The beginning of the story of the Tang Dynasty's Imperial Son-in-Law: A rhinoceros comes knocki

Chapter 120 Everyone was amazed

Li Chengqian ate properly, but he ate quite a lot.

He has practiced martial arts for many years and has a big appetite. He had been standing in the field for most of the day and was already very hungry.

He picked up a piece of pork knuckle skin, put it in his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and nodded slightly.

The skin was stewed until soft and tender, melting in your mouth, with a rich, savory sauce flavor.

Li Qing ate the fastest. After finishing a bowl of rice, he went to get another half bowl, saying as he ate, "Master Wang, your rice is even better than the rice at my house."

Wang Zhi glanced at him and said, "This is new rice. A field to the south ripened a couple of days ago, and I asked Old Zhang to harvest some early. I deliberately saved it for today so that everyone can have a taste."

"Speaking of this new rice, you see, it's very moist, and when cooked, each grain is distinct and separate, and it's more fragrant than regular rice."

Li Qing nodded repeatedly and took another bite.

After taking a couple of bites, he looked up again and couldn't help but ask, "That field to the south? Is it the one at the bottom of the sunny slope? I think the rice there does turn yellow earlier."

Wang Zhi nodded, thinking to himself that Li Silang was indeed sharp-eyed and meticulous. He had squatted on the edge of the field for half a day and even figured out which field would ripen first.

Li Shimin sat on another chair under the jujube tree, with a bowl and chopsticks set in front of him. He ate little, but every dish was...

I tried it.

He poured himself a cup of pine syrup, took a small sip, closed his eyes to savor the taste, and nodded.

"This wine is even better than last time," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but Wang Zhi still heard it.

"It's been aged for an extra month," Wang Zhihuan replied. "If it's left for another two months, it will be even more mellow. Good wine is all aged."

Li Shimin put down his wine cup and picked up a piece of braised pork.

After the meal, everyone sat under the jujube tree, drinking tea to aid digestion.

The sun was gradually setting in the west, and the heat had subsided considerably. The courtyard was dappled with shadows from the trees, and a gentle breeze was blowing.

There were only a few rows of rice left to harvest in the field. Cheng Chumo led the Yuchi brothers to the field again. They were all so full that they could barely walk.

Old Zhang was tidying up his farm tools, while Zhao Youtian and Wang Laogeng squatted on the edge of the field, making notes. Their heads were close together, like two busy ants.

Under the jujube tree, Cheng Yaojin leaned back in his chair, his face flushed and neck red from drinking. He closed his eyes to rest, and his snoring was faint.

Li Shimin held his teacup, gazing at the distant rice paddies, lost in thought. His gaze was deep, as if he saw something else through the rice fields.

Fang Xuanling put down his teacup and his gaze fell on Wang Zhihuan.

He recalled what His Majesty had said before: planting rice, raising chickens, brewing wine, practicing medicine, and those few lines of poetry.

On the way here, he was wondering if these words were really spoken by the young man in front of him.

Seeing Wang Zhi sitting opposite them, neither humble nor arrogant, with an expression even more composed than theirs, their curiosity resurfaced.

"Master Wang," Fang Xuanling began, his tone casual, but his gaze held a hint of scrutiny, "I've heard you're quite accomplished in poetry and prose. Today's harvest is bountiful, everything is golden; in such a sight—I wonder—do you have any fine pieces to write?"

The words were polite and to the point; it wasn't meant to be difficult, but rather a casual exchange between scholars.

But when Fang Xuanling asked this question, Cheng Yaojin's snoring suddenly stopped.

Wang Zhihuan, holding his teacup, paused slightly.

He glanced at the rice paddies in the courtyard that had just been harvested, then at the wine jars and bowls and chopsticks still set out on the stone table.

The sun was beginning to set, and its golden-red light spread across the threshing floor, turning the bundles of rice drying in the sun a bright yellow.

Several tenants were carrying flails to the edge of the threshing floor in preparation for the evening's threshing.

The wooden handle of the flail cast a long shadow in the setting sun.

He suddenly remembered a poem.

This poem, "Miscellaneous Poems on Rural Life in the Four Seasons," was written by Fan Chengda, one of the four great poets of the Southern Song Dynasty.

He didn't stand on ceremony and was very easygoing. That's how people are; once they get used to something, it becomes taken for granted.

He took a sip, then put down the teacup, stood up, and began to recite the poem.

The sound wasn't loud, but the courtyard was quiet, and several people sitting nearby could hear it.

"The muddy ground of Xinzhu is as smooth as a mirror, and every family is threshing rice while the frost is still clear. Laughter and songs are accompanied by the gentle rumble of thunder, and the sound of flails echoes all night until dawn."

After reciting it all in one breath, he picked up his teacup and took a sip.

He then sat down, his eyes fixed straight ahead, appearing calm and composed.

The courtyard fell silent for a moment. Even the wind stopped.

Cheng Yaojin opened his eyes and scratched his head: "This poem is about threshing rice? It sounds quite lively."

He smacked his lips, as if savoring the memory. Whether he understood it or not, he had to make a good impression.

Fang Xuanling did not speak again.

He silently recited those four sentences in his mind.

"Newly constructed mud mirror surface"

The threshing ground, freshly prepared, was as smooth as a mirror.

"Every household harvests rice while the frost is still on the horizon."

Every household took advantage of the sunny weather after the frost to rush to harvest rice.

"A gentle thunderclap amidst laughter and song"

Amidst laughter and cheerful chatter, the sound of flails rolled like soft thunder.

"The flail rang all night long until dawn"—the flail rang all night long, until daybreak.

The poem consists of four lines and twenty-eight characters, with no allusions or obscure characters.

But each sentence is like a painting, depicting the scene of the farm today, and even the events that will happen tonight: the sound of flails echoing in the threshing ground, and the tenants working until dawn.

The scene was so vivid, it was as if it were unfolding right before my eyes. I could hear the dull thud of the flail striking the rice stalks and see the figures of people on the threshing floor under the moonlight.

This shows how profound his skill was. He put down his teacup and let out a soft breath.

"A good poem," he said. His tone was calm, but his eyes shone.

He only said those two words and didn't say anything more. But he knew he had made the right decision to come.

Cheng Yaojin didn't understand poetry, but he had known Fang Xuanling for twenty years and knew that a poem that could make the prime minister of the time remain silent for a moment before uttering the words "good poem" was no ordinary work.

Who was Fang Xuanling? He was a man of exceptional literary talent, but also arrogant and conceited, able to find fault with even the most important documents submitted to the court.

So this person used two words to praise a poem, a first for Cheng Yaojin.

So he nodded and gave a emphatical "Mmm," saying, "Yes, a good poem!"

Li Shimin held his teacup, a slight smile curving his lips. He glanced at Fang Xuanling, who happened to be looking over at him as well.

Their eyes met; one smiled, the other looked serious, and they understood each other without saying a word.

Fang Xuanling's last remaining doubts finally dissipated completely at this moment.

It wasn't just because I heard a good poem.

More importantly, it was because of this young man, who had spent the whole day on the ridge of the field, his hands covered in mud and his body reeking of cooking.

Yet, when everyone was drunk and in high spirits, he could engrave the scene before them into their minds with just twenty-eight words.

This kind of skill cannot be acquired through reading. No matter how many books you read, you cannot write this kind of poetry.

This comes from the soil, from the daily life, and from having eyes that can discover beauty.

This is what we are born with.

Perhaps, as he said, true talent is born of nature, and a stroke of genius is often the only one who achieves it. It's something we can only envy.

Chang Le sat on the other side of the jujube tree, holding a teacup in her hand, but did not drink.

Her gaze fell on Wang Zhihuan's profile.

After reciting the poem, the young man picked up his teacup again, his expression exactly the same as when he said "Dinner is served."

It's as if such a masterpiece is just something we're used to, something we can just casually mention and that's enough.

The teacup covered half of his face, revealing only his eyebrows and eyes, which were calm and expressionless.

But her heart was beating faster than usual.

She remembered the last time he recited those four lines, "Weary feathers follow the clouds up and down, solitary tracks do not drift with the world," on the ridge of the field.

At that moment, he gazed at the distant Qing Shi Ridge, his eyes holding a deep depth she couldn't quite decipher, a quality that only comes to mind when a person is alone.

She understood; it was loneliness, just as he understood it too.

But today is different.

When he recited those four lines today, his eyes no longer saw Qing Shi Ridge; all he saw were the people in the courtyard and the wine on the table.

Bowls, rice stubble in the fields, and flails on the threshing floor—all these evoke the everyday life of ordinary people.

The warmth of the cooking fire was so comforting that it could warm one's heart.

She wondered, just how much does this person hold inside? They always manage to surprise people, and each time it's something different.

She lowered her head and took a small sip of tea. The tea was cold, but it left a warm feeling in her throat as she swallowed it.

Li Qing was engrossed in eating his rice—he had already finished and was still shoveling rice into his empty bowl—when he heard Wang Zhihuan reciting poetry, his chopsticks suddenly stopped in mid-air.

He silently recited those four sentences in his mind, then recited them again.

He considered himself to have a considerable level of expertise in literature and poetry.

"The mud in Xinzhuchang is as smooth as a mirror—the flails clang all night until dawn."

He put down his chopsticks, and his eyes lit up.

It wasn't just the excitement of learning a new trick today, but a shock that was completely beyond my imagination.

So this is how poetry can be written.

When he writes poetry, he always likes to use allusions and pile up fancy words. He always feels that if it is not written in a gorgeous way, it is not poetry or beauty.

He believed that without quoting classical texts, one could not demonstrate erudition or literary talent.

But these four lines don't contain a single allusion; they describe the most ordinary things in front of him: threshing floor, frosty sunshine, laughter and songs, flail—yet they have more flavor and more substance than any of his poems.

In these four lines of poetry, those ordinary things suddenly come alive.

So he looked at Wang Zhihuan, opened his mouth as if to ask something.

They asked how this poem was written, and why it could be written so well without using classical allusions.

But looking at Wang Zhihuan holding his teacup with a calm expression, he suddenly felt that asking anything was superfluous.

Some things can't be learned by asking, practicing, or studying.

He glanced again at the rice bowl in his hand—it was freshly cooked rice, each grain distinct, with a fragrant aroma.

He suddenly remembered what Tie Dan had said earlier: this was harvested from the early-ripening field in the south, and only a small amount was collected in total.

He thought that the rice being threshed in the poem might refer to this kind of rice.

This poem didn't come out of thin air; it grew from this field, from this rice, from these days. Just as rice grows from the soil.

Without this experience, how could one create such down-to-earth yet imaginative and literary poems?

He memorized those four lines of poetry, along with the aroma of rice, wine, and meat of today.

Li Chengqian sat next to him and saw his younger brother clearly from the moment he put down his chopsticks to the moment he shut up.

He didn't speak, but picked up his teacup, took a sip, and smiled slightly. He knew that if Qingque had this realization today, his trip wouldn't have been in vain.

Chengyang squatted by the goose pen, not hearing the poem, but even if he had, he wouldn't have cared.

Because she was arguing with Tiedan about which goose laid the bigger egg. The two of them held up a goose egg each, comparing their sizes against the setting sun, arguing until their faces turned red.

Tie Dan said hers wasn't round enough, and Cheng Yang said his wasn't white enough; neither of them would give in.

Li Zhi sat on a stone bench, quietly drinking tea. He heard the poem, but he didn't speak.

He simply put down the teacup, picked it up again, and put it down again, his gaze lingering on Wang Zhihuan for a moment before shifting away.

That moment was so brief that no one noticed it.

Sizi was lying on Chang Le's lap, already asleep.

The rattle slipped from her hand, rolled under the stone table, and was picked up by Ah Huang.

Needless to say, once the ox wakes up, Ah Huang will obediently bring it over again.

She was sleeping soundly, her little mouth slightly open, a trace of oil still clinging to the corner of her lips, and her breath carrying a faint aroma of meat.

She didn't hear a single word of Wang Zhihuan's poem. But in her dreams, she probably smelled the aroma of braised pork.

Young children are unaware of the sorrows of adolescence.

Many years later, when Li Tai was in charge of compiling the "Essentials of Literature and Thought", someone asked him which was the best pastoral poem of his time.

He thought for a long time and then recited a poem entitled "Miscellaneous Poems on Rural Life in Four Seasons".

The events of that day were later recounted by Cheng Yaojin repeatedly after he had been drinking.

He always emphasized different points each time he talked about it. Sometimes he would say that the rice yielded 420 catties per mu, sometimes he would say that the braised pork was fatty but not greasy and melted in his mouth, and sometimes he would say that the pine wine was so mellow that it could be eaten as a meal.

But every time he finished telling the story, he would always add, "That kid recited a poem, and after listening, Lao Fang said two words: 'Good poem.'"

I've known Lao Fang for over twenty years, and I've never seen him use even two words to praise anyone.

The listener asked, "What poem?"

Cheng Yaojin scratched his head, thinking for a long time: "What—a mirror-like surface in Xinchang, harvesting rice at midnight. Ah, I can't remember, you can ask me."

Go to the old house.

But Fang Xuanling never told anyone about this. He simply wrote a line in the opening of the volume on agriculture in his book "The Essentials of the State Administration of the Qing Dynasty": "In the autumn of the ninth year of Zhenguan, new rice was planted in the capital region, and the yield was 420 catties per mu. On that day, farmers sang songs, and the sound could be heard in the fields."

No one knows that the eight characters "田家作歌，声闻于野" (The farmer composes a song, and the sound is heard in the wilderness) actually describe four lines of poetry that a young boy casually recited on a bountiful afternoon.

In the afternoon, everyone went down to the fields again.

At three quarters past Shen time, the last bundle of rice was carried onto the ridge of the field.

The bundle of rice was heavy, and when it was carried on the tenant's shoulder, it bent his back.

At this moment, Old Zhang wiped his sweat and walked up to Wang Zhihuan: "Master, it's all harvested."

His voice was slightly breathless, but he was smiling, a smile more hopeful than that of a sunflower.

Wang Zhihuan nodded and looked at Zhao Youtian and Wang Laogeng: "Gentlemen, we can begin."

Zhao Youtian took a deep breath, exchanged a glance with Wang Laogeng, and the two squatted down next to the pile of rice bundles to begin threshing and weighing.

Their movements were extremely careful, as if they were handling some fragile treasure.

The courtyard gradually quieted down. Everyone gathered around, even Sizi woke up and stood obediently beside Chang Le, staring wide-eyed, her little face still bearing the red marks of just waking up.

Cheng Yaojin stood up from the stone bench, walked to the edge of the field, and crossed his arms.

The flush from drinking had mostly faded from his face, replaced by an unusual seriousness.