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On the Wusong River, it was completely dark. Thick clouds overlap, and the fields and scattered village houses on both sides melt in the darkness. There are tall and straight ginkgo trees everywhere on the shore. The southwest wind rolls in and out, blowing the branches that have lost all their leaves. It looks like a black shadow with unkempt hair.

There is only one boat with a low canopy on the river, heading south. This is the headwind, and the ship's lips are ringing with the gurgling water. There are two sculls at the back, one is shaken by two young peasant couples on the right, and the other is swayed by a hunchback of about forty on the left. It was very cold, and their oars were all wrapped in cotton hand cages. Everyone tilted their heads and looked straight at the dark future from the top of the tent; The oar in your hand is not as easy as when it is calm. Every time you pull, push forward with one shoulder and one leg to help the situation. The sharp wind blew, wrapped around the head tightly, and got in through the collar, sticking to the chest and back on all sides. They were silent, and there was heavy breathing in the nasal tube.

A red candle was lit on a small table in the cabin. The wind blows in through the door of the front panel, and the flames are always like falling flowers, so many candles and tears are piled up on the candle body. The yellow light of the red candle can see everything in the cabin. Bedding was piled on a flat plate near the back wall, and a man in his twenties was lying on it. Although he grew up in a water town, he seems to be right. ...

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