Past structure of plow tip

The past structure of the plow tip is as follows:

Busy farming season:

Grain Rain season, winter, early spring, first frost.

Agricultural activities:

Wipe, knock, newly cast plow, plow, oil, maintenance.

Knowledge expansion:

In my hometown, I have always advocated farming and reading. The countryside, old houses, livestock mouths, plowshares and crops are the watchdogs of my father's life. I often hear my father say, "Good day, good day."

When the spring was warm and cold, and the vast Yuan Ye just showed a goose yellow, my father got up early as usual and began to stir up the plow he regarded as his lifeblood in his foothills cottage. A plow, a bronze plow, stood in front of my father, who squinted at his plow a little askew. The plow was silent, hunched over, and listened to his father's heartbeat in a crawling posture.

Father took pains to wipe the plow body with a piece of oilcloth, and the plow body was polished and radiant. Then, my father picked up the axe and struck the plow head, plow ear and accessories carefully. When the porcelain was solid and suitable, my father fiddled with it, held the plow tip confidently, and said to himself, "Good plow, good guy!" "

In a blink of an eye, in the Grain Rain, sparrow tickles people's hearts. My father waded through the wet dew, led the cow and carried the plow, and went down to the ground. At this time, the clouds are hovering over the mountainside and the village. In the field, Chinese milk vetch blooms wildly, and purple flowers overflow the terraced fields like clouds.

Father satisfied the strong cow and began to get off the plow. The plough is across the middle of the ridge, and the ridge with white water vapor rolls on the waves. The sound of water, the rumination of cattle, and the shouts of father come and go.

In the field, the plow slides freely and turns. Father's nose fluttered and his expression was serene. He seemed to see a wave of milky white rice flowers coming at him, and a trace of warm color swept over his father's wrinkled face.

It was white when I was in the first frost. The withered leaves of the newly planted rape are covered with a thick layer of frost. The wheat just arched out of the land and the field was silent. The vole disappeared, and a group of tits unscrupulously pecked the red lanterns on the persimmon tree. The sun is warm and my father has nothing to do. When I think of the plow, it looks lonely in the living room.

Father moved the plow and rubbed it with a tarpaulin over and over again until it flashed dangerously. Father's face lit up, and he wanted to paint the plow with tung oil, and then bask in the sun to make tung oil smell fragrant. My father thinks that tung oil is the background color of the earth, and it is only with tung oil that the ripe year can be plowed.

As the agricultural proverb goes, "hands are busy in winter, and it is not difficult to eat in spring." In the long winter, "casting plowshares" has become a unique farming and scenery in my hometown and during the slack season.

A group of people, all black fireworks, carrying the burden, suddenly stopped a lot of business in the open space near the village. "Cast plowshares!" An authentic Hanshan dialect immediately attracted a crowd of onlookers, including men in twos and threes, who were throwing their rusty or damaged plowshares and ears to the ground with a bang.

A group of mountaineers quickly squared up, and some people quickly set up a stove and pasted the liner in the stove with refractory mud; The sound of someone picking up iron filings is particularly harsh; Someone squatted on the ground and patiently repaired the missing mold with a scraper; Someone set up a man-high bellows, ready to pull the wind ... Soon, a red flame came out of the stove, and firefighters added anthracite and scrap iron to the stove from time to time.

The bellows are played by two men like iron towers, and the whistling wind is endless, so that the posture and voice have been hovering in my mind for many years. About half an hour later, a furnace of molten iron boiled and the flame was crimson. In the mud ladle, hot molten iron flows into the mold steaming.

After smoking only half a cigarette, the plowshares and ears in the mold gradually faded, went out with a bang, and a white smoke curled up into the air. Knocking off the burr, the newly cast plowshares and ears smelled of burnt mud, were penetrated by iron wires, banged up and disappeared into the narrow lane with idle people.

It seems that plows always crawl on the ground hunched over.