Seeing such an old person, I would like to call grandfather.on the street in pickle season Every once in a while there is a pile of Chinese cabbage.picture He is so old, he should be called Lao Zhang Carrying an old yellow bag, packed One hundred and fifty copies of "Yangtze Evening News" Before the No. 6 bus passes by, you have to go to go across the road piles of Chinese cabbage to share Residents of this street.Generally father and his oldest son carrying away Their eighty catties of Chinese cabbage.before dark We need to divide this pile of Chinese cabbage.before dark

We need to divide this pile of Chinese cabbage, Lao Zhang Grandpa Zhang also wants to sell his one hundred and fifty evening papers To draw a simple you, use Five straight lines represent limbs and torso The four circles are head, breast and buttocks I have a carbon rod in my hand, your model is A purple clay teapot Will you use an eraser? try it First use the eraser to erase the top a circle, (wisdom would make a woman get stupid) and erase the middle Two circles, (let the world return to peace) representing the limbs It is best to erase the four straight lines too, (woman You can work without hands and feet

life) finally wiped the torso off, putting The last circle becomes a point at middle of a blank sheet of paper Draw another dot, representing me, or any man Two dots move on white paper, representing two tracks.When two points overlap a blank sheet of paper Peel the oranges one by one, brother walk out.transparent Genius, and a half-successful dream Passing over the city like a whistle In an instant, it condenses into twelve petals, An open orange peel, falling chew.Bright red flows from the corners of the mouth The clear fiber is the music of the younger brother Fresh orange juice is the biggest of my brother

comfort.pretty brother Mediocre brother sitting back to back On a grain of rice, "We They are all descendants of common people, but they have Noble fantasy. " came earlier than dinner night.my teeth one by one fall off.We hear them fall one by one sound --- a string of ascending scales Two graves, a village not far away with smoke And three or four pieces of farmland in between. A gray magpie on a field ridge, watching the crops It is not the owner of the rice, but it thinks it is. Those who work return to the village, and those who die walk into the grave, During the evening, only it is there to learn from the old farmer,

Put your hands behind your back.After dinner, When it gets dark, the people in the grave and the village They will walk around each other, step on the tips of rice ears, come and go. When we meet, it is inevitable to talk about the crops and the weather, It was lively then, but not now. Now only the gray magpie is willing not to leave, only it Willing and occasional passers-by, poultry and birds Talk about unfulfilled responsibilities to the land.