Summer time

I suddenly think of the summer of childhood, think of those shining sunshine, sending out the smell of the past.

The hot afternoon sun baked the earth, steaming hot. Fields of green watermelons glistened green in the sun. A few gourds were planted around the shelter, and slender gourds vine climbed up to the roof of the shelter, sifting a thick shade under the dense leaves. The greenhouse is like a rubber boat floating in the green sea. My friends and I sat under the melon shed and talked about ghosts and monsters.

A little friend was talking excitedly. He said that once upon a time there was a child named Cicada. His father married a woman after his mother died. The stepmother was cruel and merciless, often abusing cicadas, denying him warm clothes and enough food, and often finding fault with him. After the stepmother gave birth to a child, her son was spoiled, but the cicada intensified. One day his stepmother gave him a hoe, a small bag of wheat seed and some dry food, and sent him to the western hills to plant wheat. She told him that he would not be allowed to return home until the wheat was ready. Cicadas to the Western hills, after the wheat will be planted in the soil. Day after day, but always can not grow wheat seedlings, cicadas were starved to death in the Western hills. The wheat his stepmother had given him had been boiled in a pot and would not sprout at all. Cicada after death into a cicada, day and night.

After we listen to the comments that the stepmother is too eccentric, too evil, no wonder cicada kept chirping in the branches, he died very unjustly!

Then a friend told us a story his grandmother had told him. Once upon a time, there was an oil peddler walking through the streets carrying heavy loads of oil. People in one village bullied him and often paid less or nothing for oil. There was a middle-aged man in the village who always sold oil to an old man every penny after he bought it, never covet petty gains. One day, the old oil peddler told the middle-aged man that he must leave the village before nightfall. He left the village before midnight at the old man's command. When he looked back, he saw that the village behind him had been flooded.

This little friend spoke vividly, we seemed to see the raging flood like a group of roaring beasts galloping, scared our hair down.

The last friend said that once upon a time there was a young man in our village who was proficient in all things. When robbers came to the village, he always took the lead and defeated them. Everyone in the village said he was a hero. The robbers were afraid of him and tried to get rid of him. They used the treasure to sell the hero's cook, so the cook poisoned the food. The hero was poisoned after eating the food, and the villagers were very sad. When the robbers heard that the hero was dead, they were not afraid and came to the village that day to rob him. When they were about to kill and plunder, the hero came down from the sky, riding a bright red steed, and thrust his halberd straight at the heads of the robbers. When the cook saw the hero, he bled to his last breath. It turns out that after the hero died, he became a god of peace and security.

After hearing the story, we all cheered for the hero and cursed the damn robbers. Many years passed, and the image of the hero on the steed often came to my mind.

I always miss the summer of my childhood. Now is the midsummer season, the cicadas neighing outside the window as old, I soak in a pot of green tea in the house, lonely sitting on the sofa, who and I sit together to talk about ghosts and strange, I tell stories and who to listen to?