When the old uncle came to the house, the topic was always inseparable from the content of life after retirement, talking about the fact that he could still do the heaviest farm work such as ploughing the wheat field, and he was very proud; he raised a big dairy sheep, and when he got up in the morning, he squeezed the goat's milk and cooked it with his grandson, and the grandson went to school, and he led the sheep to the slopes to graze, which was quite tempting and pleasant; he said that he also kept a flock of pigeons, and when he went to the hillside to graze sheep or when he went to the city every month to receive his pension, he would release his pigeons along the way. I couldn't help but ask, "Is there a white one?"

My uncle immediately understood the meaning of my words, and said regretfully: "Yes, yes...... Only a pair. Then he changed to a pleasant tone: "The white pigeon is about to lay eggs, and when the time comes, I will catch the little white pigeon for you, and I will not be afraid that it will fly away." My uncle saw my disappointment and continued to explain: "You can't keep that pair of old white pigeons, and our two families are a few miles down, and as soon as they let go, they flew back to the old nest." ”

I just waited, not anxious, from laying eggs to hatching to the survival of the youngsters on their own, it took almost two months, and it was useless to rush. I had been living in my rural hometown far from the city for about seven or eight years, and I had long since become lonely about the pure rural mood and the simplicity of a life that bordered on memelocity, especially in the three years since I was immersed in the writing of that novel. In the past three years, I seem to have passed through a long historical tunnel, and I still can't see the light at the exit, and a kind of loneliness in the process of labor, especially after every labor stoppage, envelops me, which is often difficult to tell and difficult to resolve. When I think of a pair of white doves, I feel a warmth and holiness in my heart.

To my surprise, a week later, my uncle came again, and caught a pair of white doves. In the face of my joy and amazement, my uncle said, "When I go back, I thought, let the white pigeon lay its eggs to you, and hatch a pigeon here, and it will recognize you as its home." Besides, you spend all year round reading and writing in the room, and it's easy to get annoyed. I thought of this layer and hurried to catch it for you. I looked at my uncle's piercing eyes, and my heart couldn't help but flutter.

When I took the pair of white doves into my hands, I found that my uncle had already tied a few of the white pigeon's feathers, so that the pigeon, bound by the thin thread, could only fly up and down near the house, and not far away. The uncle told him that as soon as he found the hen laying eggs, he should immediately untie the feathers tied on her wings, so that there was no need to worry about the pigeon flying back to the nest, and that she could not do without her eggs. As for the breeding technique, the uncle said disdainfully: "Just sprinkle a handful of grains on it every morning......

I smashed two wooden sticks into the adobe crevice in the back wall of the old house of my ancestral home, which was completely dilapidated, and put a rigid cardboard box on the shelf, and cut a small square hole in the lower right corner of the cardboard box, and put the pair of white doves inside. The dilapidated old house, which is no longer inhabited, seems to have been revitalized ever since. I couldn't hold back my concern for the pair of lively white doves on the back wall, and I ran out into the backyard and sprinkled a handful of corn kernels lightly. At first, the two white pigeons heard the peculiar sound of the corn kernels falling to the ground, and crowded into the square hole of the cardboard box to probe their brains, as if to discern whether my act of throwing food was sincere love or bait. I walked away so they could eat with confidence.

Finally, a miracle happened. That morning, on a beautiful rural morning, I had just walked out the back door and raised my right hand, and with a thud, a white dove landed on my arm, eager to snatch the corn kernels in my palm. Then there was another flutter, and another white pigeon flew down to my shoulder, and then bounced to my arm, squeezing and scrambling to peck at the corn kernels in my palm. Four paws dug into my flesh, and there was an itchy sting. However, listening to the sound of the impact of the corn kernels rolling down the throat of the pigeon, I could not bear to shake off the pigeon, as if a long-awaited trust had finally arrived.

It was another beautiful morning, and there was only one pigeon that flew down to my arm pecking at the corn, and then I found the other one lying quietly in the cardboard box and laying eggs. The joy of the imminent birth of a new life and a certain sense of mystery immediately overflowed in my heart. Following my uncle's experience, I immediately cut off the ropes that bound the pigeon's feathers. The white pigeon was free, and the hen continued to burrow into the cardboard box to hatch the eggs, while the pounced into the sky.

Finally, I heard the tender call of the young pigeons that had broken out of their shells and laid eggs. As I stood in the backyard, I found two broken eggshells, and then I heard the tender cry of new life coming down from the cardboard box. The voice was thin and tender, like the unconscious instinctive cry of a newborn baby, and it was so heartwarming and emotional. Almost at the same time I noticed that the two white pigeons were flying in and out in turn, and each arrival of each pigeon made the cardboard box laugh, and it is assumed that father or mother had caught a delicious meal for them.

I went to the backyard in the interval between writing, and when I was struggling to write, I went to the backyard to smoke a cigarette, and the warmth of feeding and the sound of joy would make people's minds clear and calm, and then I returned to the table where the manuscripts were spread.

On this day, I could no longer resist the temptation of the little life in the mysterious cardboard box, and brought a wooden ladder, naturally taking advantage of the gap between the two white pigeons going out to eat. Oh! What an ugly little pigeon, with a huge head and a long, thick beak that was especially ugly, and whose eyes had just been opened, and whose two fleshy wings were equally bare, and they snuggled up to each other, quietly waiting for their mother or father to return and feed. For the first time, I saw a pigeon in its newborn form, and the ugliness of its form made me even more eager to transform and grow.

I increased the frequency of feeding the pigeons, from once in the morning to three times in the morning, afternoon and evening. I thought that the white pigeon went out to catch insects every day from morning to night, and not only did the amount of activity increase greatly, but also its own consumption naturally increased greatly, and the best food they collected was fed to the youngsters.

Strange to say, I sprinkled corn kernels on the pigeons three times a day according to the time of my three meals, and then sat at my desk and talked to the characters in the works I was working on.

It was another beautiful morning, and as I was scattering a handful of corn kernels on the ground, two white doves flew down one after the other, and they were obviously thin, and their coats were a little gray and sloppy. I stumbled upon a cardboard box on the wall, where two young pigeons were huddled in the square opening, looking at my father and mother pecking at the ground with amazed and childish eyes. What a beautiful pair of young birds, with white feathers, reminiscent of freshly squeezed milk. The youngsters have finally grown and all the worries that may have happened have been resolved.

It was an afternoon, and I was going to go for a walk by the river, and before I left, I sprinkled a handful of corn kernels for the white pigeon, which was dinner. When I opened the back door, my eyes lit up, and there were four white pigeons perched on the top of the earthen fence in the backyard, which gave me the illusion that there were a lot of white flowers. When the two old white doves saw me, they flew over, landed on my shoulders, jumped on their arms and pecked at the corn. I scattered the corn on the ground and shook off the old white pigeon so that I could concentrate on the two young pigeons on the wall.

The two young pigeons were going round and round on the wall, looking at me and at the old white pigeon pecking on the ground, and the timid eyes were so bright that I couldn't help laughing. From the head to the tail, the color is pure white, without a single stray hair, and the soft white like cow's milk, like a fairy descending from the heavenly palace. Yes, the timidity and shyness shown by the strangeness and novelty of the world, nature and human beings make people suddenly have many associations: the lotus flower that has just bloomed, the pear blossom with beads and dew, and the pretty girl who is raised in the deep mountains that people do not know...... The most beautiful, pure, and holy parables are still nothing more than parables, and are still inferior to the true beauty of the youngsters themselves. This beauty is so vivid that it makes my heart tremble, even frightened. Yes, one can face threats head-on, can defy conspiracy, can step through the dirty mud, can be silent about twittering, can close one's eyes to ugliness, and yet one is cowardly in the face of the spirit of beauty.

The little white dove and the old white dove stood tall on the ridge of the dilapidated house. The four white pigeons have added vitality and aura to the old house, which has been built by the family's founder, after many generations of succession, and the four white pigeons have added vitality and aura to the old house, so that it conjures up the distant vitality of the family's prosperous period.

The brilliant rays of the setting sun cast on, and the feathers of the old and young white pigeons shone red.

I threw up my hands and gave them a loud applause to get them flying. Two old white doves took off one after another. The little white pigeon flew up and down, seemingly lacking confidence in whether it could soar into the blue sky, perhaps the timidity of flying for the first time. The two old white doves flew around the house, no doubt encouraging their sons and daughters to take off bravely. Sure enough, the two little white pigeons took off, their wings flapped and crackled, and their parents left the roof completely, and they were out of sight in a blink of an eye.

I stepped out of the courtyard and stood on the street, the tree-covered alley still obscuring my view, and I walked to the original slope on which the village was backed, and the trees and houses were in front of me. My white dove is flying from the east, bathed in the orange of the sunset. Along the direction of the river's flow, under the wings are the meandering river, the willows like smoke, and the wheat fields that are spitting flowers. The four white doves suddenly turned around and flew north, which was the southern foot of Lishan Mountain, which was not too high and famous for its scenery and hot springs. Two generations of white pigeons swept over the mountains and mountains, turned back, swept over the rivers, flew over my head, and flew straight to the more open sky on the top of Bailu Plain. The original slopes are green, the terraces and ravines are covered with wheat and grass, this is the most charming and intoxicating season of the year in my homeland, and now there are four white doves that I raise flying over the mountains and rivers, and at this moment, the world is a white dove for me.

I couldn't sleep that night, I always had two white elves flying in my head, and I woke up late in the morning. All of a sudden, I noticed that there was only a pair of youngsters on the ridge. What about the old white pigeons? I couldn't help but look at the sky, and there was no sign of them, and I thought that they were probably catching insects for food. Until breakfast in the countryside has passed, and there is still no return of the white dove, my heart is panicked. At this moment, my uncle walked in the door.

"The white pigeon has returned to his hometown, and it is just dawn. ”

I was amazed. Yesterday evening, the old white pigeon led his children to fly into the blue sky for the first time, and flew back to his uncle's house early this morning. This means that during the two months that they came to my house to lay eggs and nurse their youngs, they never forgot their hometown, or that the whole two months of hatching and rearing the youngsters was itself a way back. I was deeply touched and relieved by this creature. I breathed a sigh of relief, "Oh yo! I'm worried about being caught by the Harrier!"

The two white doves that remained were of exactly the same place of origin and birthplace as mine, and my home was theirs, and they landed more affectionately and even casually on my shoulders and arms, not just to peck at the corn kernels, and when I raised my hand and made a gesture, they took off from the ridge of the roof and made all sorts of hearty flight gestures over the villages, rivers and plain slopes, and the mountains, the rivers, the cottages and the ancient plains seemed to dance. However, again and again, I couldn't help but chant again: This is the white dove that belongs to me! And the old white dove...... After all, it belongs to my uncle. And I also have a little bit of experience because of this, you can only have the part that you have cultivated yourself......

When I walk in the smoke and clouds of history morning after morning, when I fall into some kind of unprovoked boredom and unprovoked loneliness, the shadow of my white dove will suddenly pass in front of me, and a living wind will penetrate into my chest that has accumulated the dust of history.

Until that tragic moment, I still feel that the pen in my hand is trembling. It was a sunset evening in autumn, the rivers and plains were covered with fruity corn, cotton, millet, and various legumes, and the people were encouraged by the coming abundant harvest, and the village alleys and fields were filled with the sound of joy and joy. My white dove flew over the river, and as it approached the village tree of the neighboring village to the west, it turned a great bend and went around the northern slope of the ancient plain to the east. The two white doves stopped flapping their wings one after another, and made a parallel sliding gesture, just like two white pages floating in the blue sky. Just as I was in the midst of the most relaxed and pleasant appreciation, a black ghost rushed diagonally from a corner of the original slope and swooped down on the white dove. The white dove panicked and flown again, but it was too late, and the white dove flying in front of it was captured by the black ghost. I watched as the sky above me erupted in a battle between the predators, the invaders and the slaughtered...... I felt that there was darkness in front of me. When I looked at the sky again, I saw only two white feathers fluttering down, and I picked them up in the grass on the slopes, and the roots of the feathers were stained with blood, and there was a wisp of blood.

The invader is the harrier, which is the name of the native people, a small but very ferocious bird.

There is now only a lonely white dove on the roof of the old house. Sometimes it spun in circles, making an urgent and continuous cooing sound, sometimes it flew up and down, and flew again as soon as it fell, as if frightened and as if restless, and no matter how I threw the corn kernels, it did not care, nor did it fall on my shoulder, as it used to. It was the hen and the one that was killed by the harrier was the. They are brother and sister as well as husband and wife, and its sadness and loneliness are twofold.

After many days, the white dove finally jumped on my shoulder, and my heart was so hot that I immediately thought that it had finally accepted the tragic scene, and also accepted the painful reality, and finally calmed down. I held it in my hand, and the smooth, white feathers gave rise to a kind of divine worship. However, it was at this moment that I decided to give it to a man next door who was also fond of pigeons, who had a large flock of variegated pigeons, but no white pigeons. It would have been better for my white dove to survive in a group with his flock, and besides, I could not bear to see the loneliness of it on the roof.

It also merged with the motley pigeons relatively quickly.

I saw a flock of grey doves flying over the village, and I could tell the snow-white dove at a glance, and I was pleased with the success of my initiative.

Hyun told me one day that the white pigeon had laid eggs.

After a few days, Hyun told me that two youngsters with black spots on a white background had hatched.

I came back from a long trip, and Hyun told me that the white dove was missing. It immediately occurred to me that it might have been caught by the harrier again. Hyun offered to give me the hybrid pair of white-on-white pigeons. I declined.

After a few more days, the emotional turmoil of the two white doves that lost me has calmed down, and the old house has long since returned to peace, and there is no longer any novelty or temptation for me. In between writing, I went to the front yard to water the flowers and weed, and the backyard was no longer there. On this day, I was continuing my writing journey at my desk, and I heard the sound of cooing pigeons outside the window, so I dropped my pen and went straight to the backyard. On that long-unused log lay a white dove. It's my white dove.

I walked over and it didn't move. I grabbed it, and one of its legs was wounded, and it was strangled with a string. The remaining piece of rope sank deep into the swollen and bleeding leg bar, and my heart twitched. I found the scissors and cut the rope, and realized that the leg was actually broken, only a strand of skin that had not yet rotted was attached. Its feathers turned grayish, its head was covered with black dirt, its belly was covered with dried pigeon droppings, and its wings were black and gray, and the whole thing was so dirty that it was hard to hold in the palm of your hand.

Naturally, I thought that this lost white dove had been captured by someone, not by a harrier. It was tied with a rope and used as a plaything for its own children, or could it be touched and played with by him or anyone else? The white pigeon was so dirty that many dirty hands caressed it, but he didn't care about the broken leg of the string. It occurred to me at that moment that it was not as good as the end of its husband being culled by a harrier.

I bathed it in the sun, washed the dirt that had been touched by my dirty hands on its feathers, and applied anti-inflammatory ointment to its leg wounds, hoping that it would heal and that it would regain the white color of its feathers. However, it died, the next morning, in the cardboard box on the back wall where it was born......