My story begins in the spring of the sixth year of Kangxi...
The autumn grass has withered in the partridge plains, and the shadows of the mournful birds are lonely in the blue sky. The nine-winded ileum only complains to the people under the fence: I am afraid that the world is also a miserable place with yellow grass and white water and reeds! Since spinning silk has tied oneself up, it is difficult to imitate the wealthy Jia, who has no long-sleeved dance - he should only look for companions in the desolate land to share this handful of millet...
Intention: