Courtyard House: Rebirth of a Shopkeeper in 1937

Upon hearing this, the eldest brother instantly became excited. He didn't even bother to pick up the broom, casually setting it aside. He patted his second brother's shoulder and exclaimed, "Really? Xingbao, you're amazing! Yanguo, quick, clean the table in the main room, I'll go get some white paper!" Actually, the eldest brother usually prepared some pre-cut paper and bound booklets for his studies, but the pre-cut paper had been used up recently by Xingbao and Guixiang while copying medical books. The booklets also had too few pages for copying. He had copied books before, always binding them stitch by stitch afterward; he was very familiar with this process. Guixiang, standing to the side, stared at Xingbao with wide, round eyes, her mouth agape. "Xingbao, you're lying! I clearly saw you flip through the book a few times, how could you remember it all?" Her tone was full of doubt, and a hint of admiration.

Seeing this, Dad smiled and moved a small square table to the kitchen—hot water was frequently needed in winter, and there was a small coal stove in the kitchen that was only used in winter. A small iron pot filled with water was embedded in the stove, and a kettle was placed on the stove, making it very warm. Dad placed the small square table steadily in front of the stove, so that Xingbao could use the warmth of the stove and it would be convenient for him to write. After setting up the table, he turned around, picked up a broom, and went to sweep the floor in the main room. Xingbao brought over the brazier and stool, as well as a brush, inkstone, ink stick, paperweight, and a grid template for writing small regular script—this was something Dad had specially bought from the bookstore for his older brother. Gui Xiang quickly moved a small stool over to Xing Bao's side, and thoughtfully brought him a bowl of water. She picked up the ink stick and carefully began grinding ink for Xing Bao, her little face full of seriousness. She muttered to herself, "Xing Bao, you must write neatly, or I will tell Mr. Wang that you are slacking off."

Not long after, the second brother came into the kitchen with a stack of neatly cut and folded white paper and handed it to Xingbao: "Xingbao, the white paper is here." Xingbao took the paper, picked up a sheet, inserted the grid template into the middle of the paper, carefully folded it neatly, and then used a paperweight to hold it down firmly. Only then did he pick up a brush, dip it in ink, and slowly begin to write the poem from memory, stroke by stroke. Although his handwriting was not top-notch, each stroke was exceptionally serious, showing a composure far beyond his years. After finishing each sheet, Guixiang would carefully pick it up, quickly walk to the stove, and slowly dry it with the residual heat of the stove, afraid that the ink would smudge. After drying, she would gently stack them together.

Before they knew it, it was dusk. The oil lamp was lit, its dim light gently spilling into the kitchen, illuminating Xingbao's earnest face and Guixiang's busy little figure. Even after writing all afternoon, they hadn't even finished a fraction of the poems in the book. Xingbao stopped writing, put down the brush, stretched his stiff wrists and fingers, and felt a slight ache in his shoulders. He rubbed his arms and said softly, "I'll stop here for now. I'll continue tomorrow. I'm too tired."

But Gui Xiang wasn't having it. She stopped what she was doing, frowned, tugged at Xing Bao's sleeve, and complained softly, "Xing Bao, why did you stop writing before you finished? Keep writing, and rest after you're done!"

Xingbao smiled helplessly and said ingratiatingly, "Sister, look, I've been writing all afternoon. It's getting dark, my eyes are almost blurry, and my hands are sore. I'll rest for the night and continue writing tomorrow, okay?"

"No!" Gui Xiang pouted and said seriously, "Big Brother usually writes until very late by lamplight, and you have to be like him and not be lazy!" In her eyes, since Xing Bao could remember all the poems, he should finish writing them in one go and not give up halfway.

Upon hearing Gui Xiang's words, Xing Bao's face instantly fell, and he felt terrible. He quickly argued, "Sister, it's different! We usually stop copying books around this time. Besides, I'm really tired, I need to rest!" Before Gui Xiang could refute him, he nimbly jumped off the stool, picked up the "Principles of Mechanics" book beside him, and ran quickly out of the kitchen, afraid that Gui Xiang would stop him and force him to write again.

Seeing this, Guixiang immediately panicked and chased after her mother, who was mending clothes. She tugged at her mother's clothes, gently shaking them, and began to complain pitifully, "Mother, Mother, Xingbao is being lazy! He hasn't finished writing his poem yet, and he's already stopped! Please make him go back and continue writing, so he can rest after he's finished!"

Mother put down the clothes she was holding, smiled, and gently ruffled Gui Xiang's hair, her voice tender and indulgent: "Alright, alright, Mother knows. Xing Bao is still young. He's been writing all afternoon and is already tired. You and he never copy this much when you're usually copying books. And it's so cold outside, let him rest for a while. He can continue writing tomorrow, okay?"

"No, no!" Gui Xiang immediately pouted, her brows furrowed tightly, her little hands still clutching her mother's clothes and shaking them gently. Her voice was soft but stubborn: "Mother, I'm scared! Xing Bao only flipped through the book a few times. What if he forgets it after a night's sleep? He won't be able to recite those poems anymore. What a pity!" She was genuinely worried that Xing Bao would only remember it temporarily and forget it after a night's sleep. That would be such a waste.

The mother chuckled at Guixiang's earnest yet endearing expression, gently stroking her little nose with her warm fingertips as she patiently comforted her, "Silly girl, don't worry. Our Xingbao is the smartest; how could he forget something he's memorized? Even if he does mix up a few sentences, we can just go to school and find Mr. Wang, borrow the book, and copy it again. What's the big deal? Look at Xingbao's little hands; they must be numb from writing. You don't want him to get tired, do you?"

Gui Xiang tilted her little head, thought for a moment, and finally nodded, whispering, "Okay, then let him rest for the night. But Mom, you have to keep an eye on him for me. He must continue writing tomorrow and can't be lazy!" Her mother smiled and nodded, picking up her needle and thread again to mend the clothes. Gui Xiang immediately leaned over, gently pressing her little hand against her mother's round belly, her soft hand resting on it. She whispered in her mother's ear in a soft, pouty little voice, "Little brother, little brother, come out quickly~ Xing Bao won't listen to me anymore, he's even being lazy and not writing. When you come out, you must stand by my side and help me keep an eye on him and supervise him, so he'll obediently finish writing the poems, okay?"

The oil lamp in the main room was still lit, its dim yellow light illuminating the figures of the mother and daughter huddled together, a comforting warmth. From the direction of the kitchen came the sizzling sound of Dad stir-frying soybeans, mingling with the subtle crackling of the soybeans gradually popping open. The aroma wafted in through the crack in the door, carrying the scent of cooking and filling the entire shop. By the counter, the eldest and second eldest brothers carefully held the poems that Xingbao had just memorized, leaning over the table to read them softly. Their fingertips occasionally tapped the paper, and they huddled together, whispering about the beauty of the verses, their eyes filled with undisguised admiration and pride. In the brazier inside the counter, the charcoal fire burned brightly, crackling and spreading warmth in wisps, enveloping everyone in a cozy glow. Xingbao sat on a small stool by the brazier, his fingertips gently tracing the yellowed pages of "Principles of Mechanics," his gaze constantly drifting towards the window. The heaviness in his eyes, caused by the situation in Nanjing, lingered like a thin mist. The snow outside was falling heavier and heavier, the fine snowflakes weaving densely, gently landing on the eaves and the path, quickly accumulating into a thin layer of white, tightly enveloping the small inn in tranquility and warmth, making it the most secure haven in the midst of chaos.