Chapter 192: Chapter 106: Rice Transplanting Season

At dawn, Juhua awoke to the crisp birdsong from the back mountain. She listened as the birds chirped cheerfully. The villagers said their call hurried along the rice transplanting, and each cry was loud and melodious.

She lay still for a moment, staring blankly at the thatched roof. Only when she heard the Yang Family calling “CLUCK, CLUCK” to the chickens for their feed did she finally force herself to get out of bed.

In the dim morning light, Zheng Changhe had already gone to the fields. Qingmu had also taken the calf and herded the ducks down to the river to graze, a book in hand. After feeding the chickens, the Yang Family was already scrubbing laundry. Juhua bustled about, first boiling water to wash the stove and pots, then putting the corn mush on to cook before finally washing her face and rinsing her mouth.

For the past two months, her face had felt as if she were wearing a mask. The scaly patches of skin had hardened. She no longer had allergic reactions to spicy or salty foods; she had even eaten quite a bit of that red-braised Ni Qiu. She touched the hard, shell-like layer, full of doubt. ’Still, as long as it doesn’t cause a reaction, it’s a good thing. I love flavorful food, so I’m glad I don’t have to be so careful anymore.’

After getting herself ready, Juhua picked up a large broom and began to sweep the courtyard, shooing the chickens out as she went. The chickens and ducks were a nuisance, pooping everywhere and forcing her to clean up with grass ash. But, she figured, if you were going to eat them, you couldn’t very well complain about their mess.

After a few spring showers, the vegetables shot up, competing with the other plants and weeds in a vibrant display of green. But where vegetables grew, so did weeds, which meant one always had to find time to pull them. At times like these, no one was admiring the tenacious life of the humble weed. They were just plain annoying. You’d pull them all out, and two days later, a new layer would sprout. Even worse, if you didn’t toss the pulled weeds far enough away for the sun to kill them, they would take root again as soon as they touched the soil and got a sprinkle of spring rain, growing back as fresh as ever. It was truly exasperating.

The sown rice seeds sprouted into patches of seedlings that resembled green carpets. Seeing them grow taller day by day, people began to plow and harrow the paddies, leveling and loosening the soil in the flooded fields. They filled them with the right amount of water, preparing to transplant the rice.

Once the vibrant green seedlings were tall enough, they were scattered across the vast, white, watery expanse of the paddies. From a distance, it looked as if a great cloth had been mended with green patches. But these patches were even more brilliant than the original fabric.

The seedling beds were full of people, all bent at the waist, pulling up the young rice plants. With both hands, they pulled up clumps of the half-foot-long seedlings. When one hand could no longer hold them all, they would swish the bundle vigorously in the water a few times to clean the roots, then tie it in the middle with a prepared strand of rice straw and toss it behind them.

Bending over like that was exhausting work. Those with weaker constitutions would bring small stools into the field, sitting down to pull the seedlings. After clearing a patch, they would haul the stool up and scoot it forward a bit.

Then, others would carry the pulled seedlings on shoulder poles to the prepared paddies, forcefully tossing the bundles into the water. It wasn’t a random scattering; they were thrown to land far and near, ensuring the transplanters always had seedlings within reach.

A transplanter would untie a bundle of seedlings, holding it in his left hand. With his right, he would casually pick up a small cluster, pinch it between three fingers, and deftly press it into the mud beneath the water—six seedlings to a row. As his right hand moved up and down without pause, rows of seedlings were etched into the paddy. He moved steadily backward, and the neat rows multiplied behind him, standing tall in the water and fluttering in the breeze.

The ones pulling seedlings and the ones planting them would all straighten up from time to time to call out a few jokes to the people in the next field, discussing the weather, the rain, or even the harvest that these seedlings would bring in a few months. The weather wasn’t yet very warm, but they didn’t seem to feel the cold of the water, only a sense of diligence and hope.

Little children would come to deliver water and simple snacks. The entire landscape was dotted with people, all as busy as the surging breath of spring in the air.

But no matter how carefully one planned, unexpected situations were bound to arise.

The Zheng Family, the Zhao family, and the Zhang family had partnered up to transplant their rice, and they had enough hands for the job. However, the three families were well-liked in the village, so others whose turn to plant hadn’t come yet offered to help. After all, they were idle anyway, and if you helped someone today, they would surely help you tomorrow. Liu Xiaomei’s family, for instance—she had three brothers, and their own planting was still a few days off, so they came to help the Zheng Family.

As a result, Juhua’s burden of cooking grew even heavier. The number of mouths to feed kept rising, making her wail inwardly—’I’ve really turned into the designated cook!’

And so, Liu Xiaomei came to help with the cooking again.

Juhua quickly said, “You go on and do your own thing, we have enough people here. See? Aren’t three people enough for the cooking?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep