Introduction to Segmental Phonology: Consonant Table

The purpose of this page is to generate dynamic distinctive feature tables. It selects segments from the set of consonants currently found in the feature database based on three types of information: language specific phoneme sets, phonetic filters, and phonological filters. Use the three panels below to generate feature tables.

Introduction to Segmental Phonology: Consonant Table

Free English Lessons

1. If time doesn't wait for you, don't worry!
Just remove the damn battery from the clock and Enjoy life!

2. Expecting the world to treat u fairly coz u r a good person is like
expecting the lion not to attack u coz u r a vegetarian.
Think about it.

3. Beauty isn't measured by outer appearance and what clothes we wear,
but what we are inside
. So, try going out naked tomorrow and see the admiration!

4. Don't walk as if you rule the world,
walk as if you don't care who rules the world!

That's called Attitude…! Keep on rocking!

5. Every lady hopes
that her daughter will marry a better man than she did
and is convinced that her son will never find a wife as good as his father did!!!

6. He was a good man. He never smoked, drank had no affair.
When he died, the insurance company refused the claim.
They said
, he who never lived, cannot die!

7. A man threw his wife in a pond of Crocodiles?
He's now being harassed by the Animal Rights Activists for being cruel to the Crocodiles!

The rope

Thestory is about a mountain climber, who wanted to climb the highest mountain. Hebegan his adventure after many years of preparation. Since he wanted the gloryjust for himself, he decided to climb alone. The night felt heavy in theheights of the mountain, and the man couldn't see anything. All wasblack. Zero visibility, and the moon and stars were covered by the clouds.

As he was climbing, just a few feet away from the top of the mountain, he slipped andfell into the air, falling at a great speed. The climber could only see theblack spots as he went down, and the terrible sensation of being sucked bygravity. He kept falling and in those moments of great fear, all the good andbad episodes of his life flashed in his mind.

He wasthinking now about how close death was getting, when all of a sudden he feltthe rope tied to his waist pull him very hard.

His bodywas hanging in the air. Only the rope was holding him, and in that moment ofstillness he had no other choice but to scream: HELP ME GOD!!!

All of asudden, a deep voice coming from the sky asked:

-What do you want me to do?

-Save me, God

The Scarlet Letter

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Scarlet_Letter_complete.zip   89M

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A: I have the perfect son.
B: Does he smoke?
A: No, he doesn't.
B: Does he drink whiskey?
A: No, he doesn't.
B: Does he ever come home late?
A: No, he doesn't.
B: I guess you really do have the perfect son. How old is he?
A: He will be six months old next Wednesday.

Download: 9987.mp3

Two boys were arguing when the teacher entered the room.
The teacher says, "Why are you arguing?"

One boy answers, "We found a ten dollor bill and decided to give it to whoever tells the biggest lie."

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," said the teacher, "When I was your age I didn't even know what a lie was."

The boys gave the ten dollars to the teacher.

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The teacher says: Today, we're going to talk about the tenses. Now, if I say "I am beautiful," which tense is it?

The student says: Obviously it's the past tense.

NOTES:
Present Tense: I am beautiful.
Past Tense: I was beautiful.
This is funny because the teacher isn't beautiful now, but maybe she was beautiful when she was younger.

Men Need To Be More Specific

A Municipal Report

by O Henry

Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are "story cities" - New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.

FRANK NORRIS.

East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians. Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail.

Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: "In this town there can be no romance - what could happen here?" Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally.

NASHVILLE - A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational centre in the South.

I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe.

Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts; dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.

The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough - 'twill serve.

I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated.

25 Worlds Weirdest Animals

Axolotl

The Axolotl (or ajolote) (Ambystoma mexicanum) is the best-known of the Mexican neotenic mole salamanders belonging to the Tiger Salamander complex. Larvae of this species fail to undergo metamorphosis, so the adults remain aquatic and gilled. The species originates from the lake underlying Mexico City. Axolotls are used extensively in scientific research due to their ability to regenerate most body parts, ease of breeding, and large embryos. They are commonly kept as pets in the United States, Great Britain, Australia, Japan (where they are sold under the name Wooper Rooper, and other countries.

Axolotls should not be confused with waterdogs, the larval stage of the closely related Tiger Salamanders (Ambystoma tigrinum and Ambystoma mavortium), which is widespread in much of North America which also occasionally become neotenic, nor with mudpuppies (Necturus spp.), fully aquatic salamanders which are unrelated to the axolotl but which bear a superficial resemblance.

Aye-aye

The Aye-aye (Daubentonia madagascariensis) is a strepsirrhine native to Madagascar that combines rodent-like teeth with a long, thin middle finger to fill the same ecological niche as a woodpecker. It is the world's largest nocturnal primate, and is characterized by its unique method of finding food; it taps on trees to find grubs, then gnaws holes in the wood and inserts its elongated middle finger to pull the grubs out.

Daubentonia is the only genus in the family Daubentoniidae and infraorder Chiromyiformes. The Aye-aye is the only extant member of the genus (although it is currently an endangered species); a second species (Daubentonia robusta) was exterminated over the last few centuries.

Two Little Soldiers

by Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)

Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.

They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel happy anywhere else.

At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe their foreheads.

They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing, watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they would begin to talk.

Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:

"It's just like home, just like Plounivon."

"Yes, it's just like home."

And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.

Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.

As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking of the folks at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

  A Hunger Artist

In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably.  Whereas in earlier days there was good money to be earned putting on major productions of this sort under one’s own management, nowadays that is totally impossible.  Those were different times.  Back then the hunger artist captured the attention of the entire city. From day to day while the fasting lasted, participation increased.  Everyone wanted to see the hunger artist at least daily.  During the final days there were people with subscription tickets who sat all day in front of the small barred cage.  And there were even viewing hours at night, their impact heightened by torchlight.  On fine days the cage was dragged out into the open air, and then the hunger artist was put on display particularly for the children.  While for grown-ups the hunger artist was often merely a joke, something they participated in because it was fashionable, the children looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands for safety, as he sat there on scattered straw—spurning a chair—in a black tights, looking pale, with his ribs sticking out prominently, sometimes nodding politely, answering questions with a forced smile, even sticking his arm out through the bars to let people feel how emaciated he was, but then completely sinking back into himself, so that he paid no attention to anything, not even to what was so important to him, the striking of the clock, which was the single furnishing in the cage, merely looking out in front of him with his eyes almost shut and now and then sipping from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips.

Apart from the changing groups of spectators there were also constant observers chosen by the public—strangely enough they were usually butchers—who, always three at a time, were given the task of observing the hunger artist day and night, so that he didn’t get something to eat in some secret manner.  It was, however, merely a formality, introduced to reassure the masses, for those who understood knew well enough that during the period of fasting the hunger artist would never, under any circumstances, have eaten the slightest thing, not even if compelled by force.  The honour of his art forbade it.  Naturally, none of the watchers understood that.  Sometimes there were nightly groups of watchers who carried out their vigil very laxly, deliberately sitting together in a distant corner and putting all their attention into playing cards there, clearly intending to allow the hunger artist a small refreshment, which, according to their way of thinking, he could get from some secret supplies.  Nothing was more excruciating to the hunger artist than such watchers.  They depressed him.  They made his fasting terribly difficult.  Sometimes he overcame his weakness and sang during the time they were observing, for as long as he could keep it up, to show people how unjust their suspicions about him were.  But that was little help.  For then they just wondered among themselves about his skill at being able to eat even while singing.  He much preferred the observers who sat down right against the bars and, not satisfied with the dim backlighting of the room, illuminated him with electric flashlights.  The glaring light didn’t bother him in the slightest.  Generally he couldn’t sleep at all, and he could always doze under any lighting and at any hour, even in an overcrowded, noisy auditorium.  With such observers, he was very happily prepared to spend the entire night without sleeping.  He was very pleased to joke with them, to recount stories from his nomadic life and then, in turn, to listen their stories—doing everything just to keep them awake, so that he could keep showing them once again that he had nothing to eat in his cage and that he was fasting as none of them could.  

Love is holding hands in the street.
Marriage is holding arguments in the street.

Love is dinner for 2 in your favorite restaurant.
Marriage is a take home packet.

Love is cuddling on a sofa.
Marriage is one of them sleeping on a sofa.

Love is talking about having children.
Marriage is talking about getting away from children.

Love is going to bed early.
Marriage is going to sleep early.

Love is a romantic drive.
Marriage is arrive on tops curvy tarmac .

Love is losing your appetite.
Marriage is losing your figure.

Love is sweet nothing in the ear.
Marriage is sweet nothing in the bank.

Tv has no place in love.
Marriage is a fight for remote control.

Love is 1 drink and 2 straws.
Marriage is "Don't you think you've had enough!".

Conclusion: "Love is blind, Marriage is an eye opener!"

The Guest

by Albert Camus. Translated by Justin O'Brien.

1

The schoolmaster was watching the two men climb toward him. One was on horseback, the other on foot. They had not yet tackled the abrupt rise leading to the schoolhouse built on the hillside. They were toiling onward, making slow progress in the snow, among the stones, on the vast expanse oft he high, deserted plateau. From time to time the horse stumbled. Without hearing anything yet, he could see the breath issuing from the horses nostrils. One of the men, at least, knew the region. They were following the trail although it had disappeared days ago under a layer of dirty white snow. The schoolmaster calculated that it would take them half an hour to get onto the hill. It was cold; he went back into the school to get a sweater.

2

He crossed the empty, frigid classroom. On the blackboard the four rivers of France, 1 drawn with four different colored chalks, had been flowing toward their estuaries for the past three days. Snow had suddenly fallen in mid-October after eight months of drought without the transition of rain, and the twenty pupils, more or less, who lived in the villages scattered over the plateau had stopped coming. With fair weather they would return. Daru now heated only the single room that was lodging, adjoining the classroom and giving also onto the plateau to the east. Like the class cows, his window looked to the south too. On that side the school was a few kilometers from the point where the plateau began to slope toward the south. In clear weather could be seen the purple mass of the mountain range where the gap opened onto the desert.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys. and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.