Send Troops Again

By the canal, thick morning fog shrouded the desolate village.

The Thatched Hut's rotten wooden door creaked open from within. The little girl carried a grass basket and led a little yellow dog outside. Dressed in old clothes and trousers, straw sandals on her feet, she wore a somewhat oversized, tattered straw hat. Perhaps the adults at home had once worn it while working, and it carried a sour reek of old sweat.

By noon, the morning fog would give way to a blazing sun.

She needed the straw hat to shield herself from it.

The little yellow dog scampered happily back and forth. The dew on the lush roadside weeds was heavy, soaking its yellow fur into clumps.

The scrawny little girl had to do whatever she could to help support the household. There was a kind of pigweed in the wet ground by the river. She used to dig it up, bring it home, wash and chop it, then feed it to the pig. Its contented grunts had been so amusing. But the little sow at home had been seized by the grain-collection squad, supposedly to make up the shortfall in grain taxes. The girl had cried her heart out. She had raised that pig herself, digging pigweed to feed it...

No one cared about the sufferings of common folk, nor about the little girl's longing for her piglet.

Even people of later generations, even those a thousand years hence, would not care. They only admired kings and generals, poets and the wealthy, even famous courtesans. Such was the age; even in prosperous times, it was no exception.

After walking for a while, she bent down and rolled up her trouser legs, wet with dew. Her little feet felt cool.

The white mist was so thick she could