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As soon as the Qingming Festival passed, the weather stabilized, the wind no longer blew as hard as it did a while ago, and the sun no longer hid in the clouds as it did a while ago. As long as it popped up from the distant mountains, it hung so brightly on the horizon, illuminating the vast mountainous field brightly. Mozi felt that his body was getting a little warm. The miller bent over, stuck out his butt, and buried his head in hoeing in his wheat field. Miso - miso - miso - Mozi drooped his two huge ears, and he clearly heard the crisp sound of the hoe blade cutting grass roots and other debris in the soil. This sound seemed to be a kind of retribution to him, and it invisibly added some strength to him. He moved his arms and carefully but powerfully pulled the hoe handle, letting the hoe surface sink into the soil between the rows of wheat, pull, cut, run, and recover...
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