The morning mist in Qingyun Valley always carries the bitter smell of vegetation. Mo Yu squatted in the ridge of the 39th field in the medicine garden, holding a clover with his fingertips, carefully avoiding the dewdrops rolling on the leaves - that is the "condensation grass" that Uncle Zhou said, and it needs to be picked before three quarters of Mao in order for the juice to be used in medicine. The green shirt on his body has been washed and turned white, and the wooden plaque "Shou Zhuo" on his waist has been worn smooth and sways gently on his knees with his movements.
"Xiao Yu, take a rest, that 'Dragon Blood Ginseng' plant won't run away." An old voice came from the stone house. Uncle Zhou was holding a cigarette rod in his mouth, and the sparks in the pot were flickering. "You have been staring at it for three days. If you continue to look at it, Ginseng Xuzi will be shy.
