Accompany the Table
About This Novel
Six Pieces of Cookies In the evening, the sun was already beating down on the ground. Captain Yang Mazi stood in the waist-deep grave, still refusing to blow the iron whistle he was holding in his mouth. He shoveled more than twenty bricks stained with lime out of the grave pit, tilted his head and glanced at the west horizon, and saw that the sun had penetrated a small area of the ground. Then he puffed up his cheeks and blew the whistle to signal the end of work. Before the whistle sounded, the thirty or so grave diggers jumped out of the pit one by one impatiently. Xiao Daya and I and some other people carried shovels, big iron picks, and pickaxes. Yang Mazi and others used small carts to push bricks, stone strips, tombstones, and coffin boards. They braved the cold wind and strode home. The rush to go home for dinner caused waves of flying dust to rise along the path. Piles of small, smooth sand beans on the road were rolled around by the fast soles of their feet.
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