Who can find < My Uncle Mr. Lu Xun > < Sorghum Love > these three articles?

On Mount Tai, you can meet mountain pickers everywhere. They are carrying a bare pole on their shoulders, with several ropes hanging at both ends and heavy objects hanging. When climbing a mountain, they put one arm on the pole, the other arm hangs down and swings rhythmically with their footsteps to keep their balance. Their route is in the shape of a folding ruler-starting from the left side of the steps, climbing obliquely upwards for seven or eight steps, and reaching the right side of the platform; Then he turned around, walked diagonally in the opposite direction, went to the left and turned back, changing his shoulder every time he turned around. They climbed up in this tortuous way, so that things hanging in front of the pole would not touch the steps, and they could save some energy. Walking with a heavy load, if you go straight up and down like a general climber, your knees can't stand it. But if the route twists and turns, it will lengthen the route. Climbers climb mountains once, and the distance they walk is about twice that of tourists.

Strangely, climbers are not slower than tourists. You walked past them briskly, thinking you were far behind them. Wherever you admire the magnificent mountains and rivers, or read the inscriptions carved by the ancients on the stone walls by the roadside, or wash your face and feet by the noisy stream, they will pass by you quietly and pass by you quietly. When you find out, you will be surprised and think that they ride like gods.

This happened once when I went to Mount Tai to sketch with some painting friends. We bought bamboo poles for mountaineering at the foot of the mountain, and met a short mountaineer with a dark face and thick eyebrows, about forty years old, with a red vest in the middle of an open white homespun jacket. He has several wooden stools tied to one end of his pole and five or six green watermelons tied to the other end. We soon overtook him. When we reached the steep mountain road and returned to Maling, we were tired, so we stretched ourselves and rested on a big stone swept by the mountain wind. We found the mountaineers sitting on the opposite lawn smoking. Later, we set out with him at about the same time and soon left him behind until we could not see him. We climbed the Wusong Pavilion halfway up the mountain and saw that it was he who was sorting out the children of ancient Panasonic in a strange posture. He took off his coat and put on a red vest, revealing strong black muscles. I'm surprised. I went over to talk to him. Shanren is not at home and likes to chat. He told me that his family lived at the foot of the mountain and went up the mountain to pick up goods every day for nearly twenty years, once a day all year round. He said, "Do you think I am young? Those who work as mountain bearers are short and thick under the pressure of poles. A tall man like you can't do this kind of work, walking around! " He raised his heavy eyebrows and grinned, showing his white teeth. The villagers' teeth turned white when they drank spring water.

The conversation was more casual, and I told the mystery in my heart: "I see you walk slowly, but why do you always run in front of us?" Do you have any shortcuts? "

There was a smug look on his face when he heard this. He thought for a moment and said, "Where do we have a shortcut? We are not on the same road as you?" ? You walk fast, but look around on the road and always stop when you play around! We are not like you. Not as casual as you. You can do anything you like. You can't step on it, let alone stop. In that case, we can't reach the top of the mountain in two days. You must stick to it. Although we are slow, we will run ahead of you after a long walk. You see, is this the reason? "

I nodded with conviction, feeling that the simple words of the villagers seemed to contain meaningful philosophy. Before I could savor it, he took over the task and set off. On the mountain road ahead, we passed him several times; But always when we stayed in the mountains, he quietly passed us. We met him again in front of the top canteen where he delivered the goods. He nodded and smiled innocently at us, as if to say; "Look, I can run ahead of you again!"

When I came back from Mount Tai, I drew a picture-on a steep and seemingly endless mountain road, a mountain bearer in a red vest bent down, carrying the weight on his shoulders and climbing up step by step. This painting has been hanging in front of my desk for many years because I need it.

Brief introduction of the author

The writer of this article is Feng Jicai, a contemporary writer. Originally from Cixi, Zhejiang, he was born in Tianjin. 196 1 After graduating from high school, he worked as a professional basketball player and painter, and worked as a teacher in Tianjin University of Arts and Crafts at 1974. After 1977, he became a professional writer in Tianjin Branch of Chinese Writers Association. He is currently a director of the Chinese Writers Association, and has written novels such as The Boxer Rebellion and The Magic Lamp, and novellas such as Paving the Flower Road, The Magic Whip and Three-inch Golden Lotus.

My uncle, Mr Lu Xun-Zhou Ye.

I was still young when my uncle Lu Xun was alive. I don't know who Lu Xun is. I thought my uncle was my uncle, just like anyone's uncle. My uncle died, and his body was lying in the auditorium of the funeral home. Many people came to mourn and pay tribute to him, and some even burst into tears. Countless elegiac couplets hung all over the walls, and wreaths of all sizes filled the whole room. Workers and students send elegiac couplets and flowers. There are all kinds of people. At that time, I was a little surprised why my uncle was loved by so many people. I just looked at the people who came and went to mourn, thinking that I would never see my uncle's face again, never hear his voice again, never be caressed by him again, and tears fell drop by drop.

One day in the first month of my uncle's death, it was Saturday afternoon, and my parents took me to my uncle's house. At that time, every weekend, our three sisters took turns to follow my parents to my uncle's house for reunion. On this day, at the dinner table, my uncle told me the stories and characters in Water Margin. I don't know how my uncle knew that I watched outlaws of the marsh, but my father probably told him. To tell the truth, I watch Water Margin. I don't know all the characters and complicated contents of those heroes, and sometimes I put what one person does on that person. When my uncle asked me, I just talked nonsense. My uncle touched his beard and smiled and said, "Ha ha! My memory is still very good. " After listening to my uncle's words, I feel ashamed and regretful, which is harder to love than being beaten and scolded. Since then, I have never read anything so-so.

When I left that day, my uncle gave me two books, one is Watch and the other is Little John. My uncle has been dead for many years, and I still have these two books.

Once, at my uncle's house, everyone had dinner around a table. I looked at my father's nose and uncle's nose and said to him, "Uncle, you are like your father everywhere except one thing." .

"What's nothing like it?" My uncle turned his head and asked me with a smile. He chewed, and the beard on his lips moved.

"Dad's nose is tall and straight, and yours is flat and flat." I looked at them for a long time before I said.

"You don't know," my uncle said with a smile touching his nose. "When I was young, my nose was as straight as your father's."

"That how-"

"But then, I hit the wall several times and smashed my nose."

"Hit the wall," I said. "How did you hit a wall? Did you walk carelessly? "

"Do you think it's not easy to hit the wall when it's dark all around?"

"Oh!" I suddenly realized, "Of course, the wall is much harder than the nose. No wonder I hit my nose flat. "

Everyone present burst out laughing.

One night, the north wind roared and the sky was very dark. People in the street hurried home. My parents took my hand and went to my uncle's house. Walking not far from my uncle's door, I saw a rickshaw driver sitting on the ground moaning and the car was thrown aside.

We walked over and saw him holding his feet in his hands, with no shoes on his feet and a pool of blood dripping on the ground. He heard footsteps and looked up, and his weather-beaten face showed unbearable pain.

"What's the matter?" Dad asked him.

"Sir," a deep voice said in his pale twitching lips, "I didn't pay attention. I stepped on the broken glass, and the glass stuck into my feet. I can't go home because of the pain! "

Dad ran to his uncle's house. Soon, he came out with medicine and gauze. They helped the coachman into the car, one squatting and the other kneeling. Dad took tweezers to clip out broken glass for rickshaw driver, and uncle brought boric acid water to wash it for him. They also drugged and bandaged him.

The coachman said gratefully, "My home is not far from here. I can carry it back. I really don't know how to thank you, two kind gentlemen! "

Uncle took out some money and told him to rest at home for a few days and give him the rest of the medicine and bandages.

It was dark, and the street lamp gave off a faint light. I stood in front of my uncle's house and looked at them. Suddenly, I felt a deep chill. I feel my nose as cold as ice and my feet and hands are numb. I thought, how can that rickshaw puller run barefoot on the road in such a cold day?

When my uncle and father came back, I asked them. I don't remember my uncle's answer now, except that his words are very abstruse and incomprehensible. I looked up and asked him to give me a detailed explanation. At that time, I clearly saw that now I clearly remember that his face no longer had that kind and happy expression and became so serious. He didn't answer me, just put his skinny hand on my head.

After my uncle died, I met his wife, Sam. A San is a worker's wife. Her husband lost his job. She was so worried that she couldn't see clearly. She talked to me about her uncle's life. She said, "Mr. Zhou is very ill and writes articles in the middle of the night. Sometimes I feel sorry for him when I hear him cough. He feels sorry for himself. "

Indeed, uncle is such a person. He thinks less about himself and more about others.

Is the daughter of Lu Xun's niece Zhou. This article is a memoir written by Zhou Ye 1945, the ninth anniversary of Lu Xun's death.

Sorghum Love-Author: Han Niu

Sorghum has a sacred position in my heart. When I think of sorghum, I see its erect stems, huge red spikes, clinging to the roots of the land and thinking of its admirable character.

My hometown is at the foot of Yanmenguan, and the land is gray and barren. There is little land for growing wheat, and only strong sorghum that can withstand the torture of nature can be planted. For thousands of years, land, people and sorghum have been closely combined. I grew up eating sorghum rice. Before I left my hometown, I had to eat sorghum all year round. It has shaped my body and life.

There is no place where sorghum has a distinct personality. Its tall and strong stems give people confidence and strength. What surprises me most is the roots of sorghum, which are not only deeply rooted in the invisible ground, but also have many downward growing air roots at the joint where the lower end of sorghum stalks is higher than the ground ruler, which is a bit like the roots of banyan trees. They are so tenacious when they are touched by their hands, like eagle claws, holding the land powerfully, as if holding a huge living thing. I asked my father why there are so many claws under the sorghum. My father told me not to think that plants and crops are inferior to people and have no consciousness. In fact, crops are very smart, and their feelings about nature are even more acute than people. Some of them climb vines, cling to the earth, and some stand like trees, all for survival, for sunshine and space. For sorghum, air roots are indispensable. Before the summer storm comes, it quickly takes root and goes deep into the soil. The storm can't shake it, just like a wrestler, his heel firmly fixed on the ground, waiting for his opponent to come at him.

The father said, "The roots of sorghum are the most bitter, and all insects dare not bite. The root is its life. " At some point, my father pinched a small piece and let me lick it with my tongue. Oh, I still remember the bitterness.

Wheat and bean sprouts can be uprooted by hand, but it is difficult for a strong cultivator to pull sorghum. When I was a child, I taught my uncle to say, "Stand like sorghum, and you must have its roots to grasp the ground until the roots grow from your ankles." He also said: "When wrestling, my feet are fixed on the ground, and I feel that there are not two feet, but dozens!" Sorghum has dozens of feet, and each foot goes deep into the ground.

Although I can't practice the feet like sorghum talons, its indomitable character has always inspired me to live and trudge tenaciously.

About the author: Han Niu, born in Dingxiang County, Shanxi Province,1June, 923, Mongolian, studied in a middle school university in Shaanxi-Gansu area during the War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression period. 1940 published works, mainly writing poems, and writing essays for more than ten years. Yu Ben's poetry anthology 10, 7 essays and 2 poems have been published. In recent years, Han Niu's poems have been translated and published by Japan, Korea, Macedonia and other countries, and Macedonia and People's Republic of China (PRC) have awarded the "literary baton award". He has been engaged in literary editing for half a century and has been the editor-in-chief of Historical Materials of New Literature for 20 years. Editor of People's Literature Publishing House, honorary member of Chinese Writers Association, and vice president of Chinese Poetry Association.