Hard work after winning the lottery

A little girl in a princess dress looked at her white shoes covered in mud, her lips trembled, and she almost cried.

The teacher next to her immediately squatted down and gently told her, "This is the color of the earth, the color that makes the rice grow. It's beautiful."

The little girl nodded as if she understood, and, imitating Aunt Li, awkwardly bent down and grasped a stalk of rice.

"Teacher, I've cut it off!"

After the first child succeeded, he excitedly raised the stalk of rice in his hand, as if he were holding a medal of victory.

The cheer seemed to ignite a fuse.

"I cut it off too!"

"Watch mine! Mine's bigger than yours!"

The children forgot about the soil and their fatigue, only the pure joy of harvesting remained.

Fine beads of sweat quickly appeared on their tender faces, but their eyes shone with an astonishing brightness.

After the harvest, the threshing floor became a new sea of ​​joy.

An old wooden threshing machine sits in the center of the field, like a sleeping giant.

The villagers demonstrated by grabbing a handful of rice stalks and forcefully slamming them against the machine wall.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

With a dull thud, golden grains of rice fell like rain.

The children were stunned.

They lined up, one by one, and with all their might, hurled the ears of rice they had cut with their own hands at the machine.

The muffled thuds, along with the children's satisfied exclamations and gasps, blended together to create a symphony unique to Baixi Village in autumn.

A little boy wearing glasses stared in disbelief at the grains of rice falling from the ears of grain.

He murmured to himself, "'Who knows the hardship behind every grain of rice on the plate'... So that's how hard it is."

Aunt Li stood to the side, watching this scene, her dark face crinkling with smiles.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the village, a good show was also unfolding in the sheep farm.

Hua Yun's sheep farm was kept clean and tidy, with not a trace of odor.

Each child received a cute task card with cartoon goats and sheep drawn on it.

"Children, the first task," Uncle Hua Man said, his voice booming like he was singing a folk song, "please find out which one is Mr. Goat and which one is Ms. Sheep in our sheep farm."

The children immediately scattered, like a group of little detectives.

"I know! This one has a beard!" a boy shouted, pointing at a Nubian goat standing tall with its head held high.

"This curly-haired sheep looks like a marshmallow!" A girl gently stroked a docile lake sheep.

Uncle Hua Man laughed heartily and gave a thumbs up: "Absolutely right! Mr. Goat loves to climb high and has a fiery temper; Miss Sheep is the gentlest and timidest. Their milk can be made into the yogurt you love to drink; their wool can be knitted into warm sweaters for winter."

He didn't talk about complicated breeds and habits; he simply used the most human-like language to help the children remember the biggest difference between the two types of sheep.

The subsequent sheep-feeding segment brought the atmosphere to a climax.

The children grabbed handfuls of tender hay and reached out to the hungry lambs.

The lamb's warm breath tickled and tingled in my palm.

The bolder children giggled, while the less timid ones screamed and backed away, yet couldn't resist reaching out their hands again.

Hua Yun also prepared a simplified version of a grooming tool – a wide-toothed wooden comb.

The children surrounded a gentle old sheep, carefully combing its thick wool, feeling the soft and fluffy texture as if touching a cloud.

Around noon, the two teams successfully met in the courtyard of the village committee.

On the long table, a carefully prepared study tour package has been laid out for them.

There are no fancy dishes, but every single one shows thoughtfulness.

Rice balls made from freshly harvested rice that morning, still carrying the fresh aroma of rice.

The scrambled eggs with tomatoes freshly picked from my own garden were bright and colorful.

There was also a bowl of milky white soup made by simmering lamb bones.

The children were already starving, and they buried their heads in their food, their little faces covered in grime, mumbling "Delicious!"

The afternoon sun shone warmly on my body.

The hands-on workshop was held under the big banyan tree in the courtyard.

In front of each child was a small pile of bright green foxtail grass and a plain canvas bag.

The skillful aunties patiently taught them how to weave a few simple blades of grass into an exquisite little ring.

They were then guided to select their favorite leaves and petals, and gently tap them with a small wooden mallet to imprint the veins and colors of the plants onto the canvas bag.

There is no unified standard, and no judgment of right or wrong.

Each child's work is unique.

They proudly displayed their straw rings to each other, and clutched their canvas bags like precious treasures. The sense of accomplishment from creating something with their own hands was more precious than any toy.

As the sun sets, it's time to head back.

The children lined up and reluctantly boarded the school bus.

Around their necks hung canvas bags with their own imprints, and on their fingers wore straw rings that were perhaps a little crooked.

Goodbye, Teacher Hua Yun!

Goodbye, Grandpa Man!

Goodbye, Grandma Li!

The innocent farewells echoed one after another.

The school bus slowly started moving, and the children's little hands stretched out of the windows, waving vigorously.

Hua Yun and the villagers stood at the village entrance, waving vigorously until the two bright yellow school buses disappeared at the end of the mountain road.

Secretary Zhang let out a long sigh of relief, turned his head, looked at Hua Yun, and his eyes were a little moist.

"Yun girl, it's done!"

He only uttered these four words, but his voice trembled slightly.

Hua Yun smiled.

The afterglow of the setting sun cast a gentle golden hue over the old locust tree at the village entrance.

The evening breeze swept away the daytime hustle and bustle, but it couldn't dispel the scent in the air that was a mixture of joy and sweat.

Hua Yun's smile, like the sunset, is warm and lingering.

Secretary Zhang's words, "It's done," were like a reassuring pill, finally putting all the villagers' tense hearts at ease after a long day.

The smiles on their faces were brighter than the ripe rice ears in the field.

No one was in a hurry to go home.

Everyone stood there, gazing at the empty mountain road, as if they could still hear the children's silvery laughter echoing in the valley.

That evening, the tranquility of Baixi Village was quietly disrupted by a pebble thrown into it.

No, not one.

Instead, it was a massive "meteor shower".

The first trigger came from the homeroom teacher of Class 3, Grade 1, that young female teacher.

She carefully selected nine photos, added a heartfelt caption, and posted them on her WeChat Moments and in the parents' group.

The photos show children with mud on their faces, but smiling broadly.

There were their backs as they clumsily wielded their small sickles.

A close-up of them surrounding the old sheep, their eyes filled with curiosity and tenderness.

And then there are those unique, imaginative plant-printed canvas bags.