The maid slowly polished the ink and looked at Dan Niang, who was frowning and thinking seriously.
The Chen family's poems and rituals should be initiated earlier, but girls like Dan Niang are more relaxed than boys. They must have just begun to read the Three Classics. Poems and songs are not something that enlightened children can do.
The little girl must have heard her brother, master, father, and grandfather talk about poetry.
Cheng Jiaoniang looked indifferent and just looked at the wall.
"We are here to enjoy the plum blossoms." The maid reminded Dan Niang in a low voice, "You can start with this."
Dan Niang said.
"Yes, yes, I thought of it." She said, coughing, "To appreciate plum blossoms, come to Shandera, come to Shandera to enjoy plum blossoms."
The maid smiled and nodded.
"Okay, that's it." She smiled, "What's next?"
"Plum blossoms... plum blossoms..." Danniang tilted her head and thought.
"You can't use plum blossoms," the maid reminded.
Dan Niang pouted.
"I can't do it anymore," she said.
Cheng Jiaoniang looked down at her.
"It doesn't matter, just one sentence is fine," she said, extending her hand.
The maid hurriedly handed the pen to her.
"Write the sentence I just made?" Dan Niang asked, blinking, "Can the poem I made also be inscribed?"
Cheng Jiaoniang nodded and held the pen, feeling a little shaky at first.
I obviously have strength, but why am I trembling? Why is there a soreness in my nose?
Just write, just write.
She raised her head and looked at the snow-white wall.
"Danniang, can I change a few words in your poem?" she asked.
Dan Niang giggled.
"Okay, okay," she said.
The maid suddenly became a little nervous. She looked at Cheng Jiaoniang who was standing by the wall and holding up her pen. Although she also felt that this nervousness was a bit inexplicable.
Cheng Jiaoniang raised her hand and started writing.
The first point trembles so much that it bleeds.
The maid made a sound in her heart.
Writing on the wall is more laborious than usual, and the lady has never picked up a pen, at least she has never seen her since she came here.
The hands are still shaking, still shaking.
Why should she? If she doesn't write anymore, her hands and feet can move, and she can heal her illness and maintain her health. It doesn't matter whether she can write or not.
"I'm stupid, I can't even write, don't say she's my daughter!"
There was a sudden sound in her head, and Cheng Jiaoniang felt a loud bang, and her eyes filled with mist.
Who is it, who is it.
She took a deep breath, turned her wrist, and moved smoothly.
The slave on the side felt like her breathing had stopped. She never thought that such a feeling could be seen by watching someone write.
When it seemed like she was about to suffocate, the woman's hand turned again.
The slave breathed a sigh of relief and held her chest with her hands. It felt like a lifetime had passed, but in fact it was just a blink of an eye.
"Shan..." she read out slowly.
"Temple..." Dan Niang also read.
"Wait..." the slave thought, then suddenly made a sound and her eyes widened.
She didn't have time to say anything, and Dan Niang continued reading.
"Mei..." Dan Niang raised her head and muttered.
"Open..." Cheng Jiaoniang read out the last word, put away her pen, and stood a few steps back.
On the snow-white wall, a line of large characters was particularly conspicuous at this time.
Cheng Jiaoniang watched, the maidservant also watched, and Dan Niang also watched.
One is happy, the other is surprised, and the other is pretty.
Father…
Although I still can’t remember who you are or who I am, as long as I am still here, I can wait, you wait for me, and I remember everything. During this period, I will definitely live happily.
"Let's go enjoy the plum blossoms." Cheng Jiaoniang said, and walked towards the back door without looking back.
Danniang's child had already changed her interest, and after hearing this, she followed him happily. The maid recovered from her daze, and saw that she was the only one in the hall, so she quickly followed her.
As they walked out the back door, another group of people came in front, talking and laughing with accents different from those in Jingdi.
"...Mr. Zhang Jiangzhou is seeking benefits for us and other students taking the exam, so he will start teaching classes later this year, focusing on the classics."
"...There are just so many students, I wonder if we will be lucky enough to listen..."
"...It's still too early to come now. When the first month comes, the plum blossoms and snow here will complement each other, and poetry will definitely flourish..."
"...If the writing is good, this place will be covered with green gauze, and this wall will be preserved..."
"...Brother Wenming, please compose a song quickly, and I will write it next to you. When the time comes, I will be honored and spread throughout the ages..."
Everyone was talking and laughing as they stood in front of the white wall and were stunned.
"Who is this? What a joke!"
Poems, poems, are not poems but at least words. How can I write a sentence? What is this called?
"The mountain temple is waiting for the plum blossoms to bloom." Someone read loudly, "This can't be regarded as the beginning of a sentence, it can barely be regarded as the conclusion, but it doesn't matter if it is just thrown here!"
Another person came in outside the door. Seeing the excitement here, he naturally looked over and immediately stamped his feet.
"It's such a nonsense, it's really ruining this wall..."
"There's no monk to guard you, so you can just let people scribble randomly..."
In the midst of the chaos, shaking their heads, sighing, and scolding someone who felt it was insulting to be polite, someone made a sound and looked at the words on the wall seriously.
"What kind of character is this kind of character? How come it seems like I've never seen it before?" He murmured, unconsciously copying it on his hands.
Gradually, some people also noticed it. They couldn't help but notice that the line of words written carelessly on the wall was too conspicuous.
"But it's a pity that I hesitated to start the first character, so that the whole character has no power..."
“…I’ve been studying copybooks since I was four years old, but how come I’ve never seen these five fonts?”
There were more and more people in the small side hall, and the excitement attracted more people. Those in the distance didn't know what was going on, and asked each other.
"Someone wrote a wonderful poem?"
"It's not the best time yet, it's just good for now, and it won't be long before something better comes."
Some were amazed, some were indifferent, and some were disdainful.
Three or four people admiring plum blossoms from afar also heard the excitement here.
"Brother Qinglin, when we just entered, there were only four poems, and they were all lost. Could it be because of your poems?" someone said.
The middle-aged man named Qing Lin could not hide the excitement on his brows, but he forced himself to remain calm.
"How dare you?" he said.
"I have long felt that Brother Qinglin's poem just now is very different."
Others praised him one after another.
There are many people who have become famous with a poem, and they may even be favored by some big shots.
Such a good thing happened to him. The man couldn't help but breathed quickly, and his companions were jealous and excited. Although it was a pity that he couldn't become famous in one fell swoop, it was good to be a friend of a famous person.
"Go and ask, go and ask." He said hurriedly.
Several people came over, but there was no room for people to squeeze into the side hall.
"Excuse me, what happened here?" A person took a deep breath and asked pretending to be surprised and confused.
"Someone wrote a good poem." The person in front said excitedly.
Sure enough, when several people looked at each other, Brother Qinglin's face turned slightly red and he lowered his hands to hold on.
"What poem is it? Who is the author?" the companion asked in a trembling voice.
The man turned back and rolled his eyes at him.
"There are too many people to squeeze in. I haven't seen it yet..." he said.
Then why are you so excited... A few people despise you.
After asking back and forth, I finally asked.
"No name left."
No name left? How could you write a poem without leaving a name? Wouldn’t that be just flirting with a blind man?
Several people were stunned for a moment and looked at Brother Qinglin.
"I, I remember writing down my name." Brother Qinglin said with a red face.
"Maybe he was too young to see it," someone guessed in a low voice.
After asking around, the people in front couldn't explain it clearly. In a hurry, a few people just squeezed to the door with blank eyes, and they couldn't squeeze in anymore.
"That's a poem written by my senior brother!" Someone couldn't help shouting.
The person standing in front blocking the road turned around, but strangely, he was not excited and admired, but rolled his eyes.
"This trick won't work, so give up." They said in unison, "We haven't seen enough and we won't get out of the way."
"It's really a poem written by my senior!" Several people couldn't help shouting again.
"What? What we see here are not poems, but words." The person in front sneered, "The poems you wrote and the poems you wrote on the wall are nothing compared to other people's words."
What? Not a poem? A word?
Several people stood on tiptoe, pressing the shoulders of the people in front of them and looking over.
The mountain temple is waiting for the plum blossoms to bloom.
The five words were dripping with ink, and they burst into view with a somewhat heroic, aura, and unspeakable charm.
Such a simple vernacular, in this twist and turn, is like the eyes of a dragon, coming alive and making a loud sound.
Waiting for the plum blossoms to bloom in the mountain temple, waiting for the plum blossoms to bloom! (To be continued)
