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Lao Jiao was a Chinese language teacher in the county. He had taught for forty years and was highly respected. After his retirement, he was specially hired as an editor by the county local chronicle office. He slowly pedaled a broken bicycle to work every day. Lao Jiao is very knowledgeable. He is a director of the national "Wang Yangming Society" and goes out to participate in the society's activities every year. His research results in this area have been published in three books by the Provincial Ancient Books Publishing House. He is also a director of the Provincial Poetry Society. He is good at writing Yishan style poems and filling in Huajian style poems. Five poetry collections have been printed. If he only does these things, he can definitely live to be over eighty years old. He is a kind-hearted man with a big face and big ears. At a glance, anyone would say that he is a longevity type of person. Of course, he is a bit fat, but there is nothing wrong with his body. But he started writing a play! This seems to be no wonder. For some reason, old men love to write plays.

The wedding trumpet blew out a red light, and she soared and floated away in the red light; she was thinking about her grandmother and father in her heart, and what turned into a black dot in the distance was her hometown house and the alley she was used to walking. She knew that the street was full of people watching her get married, and the two girls Guihua and Li Lan from the Li family, who grew up with her and were close friends, must have crowded together and shed tears for her. But no matter what it was, nothing could enter her heart. Her mind was only focused on the life she was about to start in Nanxiang and her ambitions for the future. She walked in the air, she rode on the waves, and the sedan chair carried her out of the city and into the countryside. The breath of the countryside penetrated into the sedan chair, and she felt that it was no stranger, and a warm flow of kindness poured into her heart. She accepted her fate and walked in.

About ten miles away from the east gate of City C, there are lush trees and tall buildings. This is Buffalo Town. A country road carefully made of cement firmly connects it to the neighboring city C. Every day, cars of all kinds drive on this road. Even the people who work hard in the fields are used to seeing this, and they happily believe that this is a sign of the prosperity of the local area. In the circular garden square at the entrance to the town stands a sculpture of a buffalo, the work of a true artist. The huge black buffalo is heavy and majestic. It not only raises its head high into the sky, but also protects the countryside, arousing countless beautiful and powerful emotions in the hearts of the villagers. One afternoon in the year and month of 199 AD, the sculpture buffalo witnessed a catastrophe from a high position: Many people came from nowhere in trucks, carrying hoists and professional lifting workers, and drove into the printing factory named after "Buffalo" on the edge of the square.