The blazing red sun burned like fire; half the grain in the fields had withered and scorched.
The farmers' hearts boiled like water in a pot, while young lords and princes' sons waved their fans.
In the scorching summer heat, Zhang Xing sat beneath a tree beside the harbor on one side of the embankment, visibly giving off ice true qi. Holding a bowl of iced water, he recited this opening poem without the slightest persuasiveness.
The dozen or so senior chiefs and chiefs sitting nearby did not know whether it was the ice true qi chilling them or the iced water setting their teeth on edge, but quite a few inwardly shuddered.
In the end, Xie Minghe simply could not bear listening any longer. Indeed, he was the only one who dared speak:
"Master Zhang San, five days ago, when you inspected the fields and thought it had been too long since the last rain, you personally dug irrigation channels and recited those lines while leaning on your hoe. Who among us didn't admire your concern for the people's livelihood? The day before yesterday, you summoned several old farmers in Jiangling and asked about the drought. They all said it wasn't a serious disaster yet, but the channels abandoned during the fighting needed clearing promptly in preparation. You issued orders to repair the channels, then recited this poem again, and everyone thought you were taking pity on the laborers... Now everything's settled, we've done everything we can, and it might still rain. We're about to cross the river to attend to other business. How can you still say this?"
Zhang Xing nodded. "Chief Xie is quite right. Then I'll choose another poem."
Most of those around him breathed a sigh of relief.
"At noon they hoe the grain, sweat