Chapter Thirty: Taking Up the Pen

  The maid slowly ground the ink and looked at Dan Niang, who was frowning and thinking seriously.

  Chen Jia's poetry is a gift to the family, and it should have been introduced earlier. However, for a girl like Dan Niang, the requirements are more relaxed compared to boys. I suppose she has just started reading the Three Classics, and writing poetry is not something that children who have just begun their education can do.

  The little girl must have heard her brother, teacher, father and grandfather talk about poetry and lyrics.

  Jiang Yao's expression was calm and she simply stared at the wall.

  "We have come to admire the plum blossoms." The maid reminded Dan Niang in a low voice, "You can start with this."

  A loud cry of "Dan Niang"!

  "Right, right, I've thought of it," she said, clearing her throat. "Appreciate the plum blossoms, mountain temple, go to the mountain temple to appreciate the plum blossoms."

  The maid nodded with a smile.

  "Alright, just like this." She smiled and said, "What's next?"

  "Plum blossom... plum blossom..." Dan Niang thought with her head tilted.

  "It can't be used with plum blossoms." The maid reminded.

  Dan Niang pouted.

  "I don't know anymore," she said.

  Jiang Nang lowered her head and looked at her.

  "It doesn't matter, just one sentence will do." She said, stretching out her hand.

  The maid hastily handed her the pen.

  "Write what I just did?" Dan Niang asked with a blink of her eyes, "Can the poem I wrote also be inscribed?"

  Jiang Nang nodded, grasped the pen, and initially felt a bit trembling.

  Obviously having the strength, why would I tremble, why would there be a hint of sourness on the tip of my nose.

  Just writing, nothing but writing.

  She raised her head and looked at the snow-white wall.

  "Dan Niang, I've revised your poem, changing a few words, is that alright?" she asked.

  Dan Niang smiled happily.

  "Alright, alright," she said.

  The maid suddenly felt a bit tense, looking at Cheng Jiaoniang standing by the wall, picking up her pen, although she also thought this tension was somewhat inexplicable.

  Jiangniang raised her hand and began to write.

  The first stroke trembles, so as to flow ink.

  The maid's heart skipped a beat.

  It's already more tiring to write on the wall than usual, and Niangzi has never held a pen before, at least not since she arrived.

  My hands are still shaking, still shaking.

  What's the big deal? I won't write anymore. As long as my hands and feet can move, I can cure illnesses and nourish my body. Whether or not I can write is of no importance.

  "Clumsy, can't even write a word, let alone be my daughter!"

  Suddenly a voice exploded in her mind, and all Chang Jiuniang felt was a loud rumble, with misty water filling her eyes.

  Who is it, who is it.

  She took a deep breath, her wrist turned, and her brush danced across the paper with effortless elegance.

  The maid beside her felt like she had stopped breathing, she never thought that watching someone write could give off this kind of feeling.

  It seemed as if she was about to suffocate when the woman's hand moved again.

  The slave took a deep breath, her hand on her chest, feeling like she had lived a lifetime, but in reality it was just the blink of an eye.

  "Mountain..." she slowly recited along with him.

  "Temple..." Dan Niang also recited.

  "Wait..." The slave girl muttered to herself, suddenly letting out a sound of surprise, her eyes widening in shock.

  She was about to say something but didn't have time, and Dan Niang continued reading on.

  "Plum... " Dan Niang recited with her head raised.

  "Open..." Jingniang read out the last word, put down her pen and stood up after a few steps.

  On the snow-white wall, a line of big characters was particularly eye-catching at this time.

  Jingyu looked on, the maid looked on, and Dan Niang also looked on.

  One is calm, one is surprised, and one is charming.

  Father...

  Although I still can't remember who you are, and can't recall who I am, as long as I'm still here, I'll be able to wait for you, wait for me to remember everything. In the meantime, I will also have to live a carefree life.

  "Let's go and enjoy the plum blossoms." said Cheng Jiaoniang, tucking up her sleeves and striding towards the back door without looking back.

  The little girl had already changed her interest, and upon hearing this, she happily followed up. The maid returned to her senses from her daze and saw that she was the only one left in the grand hall, so she hastily followed as well.

  They came out from the back door and another group of people entered from the front door, speaking in a dialect different from that of Beijing, chatting and laughing loudly.

  "...Mr. Zhang Jiangzhou is for our benefit as students going to take exams, so after the New Year he will open a lecture hall and teach the meaning of the classics."

  "...but there are many students, I don't know if we will be lucky enough to hear..."

  "...It's still early at this time, wait until the first month comes, here plum blossoms and snow will be reflected in each other, poetry inspiration will surely burst out..."

  "...If it's written well, this will be covered with a green silk screen, and this wall will remain..."

  "... Brother Wenming, then quickly compose a poem, I'll write next to you and bask in the glory of being passed down for thousands of years..."

  Everyone was laughing and joking as they stood in front of the white wall, suddenly stunned into silence.

  "Who is this? What nonsense!"

  Poetry and lyrics, at least one of them is not poetry, what's the point of writing just one sentence?

  "The mountain temple waits for the plum blossoms to open." Someone read aloud, "This can't be considered a starting sentence, and it's barely a concluding sentence. What is this solitary sentence doing here?"

  Someone else came in from outside and saw the commotion over here, so they naturally looked over and started stomping their feet too.

  "What a mess! A good wall was ruined..."

  "Isn't there even a monk in charge? Anyone can scribble whatever they want?"

  Among the chaotic shaking of heads and sighs of disapproval, someone suddenly stopped and looked seriously at the words on the wall.

  "What kind of script is this? It seems like I've never seen it before?" He muttered to himself, subconsciously transcribing it onto his hand.

  Gradually, people also noticed it, and they couldn't help but notice that the line of words was written on the wall in a very eye-catching way.

  "Hey, look, every single word is different!"

  "Marvelous! Marvelous! Indeed, indeed, flowing like clouds and water, transforming effortlessly..."

  "Unfortunately, the first stroke of the pen is hesitant, so that the whole character lacks momentum..."

  "...I've been practicing calligraphy since I was four years old, how come I've never seen these five fonts before?"

  More and more people are gathering in the small side hall, making it lively and attracting even more people to come over. People from afar don't know what's going on and are asking each other.

  "Has someone written a wonderful poem?"

  "It's not the best time yet, it's just temporarily good, and soon there will be something even better."

  Some were amazed, some were indifferent, and others were disdainful.

  There were three or four people admiring plum blossoms in the distance who also heard the commotion over here.

  "Qinglin brother, we just went in and there were only four poems. They all seemed to be settled, could it be because of your poem?" someone said.

  The middle-aged man called Qinglin had an unmistakable excitement between his eyebrows, but he calmed himself down.

  "How dare I, being so incompetent." he said.

  "I've long felt that Qinglin brother's poem just now was quite different."

  Others also praised him.

  There are many people who have made a name for themselves with just one poem, and they may even receive favor from certain big shots.

  This wonderful thing actually fell on his own head, and the person couldn't help but breathe quickly, while his companions were both jealous and excited. Although it's a pity that he can't become famous overnight, being friends with a famous person is also not bad.

  "Hurry up and ask, go ask." He said hastily at the time.

  Several people came over and this side of the hall was already packed to capacity.

  "What's going on here?" someone asked with feigned surprise and confusion.

  "Someone has written a good poem," said the person in front excitedly.

  Sure, here is the translation:

  As expected, several people exchanged a glance, and Qinglin's face turned slightly red, his hands clenched into fists.

  "What poem is this? Who's the author?" asked his companion in a trembling voice.

  He turned around and gave him a white eye.

  "There are too many people, can't squeeze in, I haven't seen yet..." he said.

  What's there to be excited about... Several people despise it in their hearts.

  Finally got it out after asking back and forth several times.

  "Anonymous."

  No signature? How can one write poetry without leaving a name, isn't that like casting pearls before the blind?

  Several people were stunned and looked at Brother Qinglin.

  "I, I remember writing the name." Qinglin brother said with a red face.

  "Maybe it's too small and can't be seen." someone whispered in speculation.

  The people in front were unclear about what was happening, and several of them, in a moment of anxiety, pushed their way to the door with a stern expression, but could not squeeze in any further.

  "That was written by my fellow student!" someone else shouted out in a voice that could no longer be restrained.

  The person standing in front and blocking the way suddenly turned around, but strangely, instead of being excited or worshipful, they rolled their eyes.

  "This trick won't work, give up." They said in unison, "We haven't had enough fun yet, we won't let you go."

  "It's really Brother Xue's poem!" Several people couldn't help but shout again.

  "What's this? What we're looking at isn't poetry, but just words." The person in front sneered and said, "The poems you write, the poems you scribble on walls are nothing compared to other people's writing."

  What? Not poetry? Words?

  Several people tiptoed and pressed against the shoulders of those in front to look over.

  Waiting for plum blossoms at the mountain temple.

  Five words with a hint of grandeur, a few hints of desolation and a few unspoken emotions, suddenly burst into view.

  Such a simple sentence in vernacular language, in the twists and turns of horizontal, vertical, left-falling and right-falling strokes, is like the dragon's eye being dotted, suddenly vivid and loud.

  Mountain temple waiting for plum blossoms, waiting, plum blossoms, open!