Years of herding cattle: essays

There is an old saying in our hometown: cattle should sit, horses should ride and sheep should run. In the countryside, herding cattle is the simplest farm work. It is some old people and children who go to herd cattle on the hillside. Some parents are particularly patriarchal, and they also call the older girls at home to herd cattle.

My family keeps a tame bull. When I was a few years old, I followed my neighbor's friends to herd cattle on the hillside. I let the cow out of the pen. I let it go. The whip in my hand is useless. Those little friends are particularly naughty. As soon as they drove the bull out of the village, they couldn't wait to step on the horn as hard as pepper and push it hard, and their strong bodies jumped onto the thick back of the cow. Ingenious little guys took out suona made of bark from their pockets, drumming their cheeks and shaking their heads. Melodious and crisp suona sound, like light and agile wings, flutters and jumps on the winding path, and gradually drifts from the tall and straight mountains to the vast sky. On that looming mountain road, the hoofbeat of cattle came and went, leaving a line of crooked hoofprint. Cattle grazing everywhere. We found a clean and smooth slate, took off our shoes, and sat cross-legged on it like meditation masters in ancient temples, chattering endlessly. Some active children are running in the quiet valley. They picked some colorful wild flowers, pulled some woven straw hats and put them on their heads like those PLA uncles who beat bandits on TV. The old man was restless, and when he became addicted to smoking, he went to pick wild vegetables and dig herbs. The big girls who herded cattle made colorful insoles one by one, happily weaving secrets in their hearts. They like to sing folk songs and sing hot love songs at the top of their voices. Their songs are so sweet and beautiful, like sweet spring water slowly flowing into my heart. Mountains, birds, and everything in the field are listening to the Buddha! The spotless mountain wind blows gently, and the fresh grass seems to be nodding and calling. The sun is setting, the river is glowing with orange light, small lights are lit up in distant villages, and attractive food smells are floating out of our mouths. We each found our own bulls, rushed to the river ditch under the hillside to drink water, and walked step by step to the familiar mountain village in the afterglow of the sunset.

The old man in the village said, "Hungry waves are better than full meals." Cattle farmers in the village go to the hillside to herd cattle all year round. In the spring, the quiet valley is filled with the fragrance of flowers and plants. I am like a gluttonous baby, gulping fresh and humid air. When I drove the cattle to the back of the mountain, I was thin and small, carrying a small and exquisite bamboo basket, and my brothers and sisters who were learning to herd cattle were picking bracken all over the mountain. I grabbed the weeds by the roadside, bit my teeth and climbed up the steep mountain ridge step by step, got into the crown of thorns, gently and softly held the fat and tender bracken, and clicked, and the bracken lay in my heart. The sharp thorn cut the back of my hand, and I didn't feel any pain at all. My brothers and sisters and I learned to sing folk songs happily, pinch bracken, pick wild spring vegetables and fresh green leaves. The sisters also carefully picked a handful of red wild flowers, took them home as a treasure, and put them in a bottle. The room was full of fragrance. In the long and hot summer, the early cows were released. It's just dawn, so you should take advantage of the hazy morning light to drive the cattle up the mountain to eat dew grass. Mountains far and near are like veils. The vegetation has not yet woken up from a sweet dream, and there is no sound in the valley. Gradually, several unknown bugs began to sing softly. The round sun smiled, the mysterious veil of the valley faded, and Shan Ye became full of vitality. The green grass danced its soft body in the gentle morning breeze, and the birds out of the nest flapped their wings on the branches and began to show off the beautiful song of "calling friends". Flocks of flies became crazy, bared their teeth, jumped on the bull and greedily sucked blood. The poor helpless bull shook his tail desperately, shook his clumsy body hard and shook his head back and forth, trying to drive away the gadfly. I am so angry that I can't stand it. I pulled out a handful of wormwood and patted it on the cow. At ten o'clock, the sun is like an inverted brazier, burning the earth mercilessly, and the plants are scratching and almost burning. Niu Yi couldn't eat any more grass, so he began to rush into the ditch at the foot of the mountain. After drinking enough, he strode home and stamped his foot.

In autumn, especially in the harvest season, there is no need to herd cattle on the hillside and drive them to the corn field to eat grass. The mountains are full of dense corn forests, and the cows are led by ropes. Wherever the cows go, everyone goes. I carried my schoolbag, touched the fallen corn and bent down to pick it up. In more than a month after corn harvest, I picked up dozens of pounds of corn, sold it for more than ten dollars and bought a new dress. In the cold winter, after lunch, the old people in the village, wearing thick cotton-padded clothes, coughed and drove the cows up the mountain. The hillside is bare and lifeless, and blue-gray columns of smoke rise in foggy Shan Ye. The crisp firewood crackled, the fireworks drove away the cold, and the stiff body gradually warmed up. The old people stopped digging vegetables and everyone sat around the fire to keep warm. In those years, every household in the village planted potatoes, brought them back from home and baked them with hot ash. The aroma of potatoes spread bit by bit, the baked potatoes were pulled out, and the burnt skin was scraped off with firewood, which was full of fragrance. Old people can't bear to eat potatoes. They grow popcorn to eat. Throw the corn into the ash and scrape it back and forth with half a branch. Bang, the popcorn rang, jumped out of the ashes, picked it up, blew it a few times, and put it in your mouth, crunchy. The old people clapped their knees and gestured, telling an ancient and beautiful story vividly. Their voices rose and fell, and their wrinkled faces gradually spread out. They can't read, but they can tell stories for days and nights In their eyes, the mountains in their hometown, the grass and trees on the mountains and the river in front of the village are all legends, myths and stories! I just listen to these ancient and mysterious stories and grow up happily day by day. ...

Later, I went to the city to study, and never went to the hillside to herd cattle again. But those happy and beautiful times when I herded cattle, the tame cows at home and the old people telling stories often appeared in my sleepless nights. ...