The mango is an edible stone fruit produced by the tropical tree Mangifera indica. It originated from the region between northwestern Myanmar, Bangladesh, and northeastern India, and is now cultivated across the world, having been introduced to East Africa by Arab and Persian traders in the 9th to 10th centuries and spread further into other areas around the world during the European colonial era. Ripe mangoes vary according to cultivar in size, shape, color, and sweetness. They have a waxy, smooth, and fragrant skin, which is variously yellow, orange, red, or green, and feature a single flat, oblong pit that can be fibrous or hairy on the surface. The fruits may be somewhat round, oval, or kidney-shaped, ranging from 5 to 25 centimetres (2 to 10 inches) in length and from 140 grams (5 ounces) to 2 kilograms (5 pounds) in weight. It is used in culinary products around the world. The mango is the national fruit of India and M. indica is the national tree of Bangladesh. This photograph shows two mangoes grown in Brazil, one whole and one sectioned. The picture was focus-stacked from 12 separate images.Photograph credit: Ivar Leidus
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It is so terribly sad that I have to explain that the above is a JOKE
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!