I was seven in the summer of that year, I often follow Dad to Ma Queer getting corn and millet, and Dad always put me in next to barrow along a clear stream, the stream under the blue sky shines, seemed very clear bright and clean. In much of the sound of cicadas high in collision stone hoes and dad the melodious mountain song, I play with tadpoles, ants, butterflies, flowers and slowly creeping the stream.