Some members were harvesting rice straw in the paddy field! The straw was smooth and slippery; when they grabbed it, they missed, and the straw twitched as if mocking their incompetence. After a while, everyone was exhausted and sweating profusely. The chilly autumn wind brushed against their dark faces, and suddenly everyone's faces were filled with satisfied smiles.

Sitting on the high ridge of the field, watching the red glow of the setting sun slowly fade, a member carried a bucket of water, the red sun inside swaying precariously. If someone were to brush past him at that moment, they would inevitably get soaked.

The rapeseed flowers nearby were in full bloom, with several butterflies fluttering around them. A large group of children chased and played among the rapeseed flowers, occasionally bursting into bursts of joyful laughter, adding a touch of vitality to the evening glow. I couldn't help but recite, "Children run quickly to chase yellow butterflies, which fly into the rapeseed flowers and can no longer be found."

In the fields lived an old man over seventy years old. In his backyard was a cowshed, where various breeds of cattle lived. Every day, he would go out early and return late, carrying a long leather whip, herding the cattle while humming a little tune. The old man always followed behind the herd, while the cattle in front swaggered along. The calves always obediently followed their parents, their eyes fixed on the parents' tails. In the fields, the cattle grazed happily on the tender grass. They were always scattered, as if each cow had its own territory. Before long, the entire meadow was clean and tidy.

The boundless scenery of the fields is like a beautiful landscape painting, a moving impressionistic sketch.

The wild grass covering the mountain undulated in the mountain wind, some of which had a reddish-brown color, as if they were filled with longing for summer; some had already been intoxicated by the autumn wind, their faces red, listless, swaying and withering on the ground; some simply stretched out their thin necks, waiting for the arrival of winter.

The barren wilderness, ravaged by a season of summer rains, was scarred and suffering immensely. Standing atop the mountain and looking down, ravines tore the mountain's skin, revealing its jagged bones, as if the mountain's blood was gushing out, and this wilderness would never be rich.

The few remaining alpine vegetation shivered in the early autumn wind, the autumn wind and frost turning them a poignant dark red—a testament to their struggle against the merciless autumn wind with their own blood and sweat. The scattered little yellow flowers had long since turned into clumps of drifting catkins, searching for a place to rest, preparing for next year's spring dreams.

Only that thin rut remains, winding unhurriedly through the lush wild grass, just as it always has. Descending from one mountain and rising again from another, it's like an ancient folk song, telling the long and winding story of this ancient land.

The sun hadn't completely set, and the mountain village was shrouded in a misty haze, creating a serene and tranquil atmosphere. A flock of sheep returning from the hillside behind the village, like a white cloud drifting down from the sky, became a "flying white" stroke in this ink painting, leaving a touch of ethereal beauty in the vast village, adding a fleeting glimpse of its charm. Someone came out to gather firewood to cook dinner; a wisp of smoke rose from one chimney, and then from more and more rooftops. The small mountain village, shrouded in smoke and mist, was ethereal and picturesque, like a poem or a painting.

Looking back at the wilderness, it appeared even more desolate and boundless. Wild grass, low-lying areas, ravines, and even the distant mountains were all shrouded in a vast expanse of white. On the high slopes, a sliver of the setting sun shone, its gentle, warm light standing out starkly against the dark night. This beam of light, piercing the darkness and illuminating the wilderness, was like a ray of divine light descending from the heavens, imbuing the desolate, twilight-shrouded plains with a sense of solemnity and sanctity. The rows of stubble wheat, illuminated by that divine light, seemed to surge with life, prostrating themselves, kneeling with each step, one close behind the other, moving forward.

Whether it's a barren mountain or a vast plain, everything possesses life, and everything has its precious and respectable aspects. By observing things with compassionate and caring eyes, you will appreciate the preciousness, value, and meaning of life. Xu Que found the green mountains charming.

No matter where one grows, the value of life is equal. A tall tree has one life, a blade of grass has one life, growing in a greenhouse has one life, growing in the wilderness has one life. Can you say that spending a life in loneliness and desolation is meaningless, just like those brothers who toil hard on barren land, working from sunrise to sunset? They may never have swum on the sea or soared in the blue sky. Does that give Xu Que and his ilk any reason to ignore their existence?

People have reason to yearn for a comfortable and pleasant life; to choose to leave those places where survival is difficult. But Xu Que and his ilk have no right to abandon that land, to abandon the people who still live there. Without wastelands, where would fertile soil come from? Without hardship, how can one know happiness? Without those respectable people choosing to persevere in those desolate places, what would become of those bustling cities?

The desolate north gate of the school is a unique sight. An agricultural college, with Lion Mountain and South Lake, sleeps peacefully and coolly under the same blue sky... just waiting for the summer breeze to wake it up!

Is this an ideal place, where everything is filled with poetic and picturesque beauty?

The small mountain encircles the college, leaving only an opening on the west side, like a reclining lion. The lake surrounds it, and the trees lean on it, their winding paths forming two beautiful ribbons, or like two lovers embracing closely. In March, when the peach trees are in full bloom, it truly resembles a peach blossom island!

By the lake, in the metasequoia forest, the tall, straight trunks reach for the clouds; there stand the steadfast guardians—the metasequoia—watching over their home on the lake. In summer, being here brings a refreshing coolness. The wind doesn't blow directly into your arms, but plays hide-and-seek with you for a while before suddenly sneaking into your heart. How interesting! Xu Que thought it was Grandma Wind's little grandchildren playing with him! As dusk approached, after Grandma Wind had lulled her grandchildren to sleep, she quietly placed the Agricultural Academy on a small boat and whispered to him: Sleep well, baby, it's very cool here!

As you cross the Nanhu Bridge, gazing out the window at the distant scenery, you can't help but wonder: have we arrived on an island? The lush green mountains, the rolling eastward-flowing water, the winding lakeside, and the couples strolling hand-in-hand—all seem to have gathered here. At this moment, if only there were a pot of wine, it would be perfect; you might even find yourself intoxicated by the beauty of the landscape after just a few sips…

These mountains and waters are like a woman from Jiangnan—deeply affectionate, reserved, gentle, and elegant. Looking from the water to the mountains, then to the sky, and finally back down to the water, it's like the evaporation of a drop of water: first it takes a bath, then it travels here; next it takes a ride in the sky, and finally it transforms back into a pure drop of water, falling to earth and sinking to the bottom. The more you imagine it, the more beautiful life seems. And so, Xu Que couldn't help but exclaim: The scenery here is truly exceptional!