Chapter 124: 211 pieces of Jiangnan memories, the most memorable is where the river bends

211 pieces of Jiangnan memories, the most memorable is where the river bends...

――Liu Guozong Spring Diary Forty-Two

It was the dusk of deep autumn; I walked along a riverbank overgrown with weeds. Although it was deep autumn, the grass in the river and on the banks was still green. Gazing at the faint mountains in the distance and the green grass by the river, I recalled the ancient line: 'Green mountains fade, waters stretch far; autumn nears Jiangnan, grass does not wither.'

But I came from the distant north, a thousand li away, to Jiangnan—not to see 'autumn near Jiangnan, grass does not wither.' I came to hear whether the calls of southern sparrows are the same as those in the north.

Following the guidance of a southern friend, I stopped at a river bend choked with aquatic grass. Across the bend was a railway; before me, the small river choked with aquatic grass turned a bend and passed beneath the railway.

At the bend of the small river, large and small boats were moored. Where the boats were moored, the aquatic grass was sparse, and one could see the underwater appearance of the grass.

The water was clear; upon close inspection, it was also blue. On the bluish-green surface grew green grass.

At the river bend was a shallow shoal.

On the shoal grew sparse reeds.

The reed flowers were in bloom, white fluffy spikes swaying gently in the wind.

Seeing this river, this water, the large and small boats on its surface, and the green grass, with the white reed flowers swaying in the wind, I seemed to understand the meaning contained in the line: 'Lush reeds, white dew like frost; the beloved one stands by the water.'

The breeze over the river carried a faint grass or flower scent into my nose and lungs. But I did not know whether that faint grass or flower scent in the breeze drifted from the swaying reed spikes by the riverbank.

On the shallow shoal at the river's bend, amidst the swaying reed spikes, many sparrows darted about. I wondered: why aren't these sparrows calling? Could it be that southern sparrows fear people, are timid? Or are they shy to chirp? No, that can't be right.

Just as I was deep in doubt, a flock of sparrows burst from the sparse reed thicket, darkening the sky, and their cries also darkened the sky.

The sky‑darkening sparrows and their sky‑darkening cries seemed to mock my foolishness: 'Under heaven, who has ever seen a sparrow that does not call!'

The flock did not fly far away; it passed over my head, circled once by the riverbank, and landed again on the shallow shoal at the river bend. But after it flew a circuit in the sky and returned to its original spot, the scene changed: before, they had darted back and forth without calling; now they chirped incessantly.

I listened for a long time and finally concluded: the calls and calling habits of southern sparrows are no different from those of the northern sparrows where I live; they are merely weak creatures satisfied only with the food in their mouths.

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