After traveling through time, I was raised by a little brat

Time, like a silent thief, slips by us so swiftly that we barely notice its presence. In the blink of an eye, across the villages of Liu County, the emerald green fields of second-season rice, as if enchanted by time, gradually turn golden, reaching maturity and time for harvest.

Because the first rice harvest in July was quite poor, this is the busiest yet joyful time of the year for the villagers. The autumn wind, like a mysterious messenger, gently picks up, and the rice ears droop slightly like shy children. The golden rice fields, like a beautiful painting crafted by nature, unfold before everyone's eyes without reservation, inspiring wonder and joy.

In the early morning, the sky was still immersed in darkness and there was no light yet, but the hardworking villagers had already gotten up early, with full of expectations and enthusiasm, ready to welcome the hard work of this new day.

They wore simple, plain clothing, bearing the marks of time. They clutched sharp sickles, their tools for harvesting hope, and shouldered heavy poles as they walked steadily toward the golden rice fields. Along the way, their laughter echoed in the air, a joyful symphony of labor. They excitedly discussed the year's harvest, their words filled with anticipation and longing for the future.

Finally arriving at the long-desired rice fields, the villagers paused for a brief rest before beginning a series of simple yet essential preparations. They meticulously sharpened their sickles on the whetstones, their movements skillful and focused, as if they were carving a precious work of art, ensuring each sickle remained razor-sharp, capable of effortlessly severing the plump ears of rice. Simultaneously, they meticulously arranged their shoulder poles neatly at the edge of the fields, like treasures waiting to be filled, so that after the harvest, the heavy rice grains could be quickly carried home.

Once everything was ready, the hardworking villagers, as if receiving the call to battle, immediately began the intense yet orderly harvest. They slowly bent their waists, bent by the wear and tear of time, their left hands gripping the golden rice ears like a pair of pliers, fearing they would easily escape. Their right hands, like sharp swords, drew a graceful arc through the air before fiercely swinging their sickles. The sound of "swish" echoed through the fields, and the heavy rice ears were obediently cut down by their hands, as if in tribute to them.

In this seemingly simple yet challenging process, they must maintain intense focus and endless patience, guarding it with the same meticulous care as if it were a precious treasure. A single mistake could ruthlessly cut their fingers with the sharp sickle, and a single oversight could leave them with a lasting regret. Every moment of bending, swinging the sickle, and picking up a fallen ear of rice embodies their heart's blood, sweat, and sweat.

As time slipped away like sand in an hourglass, the sun, previously hidden behind the eastern mountains, gradually rose higher, its rays growing stronger, and the weather grew increasingly hot. A thin layer of mist covered the villagers' foreheads, and sweat poured down like a spring, soon soaking their already tattered clothes.

However, the scorching heat did not deter them from their tireless work. Instead, they felt energized and worked even harder to harvest the golden rice. They knew that only by harvesting the vast rice fields as quickly as possible could they ensure the quality of the rice and maximize the yield.

During the frenzy of harvesting, these simple villagers demonstrate their deep friendship and help each other. When one person gets tired, the person next to him will take over the sickle without hesitation and continue the harvest. When someone needs to carry rice, everyone works together to neatly stack the harvested rice, then carry it on a sturdy shoulder pole and walk step by step to the threshing ground at the edge of the field.

In the simple threshing ground, villagers skillfully start the ancient yet reliable threshing machine. With a roaring "boom boom" sound, rice grains pop off the ears like happy children. They are carefully collected and then dried in the bright sunshine. The sunlight shines on the wet rice grains, as if covering them with a golden coat, while also slowly removing the moisture from them, making them fuller and tougher.

As the county magistrate, Tang Wenshu often traveled between villages to fulfill her duties. This time, she had been to Yangjia Village several times and was gradually becoming familiar with the village. She felt a sense of excitement and honor at being invited by Yangjia Village to be the first person to perform the ritual.

When she saw the golden sheaf of rice, its plump grains, a flicker of wonder crossed her eyes. The rice, separated into several stalks, each seemed to hold out the promise of a bountiful harvest next year. The heavy ears of rice, like tiny golden lanterns, emanated an enchanting glow. Carefully, she reached out and gently grasped the rice. The rough yet warm touch made her feel a gift from nature. Then, decisively, she swung her sickle. With a swish, the rice fell to the ground, a melody of harvest.

Seeing Tang Wenshu's skillful and efficient movements, the village chief and the elders of Yangjia Village nodded in approval, then led a round of applause. The enthusiastic applause echoed throughout the village, as if announcing the arrival of a bountiful harvest. After Tang Wenshu gathered the bundle of rice, the rest of the villagers, unable to contain their joy, brandished their sickles and swarmed into the sacrificial fields to begin harvesting. Their faces were filled with brilliant smiles, as if, in that moment, all their hard work had vanished.

After a long half-day, the harvest of the second rice crop in Jitianli was finally completed. The villagers worked together to carefully deliver the heavy bundles of rice to Huang's home. Standing at her doorstep, Huang gazed upon the mountain of rice piled high, her heart filled with joy and gratitude. To her surprise, Yangjia Village even sent 50% of the harvest, a gesture of friendship that deeply touched her. The rice harvest is a laborious process, and the entire village came together to help her complete it first. This spirit of solidarity and mutual assistance warmed her heart.

Huang finally understood why the sacrificial field was registered in the name of the village chief, a scholar. It turned out to be a special benefit for scholars, exempt from taxes. She exclaimed, "I never imagined this small sacrificial field held so much story and meaning." She decided to keep the rice safely as a memento for the future, and to pass on this spirit of solidarity and mutual assistance so that more people could experience the beauty of rural life.