)
►
2011
(192)
►
dezembro
(17)
►
novembro
(25)
►
outubro
(21)
►
setembro
(13)
►
agosto
(12)
►
julho
(13)
►
junho
(17)
►
maio
(16)
►
abril
(14)
►
março
(18)
►
fevereiro
(11)
►
janeiro
(15)
►
2010
(216)
►
dezembro
(11)
►
novembro
(17)
►
outubro
(23)
►
setembro
(18)
►
agosto
(11)
►
julho
(22)
►
junho
(15)
►
maio
(22)
►
abril
(20)
►
março
(24)
►
fevereiro
(12)
►
janeiro
(21)
►
2009
(213)
►
dezembro
(12)
►
novembro
(12)
►
outubro
(19)
►
setembro
(16)
►
agosto
(14)
►
julho
(14)
►
junho
(20)
►
maio
(23)
►
abril
(23)
►
março
(23)
►
fevereiro
(16)
►
janeiro
(21)
►
2008
(330)
►
dezembro
(14)
►
novembro
(17)
►
outubro
(20)
►
setembro
(21)
►
agosto
(22)
►
julho
(26)
►
junho
(26)
►
maio
(29)
►
abril
(29)
►
março
(33)
►
fevereiro
(35)
►
janeiro
(58)
►
2007
(307)
►
dezembro
(37)
►
novembro
(43)
►
outubro
(38)
►
setembro
(47)
►
agosto
(43)
►
julho
(34)
►
junho
(34)
►
maio
(31)
Acerca de mim
APO (Bem-Trapilho)
Ver o meu perfil completo
Seguidores
Acção por aqui:
Feedjit Live Blog Stats
1 comentário:
Ai como o tempo passa...tão grande que ela está!!!
Enviar um comentário