A woman named Huang Meilian suffered from cerebral palsy since she was a child. The symptoms of this disease were very alarming, as her limbs lost their sense of balance, her hands and feet would move around from time to time, and her mouth would often mumble vague words, making her look very strange. Doctors decided that she would not live past the age of six. In the eyes of ordinary people, she had lost her ability to express herself and her normal living conditions, not to mention her future and happiness. But she survived, and through her tenacity and perseverance, she was admitted to the prestigious University of California in the U.S., where she earned a doctorate in art. With a paintbrush in her hand and a good ear, she expressed her emotions. At one of the lectures, a student rashly asked this question: "Dr. Huang, you have grown up like this, may I ask how you see yourself? Have you ever held any grudges?" Everyone present secretly blamed this student for his disrespect, but Melissa Wong was not half upset, she very frankly wrote these lines on the blackboard:
One, I am so cute;
Two, I have long and beautiful legs;
Three, my mom and dad love me so much;
Four, I can draw and I can write;
Five, I have a cute cat; ......
Lastly, she concludes with the statement, I look at what I have, not what I don't have!
Reading this story above, we are all y touched by Huang Meilian's spirit of not giving in to fate and loving life. Yes, in order to make one's life worthwhile, one must withstand the trials and tribulations; in order to live a happy life, one must accept and affirm oneself. In fact, in this world, everyone has different defects or unsatisfactory things, not only you are unfortunate, the key is how to look at and treat misfortune. There is no need to complain about the bad fate, do not just look at what you do not have, but to look more at what you have, we will feel: in fact, we are very rich. In the journey of life, we have read a lot of small stories that move us and make us think y, the philosophy and wisdom contained in these small stories, once gave us life to enlightenment, once gave us solace or shock to the soul, once moved us. In everyone's life, we need to realize some truths in order to make ourselves wiser; we need to accept some touches in order to make life full of passion.
2. I once read a collection of Chekhov's short stories, the first of which was called "The Bet". The first story is called "The Bet". It is about a quarrel between a jurist and an entrepreneur at a salon party about a newly sentenced fifteen-year prisoner. The entrepreneur argues that fifteen years in prison is better than a death sentence; the jurist argues that it is better to be alive than dead, and that to be alive is to have hope. The two argued endlessly, and finally made a bet, the wager is that the legal scholar let the entrepreneur to lock him up, after fifteen years if the legal scholar does not breach the contract, the entrepreneur's entire property owned by the legal scholar. The next morning, the legal scholar was locked into the entrepreneur's own back garden - a hut, this hut only a small window to send food. Jurist squatted in this isolated hut began to live a prison life, the entrepreneur to provide him with books to read every day. Time passes day by day, the jurist read the book of politics, economics, philosophy, science, theology and literature, and the fifteen-year period finally comes to an end. The entrepreneur at this time, having lost in the business world, knew that he would become a pauper when the time was up, so he decided to kill the jurist on the first night of the expiration date. The banker easily opened the rusty iron lock that had never been opened in fifteen years, and found the jurist sleeping in front of the candle, the banker was about to take the opportunity to kill the withered jurist, but found a letter to him on the table. The letter said that he was grateful to the entrepreneur, and that for fifteen years he had read many books, and that this knowledge would be a treasure that he would not be able to use for the rest of his life, and that he had learned many things. He decided that he no longer wanted the entrepreneur's property and that he would break the window before dawn tomorrow and automatically break the contract. The banker read the letter and decided to give up the idea of killing the jurist. Before dawn the next day the jurist did break the contract and broke out of the window, keeping the banker's property and saving his own life.
This novel seems to contain a lot of truth, love of life, living is hope, should be its theme, the most valuable of all things in the world is life. Love of life is not the same as fear of death, "life since ancient times who have no death"? I remember Qiu Jin has a poem: "do not hesitate to buy a sword of a thousand gold, sable fur for wine can also be proud. A cavity of blood diligently respect, spilled still can turn blue waves." All the people who have achieved great success in ancient and modern times are those who know the value of life and utilize the value of life. All normal people cherish life and love life. "There is a death, or as light as a feather, or heavier than Mount Taishan." Of course, it is impossible for every death in life to be heavier than Mount Taishan, yet it cannot be as light as a feather. One cannot take life lightly. I am often reminded of Alexandre Dumas' saying that the whole happiness of mankind lies in hoping and waiting. To live is happiness, to hope is happiness, to wait is happiness. The whole of human society operates for the sake of human living and the pursuit of happiness, and living and happiness are the theme and purpose of mankind: if living and happiness are left out, everything in mankind will lose its meaning.
The astronauts who flew in the space, the scientists who went to Antarctica for scientific research, when they were far away from the human group, far away from their hometowns, far away from their loved ones, facing the vast and unforgiving nature and the universe to challenge the limit of life and return, they realized everything, and they felt that human beings in the face of the nature is very small and fragile. At the same time, they feel that life is very precious and great, and that it is not easy and difficult for human beings to survive in the face of the limits of life. People who return from challenging the limits of life think that human life is the best and happiest. They even think that human beings should not fight with each other. Only when you have lost something do you know how precious it is to have it, but life cannot be such a game because it is only once. Those who have challenged the limits of life have come from the edge of life and death, and know how to cherish life and life more. This will think of Jack London's novel called "Love of Life": two gold miners through suffering and hardship, from the death line to struggle over the touching story; so that you feel the human life force is how strong, how strong the desire to survive, people in the edge of death will y feel the preciousness of life. So what reason is there for people living in a peaceful world to live lightly? What reason is there to leave this world for no reason? Life in the process of its development is encountered many difficulties and hardships, which just proves the preciousness of life. Life is the foundation of all superstructures and the material world, because of human life, there is thought, there is hope and the pursuit of this colorful, like a kaleidoscope like the beautiful world.
Life in the face of time and space, as the ancients said, "If the change from its view of the world had not been able to take a moment; if its unchanged from its view of the things and I are endless." Life is transient and eternal. It is the life in the world that is real, with the fun of heaven, the friendship of friends, the love of lovers, the ideals, the beauty, the pursuit, the dream, and only in the world can we create a truly beautiful paradise. Cherish life, sing a hymn to life.
3. The story of the love of life
Growing up, I knew that human life is not very long.
When I was still in infancy, I was weak and sickly, and doctors told my parents to prepare for an early death. But I survived, albeit with difficulty.
Because of my bad heart, I couldn't run and jump with the other children, and the sky of my childhood was always cloudy, and I often hid in a corner by myself and cried in secret. Weakness and loneliness turned into a continuous worry in my young mind, so that I was too early in that age to understand the life and death, to understand that life is so mean and cruel to me.
And then I grew up. I was able to grow to a flower season, the brilliant autumn sun in my pale face with a little red, I got into the university, rounded out the childhood did not dare to hope for the dream.
And then I fell in love. It was a very kind boy, generous, open-minded and persistent. I was very happy to enjoy the joy of being a girl and the boundless fulfillment of having a boy. In the warmth of his arms, the blush on my face never faded. For a long time, I almost forgot that I had had a bad childhood and a weak, sickly body.
Until that spring in my last year of college, my boyfriend and I went on a field trip. We sat on the grass with our backs to each other, looking at the blue sky and white clouds, the pine forests and the shepherd boys far away. We exuberantly sang the song: "------ hope you can love me to the old to the end of days, hope you can accompany me to the cape to the end of the world -------" sung to the emotional point, my boyfriend excitedly swept me into his arms, gently whispered in my ear: "this life and this world to keep each other, never leave ------ good! I'm not going to be able to do that."
The moment of life is so gorgeous and cozy, and so condemned and tender. Between the blue sky and the green grass, I know my heart like a flower burst into bloom, displaying the beauty I have never seen.
But on that spring night, I stood by the window, listening to the distant insects outside the window, the remote round of the full moon, infinite yearning fond memories of the blue sky and white clouds, the grass, the sheep ------ and then, I shed tears.
I know that I am in love with the boy with what kind of devotion, but also know that he is with what kind of pity and cherish me as porcelain. Our love was pure and transparent, like a flower that had just blossomed. But perhaps the beautiful things have a handicap: he is energetic, strong body, and I am soft heart, weak bones, body thin how to accompany him in life storms? The depth of love has so heavy intolerance and worry, rather than not be able to keep each other and leave him half a lifetime of bitterness, it is better for me to go away from his life as early as possible, so that he will have the opportunity to have a complete love again, have a perfect life without flaws.
It was my destiny that I should not belong to him, not to any boy. I should have realized that.
So, after that spring night, I slowly distanced myself from him, cold-shouldered him, and graduated from college in spite of his obstacles I went to a distant city. In the letter to him I calmly wrote: "I no longer love you -------" He does not know deliberately fleeing love is how unbearable, that love and can not be sad and is a kind of how deep how deep pain!
Later, I was in that city alone to face people and things independently, alone to bear the world of deep and shallow, big and small sadness and happiness, very bitter. Every time in the crowd through a strange face, the heart will be completely alone, so it will be engraved in the memory of the boy who hated my thin heart. How does he know that I left him in order to better love him; how does he know that he had a how kind and wonderful girl, would rather hurt himself than hurt him. I just hate the heavens for not giving us this earthly destiny.
After cutting off love, I only live for my mother. Life is given by the mother, I have no power to take back myself, I can only maintain the aged mother a little bit of hope. In fact, the mother should not make me this weak life, after experiencing some of the vicissitudes of the world, to leave with a lot of regret. Life is sometimes not so fair to everyone.
For more than half a year, I dragged the sick body a few times to sink, a few times to struggle, finally in the lilac season I fell ill. Listen to my mother said I fell grass is the lilac residual thank you, perhaps everything is destiny, lilac will soon wither, I think I will go with the fall red together.
So, the calm heart is more and more calm. I want to fulfill two wishes when I leave: tell the boy that I have always loved him, may he not fail me to live well; and then tell my mother, do not grieve for me, as if there had been no such life twenty years ago! I frankly shot two telegrams, frankly alone in the hospital, did not rush to confirm the rash, I waited.
Mother came with the boy. Perhaps my mother had hinted at the reason I had left him, he glared at me fiercely as soon as he entered the ward, and then tearfully took my hand in a grip that made my heart quiver with pain.
Mother just did not say anything, she has been mentally prepared for more than twenty years, and the tears in her heart have already flowed.
Later, the doctor came in, split on the head to reproach the mother why I left me alone in this city, questioned why he did not give his girlfriend a care and encouragement, even made me so do not cherish their own, such a melancholy sinking.
"Don't blame them, I know my life is short." I excused my mother and defended him.
"In fact, your infantile heart valve stenosis has been miraculously cured two or three years ago, it's just that you are single and do not love life, and depression has become a disease ------"
"Miraculously ----" mother repeated for a moment, looking at me almost in disbelief, and then at the old doctor, her bleak gaze brightening for a moment.
"Yes. Maybe ------ "The old doctor tapped me on the shoulder, "Credit to your boyfriend, you must be very much in love and very happy. There are indeed many things in this world that are fated in life and we cannot change; but there are also many things that you must fight for yourself. As long as you are willing to cooperate with the treatment, you will soon be able to be like a normal person and have a full life too!"
The old doctor walked out. I, my boyfriend and my mother were all shocked, when the afternoon sun was shining warmly on my face and my mother's and boyfriend's bodies.
It was my boyfriend who was the first to react, after a long time, and he flew out, and I heard his boyishly loud and rare cries outside the hospital room, so painfully hearty and drenching.
My mother at the bedside took me into her arms, full of smiles and tears, and for a moment, the wrinkles on my mother's face seemed so much less.
Later, that old doctor cured me.
The day I was discharged from the hospital, I pulled him down and bowed y to him, I was grateful to him. He not only recovered my body, but more importantly, he gave me a spiritual and soulful shock, so that I know that life is so precious, and that I have to struggle and fight for anything on my own.
Yes, there are indeed many things in this world that are destined to happen and that we cannot change; but there are also many things that we have to fight for ourselves. If life can be fought for, then what in the world can't be fought for?
4. Love of Life By Jack London
The two of them limped and struggled down the bank, and once the one in front of them lost his footing and staggered among the rocks. They were tired and drained, and both wore sad, gritted faces from the long suffering they had endured. On their shoulders were heavy bundles wrapped in blankets. At last the leather strap, which was strung across their foreheads, was strong enough to help hang the bundle. They each carried a rifle. They walked hunched over, their shoulders rushing forward while their heads rushed further forward, their eyes always looking at the ground.
"With all those bullets we've got stashed in the cellar, we'd be lucky to have two or three rounds with us," said the man walking behind.
The tone of his voice, grim and dry, was completely devoid of emotion. He spoke the words coldly; the one in front just limped off into the white, frothy creek that flowed over the rocks, not answering a word.
The one behind followed him closely. Neither of them took off their shoes or socks, though the river was icy cold - so cold that their ankles ached and both feet went numb. Whenever they came to a point where the river pounded against their knees, both men staggered unsteadily The one following slipped on a smooth, round stone and almost missed falling, but, with a violent struggle, he steadied himself, while screaming out in pain. As if a little light-headed, he swayed, and stretched out his free hand as if intending to hold on to something in the air. Having steadied himself, he went forward again, and unexpectedly swayed again, and almost fell. So he stood still, looking at the man in front of him who had never looked back.
He stood motionless for a minute, as if he were convincing himself. Then he called out, "Hey, Bill, I sprained my ankle."
Bill staggered along in the white water of the river. He did not look back.
The man behind him looked at him as he went along; his face was expressionless as usual, but his eyes showed the same look as a wounded deer.
The man in front of him limped, mounted the opposite bank, and, without looking back, went on his way, while the man in the river watched. His lips were trembling a little, and as a result, the clump of messy brown beard on his mouth was visibly twitching. He even stuck his tongue out to lick his lips without realizing it.
"Bill!" He shouted.
It was the cry of a strong man in distress for help, but Bill did not turn around. His partner watched him dryly, only to see him limp along quaintly, stumbling and stumbling, staggering up a not-so-steep slope toward the not-very-bright sky atop the short hill. He watched until he crossed the hill and disappeared from sight. Then he dropped his gaze and slowly swept it over the circle of the world left to him by Bill's departure. The sun near the horizon, like a dying ball of fire, was almost obscured by the chaotic fog and vapor, making it seem like something dense and clumped, yet vague and inscrutable. The man, resting on one leg, took out his watch; it was now four o'clock, and in this season of late July or early August-he could not tell the exact date within a week or two-he knew that the sun was about north-west. He looked to the south, and knew that behind those barren hills was Big Bear Lake; and, at the same time, he knew that in that direction the forbidding boundary of the Arctic Circle ran deep within the Canadian tundra. Where he stood was a tributary of the Coppermine River, which itself flowed northward to Coronation Bay and the Arctic Ocean. He had never been there, but, once, he had seen the place on a Hudson's Bay Company map.
He re-swept that circle of the world around him. It was a landscape that screamed to be seen. Everywhere was a blurred skyline. The hills were all so low. There were no trees, no bushes, no grass - nothing but a vast, terrible wilderness that quickly brought a look of fear to both his eyes.
"Bill!" He cried quietly, again and again, "Bill!"
He cowered in the white water, as if this vast world was squeezing him with overwhelming force, and was cruelly putting on a triumphant show of authority to destroy him. He trembled like a malarial child, and even the gun in his hand fell into the water with a crash. The sound woke him up at last. Fighting against his fear, he did his best to gather his strength, groped in the water, and found the gun. He moved the bundle a little toward his left shoulder to ease the burden on his sprained ankle. Then, slowly, cautiously, painfully flickering, he made his way toward the riverbank.
He didn't stop for a step. Like a madman he fought for his life, ignoring the pain, and hurried up the slope towards the hill where his partner had lost sight of him - looking even more oddly ridiculous than his partner, who was limping, limping, limping, limping. But when he reached the hill, he saw only a dead, shallow valley with no grass. He fought his fear again, overcame it, moved his pack further over his left shoulder, and hobbled down the hill.
The bottom of the valley was damp and thick with moss, clinging to the water like a sponge. When he took a step, water splashed out from under his feet, and every time he lifted his foot, it caused a kind of bar-smacking sound, for the damp moss always sucked in his foot and refused to let go. He picked his way well, from one bog to another, and followed Bill's footprints over piles and piles of rocks that jutted out like islands in this sea of moss.
He was not lost, though he was alone. He knew that, if he went further, he would come to a small lake with many tiny, dead fir trees, which the locals called "Tizinichiri" - meaning "small stick land". The local people called it "Tichinichili" - meaning "little stick land". Moreover, there is a small stream that leads to the lake, and the water is not white.
There were lampblossoms on the creek - that he remembered well - but no trees, and he could follow this creek all the way to the watershed at the end of the water supply. He would go over this watershed to the headwaters of another creek, which flowed westward, and he could follow the current to the place where it emptied into the Dies River, where, under an overturned canoe, he could find a small pit with many rocks piled on top of it. This pit contained the bullets he needed for his empty gun, as well as hooks, wire, and a small fish-net-everything for hunting and fishing for food. At the same time, he would find flour -- not much -- and a piece of cured pork with some beans.
Bill would be there waiting for him, and they'd paddle south on the Dease River to Big Bear Lake. Then they would paddle south in the lake, all the way south to the McKenzie River. And when they got there, they would have to go toward the south, and keep going toward the south, and then winter wouldn't be able to catch up with them in any way. Let the turbulence freeze, let it get bitterly cold, and they would go south to a warm Hudson's Bay Company head of station, where not only did the trees grow tall and lush, but there was more than enough food to go around.
That was what was going through the man's mind as he struggled all the way forward. Not only was he struggling hard for his physical strength, but he was also struggling just as hard for his brain, doing his best to think that Bill hadn't abandoned him, that Bill would be waiting for him where he had hidden his things.
He had to think that way, or he wouldn't have had to fight so hard, he would have laid down and died long ago. As the fuzzy, orb-like sun slowly sank toward the northwest, he repeatedly took stock of every inch of the way they had fled south before winter caught up with him and Bill. Repeatedly he thought of what he had eaten in the cellar and at the head of the Hudson's Bay Company station. He had not eaten for two days; and as for the days when he had not eaten what he wanted to eat, they were more than two days. Often he stooped down and picked up one of those grayish-white berries of the swamp, put them in his mouth, chewed them a few times, and then swallowed them. These marsh berries had only a small seed and were covered with a little syrupy water. Once imported, the water melted and the seed was spicy and bitter. He knew the berries were not nourishing, but he still chewed them patiently with a hope that defied reason and lessons learned.
Walking to nine o'clock, he stumbled over a rock, and from extreme exhaustion and debilitation, he staggered and fell. He lay on his side and motionless for a while. Then he extricated himself from among the straps with which he had tied his bundle, and struggled awkwardly up to a bare sitting position. By this time it was not quite dark, and by the lingering twilight he groped among the rocks, trying to find some dry moss. Later, when he had gathered a pile, he started a fire--a poor, black-smoking fire--and put a white tin can of water on it to boil.
The first thing he did when he opened the bundle was to count his matches. One **** sixty-six. He counted them three times to make sure. He divided them into portions, wrapped them in greaseproof paper, put one in his empty tobacco pouch, one in the hat band of his tattered hat, and the last one inside his chest-hugging shirt. When he was done, he felt a sudden pang of panic, so he took them out completely and opened them up, recounting them.
Still sixty-six sticks.
He roasted his damp shoes and socks by the fire. The buckskin shoes were in soaked pieces. The felt socks were worn through in so many places, and both feet were bleeding from open skin. One ankle was so swollen that the veins were throbbing, and he examined it. It had swollen to the thickness of his knee. He had two blankets in one ****, and he tore a long strip from one of them and bound the ankle tightly. In addition, he tore off a couple more strips and wrapped them around his feet in lieu of buckskin shoes and socks. Then, after he had drunk from the pitcher of boiling water and wound up his watch, he climbed into the midst of the two blankets.
He slept like the dead. The brief darkness around midnight came and went.
The sun rose from the northeast - or at least it must be said that there was dawn in that direction, for the sun gave way to dark clouds.
At six o'clock he awoke and lay quietly on his back. He looked up at the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. As he braced himself on his elbows and rolled over, a loud grunting noise startled him, and he saw a buck, which was looking at him with alert curiosity. The animal was not more than fifty feet away, and the sight and taste of a venison steak sizzling over the fire immediately came into his mind. Unconsciously he grabbed the empty gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The buck grunted and took off at a hop, the only sound heard being the clatter of his hooves as he ran over the rocks.
The man cursed and dropped the empty gun. He grunted loudly as he dragged himself to his feet. It was a slow, laborious task. His joints were like rusty hinges. They moved sluggishly in their sockets, with so much resistance that he had to grit his teeth to flex or extend. Eventually, both legs finally stood, but it took another minute or so of work to straighten his back so that he could stand as straight as a man.
He slowly made his way up a small knoll and looked around at the terrain. There were neither trees nor small bushes, nothing but a vast expanse of gray moss, the occasional bit of gray rock, a few small gray lakes, and a few gray streams as a bit of varied punctuation. The sky was gray. There was no sun, and no shadow of the sun. He didn't know where north was; he'd forgotten how he'd taken the road to get here last night. He wasn't lost, though.
This he knew. Soon he would come to the "little stick field". He felt it was somewhere to the left, and it wasn't far - probably just over the next hill.
So he went back to his spot, packed his bag, and got ready to go. He felt out the three separate packs of matches that he had let go of and still had them, though he didn't stop to count them again. Still, he hesitated for a moment, there, taking a hard count, this time for a thick buckskin pocket. The pouch was not large. He could cover it completely with two hands. He knew it weighed fifteen pounds-as much as everything else in the bag combined-and the pocket made him fret. Finally, he set it aside and began to roll the bundle. But, after rolling it for a moment, he stopped and stared at the buckskin pocket. He grasped it hastily into his hand, and looked around him with a defiant look, as if the wilderness were trying to snatch it away; and by the time he stood up and staggered off on his day's journey, the pocket was still wrapped in the bundle behind him.
He turned to the left and walked, stopping now and then to eat berries from the marshy ground. The sprained ankle had stiffened and he limped more noticeably than before, but the foot pain was nothing compared to the pain in his stomach. The hunger pains were intense. They came in bursts, as if gnawing at his stomach, so that he could not concentrate his thoughts on the route he must take to the "little stick field." The berries on the swamp did nothing to alleviate the pain, but the harsh taste made his tongue and mouth hot.
He came to a valley where many grouse were flying up from the rocks and marshes, flapping their wings. They made a sort of "cluck-cluck-cluck" sound. He struck them with a stone, but could not hit them. He put his bag on the ground and sneaked past them like a cat catching a sparrow. Sharp rocks cut through his pants and scratched his legs until the blood from his knees left a trail of blood on the ground; but this pain was nothing in the agony of hunger. He crawled on the damp moss, soaking his clothes and chilling his body; but he felt none of this, for his desire to eat was so strong. The grouse, on the other hand, were always flying up in front of him and whirling around, and in time their clucking "cluck-cluck-cluck" became a mockery of him, and he cursed them and yelled at them as they clucked.
On one occasion he crept up to a grouse that must have been asleep. He hadn't looked at it until it sprang up from the corner of a rock and rushed at his face. As alarmed as the grouse had been when it took off, he grabbed at it and got only three tail feathers. As he watched it fly away, he hated it in his heart as if it had done something wrong to him. He then returned to his spot and picked up his bag.
Time faded away, and he went into the rolling valleys, or marshes, where the wild things were more plentiful. A herd of caribou walked past, about twenty of them, all staying within range of the unattainable rifle. He had a wild, maddening thought in his mind to pursue them, and was sure that he would be able to go after them and catch them. A black fox came toward him with a grouse in its mouth. The man cried out. It was a terrible cry, and the fox ran away in terror, but did not leave the grouse behind.
In the evening he went down a stream, the water, milky white from the lime in it, flowing through the sparse cordgrasses. He gripped the roots of these lampblacks tightly and pulled up something that looked like a young onion bud, the size of a nail in a shingle. It was so tender that his teeth bit into it and it made a crunching sound, as if it tasted good. But its fibers were not easy to chew.
It was made up of wisps of water-filled fiber: like the berry, it was completely devoid of nutrients. He threw away his bundle, climbed into the lampas bush, and bit and chewed like a bull. He was so weary that he wished he could rest awhile - lie down and sleep; but he was obliged to struggle on - not necessarily, however, because he was anxious to get to the "little stick-land," but mostly because he was hungry. But this was not necessarily because he was anxious to get to the "little stick-land," it was mostly hunger that drove him on. He looked for frogs in the little puddles, or dug his fingernails into the earth for worms, though he knew, too, that there were neither frogs nor worms this far north.
He looked in every puddle, to no avail, and finally, as the long twilight came on, he found a puddle with a unique, minnow-like minnow in it. He put his arm down into the water, and it didn't reach his shoulder, but it slipped away again. So he used both hands to catch it, stirring up all the milky white mud at the bottom of the pool. It was a tense moment when he fell into the pit and got half soaked. Now the water was too muddy to see where the fish were, so he had to wait and wait for the mud to settle.
He caught it again, until the water was muddied again. But he could wait no longer, so he unhooked the white tin can he was carrying and scooped the water out of the pit; at first he scooped like a madman, splashing the water on himself, while, solidly splashing it out too close, it ran back into the pit. Then he scooped more carefully, trying to calm himself a little, though his heart was beating hard and his hands were shaking. After half an hour of this, the pit was almost empty of water to scoop. There was less than even a cup left.
But there were no fish; he realized that there was a dark crevice in the rock, and that the fish had burrowed through it to a large, connected pit next to it - a pit that he could not scoop up in a day or a night. If he had known of this crevice, he would have plugged it at first, and the fish would have been his. With this thought, he collapsed on all fours onto the damp ground. At first he cried only softly, over?