Volume One, Chapter Eleven: A Poem of Compassion for Farmers Amazes the Audience—The Young Lady Is Once Again Moved to Tears!

The entire morning's lessons passed slowly in an atmosphere of stifling oppression.

It was lunchtime.

Chen Pingchuan followed Steward Ren to the servants' dining hall. Several rough-hewn long tables had been set with simple fare: a large basin of white rice—plenty for everyone—and a bowl of greens with tofu, in which a few pitiful drops of oil floated on the surface.

Yet to Chen Pingchuan, this was already a rare treat. At home, to fill one's belly was a blessing; tofu was an uncommon luxury, reserved only for New Year or special festivals.

He ate with relish, savoring every bite. The subtle sweetness of the rice, the refreshing greens, the tender tofu—each was a rare delight on his tongue, and he could not help but feel a thread of contentment. Though he lacked freedom, to have food and shelter was already a great fortune for him.

At that moment, a small figure suddenly whirled into the hall—it was Zhang Jingshu. Behind her, several maids and old servant women followed, each carrying ornate food boxes, panting and out of breath.

As the young lady of the Zhang household, Zhang Jingshu naturally had her own special meals, far more exquisite than anything the servants could hope for. Inside the opened boxes, four or five dishes of vibrant color and tantalizing aroma were displayed, along with a steaming pot of fragrant meat stew.

"Miss! Miss, please stop running and eat your meal—the food is getting cold," one of the maids pleaded, catching up.

But Zhang Jingshu stopped, pouting, her face full of impatience. "I told you, I want sweet osmanthus cake! Take all this away!"

An elderly servant woman, her face etched with worry, tried to persuade her, "My dear young lady, you must at least eat a little. If you don't, you'll make yourself ill. Besides, the mistress has ordered that you not have any sweets..."

"I don't care!" With a sudden fit of temper, Zhang Jingshu swept her arm, sending the entire food box crashing to the ground.

A crisp shattering sound rang out. White porcelain bowls broke, exquisite dishes and the aromatic stew scattered across the floor.

The maids and servants around her fell silent, not daring even to breathe too loudly, terrified of being drawn into trouble.

A golden, crispy fried chicken leg rolled to a stop at Chen Pingchuan’s feet, picking up a bit of dust from the ground. He glanced down at the delicate greens and tofu in his own bowl, then back at the fragrant chicken leg at his feet, his brow furrowing slightly.

If only his little sister Pingyu could have a taste of that delicious chicken—how happy she would be. Yet in this opulent mansion, such fine food was treated as nothing by the little mistress, discarded and wasted without a thought.

He looked at Zhang Jingshu and sighed inwardly. This little girl truly had no concept of hardship, so thoroughly spoiled was she.

"I don't want to eat this garbage! Do you hear me? I want sweet osmanthus cake!" The willful child was still shouting at the attendants around her.

Suddenly, her gaze fell on Chen Pingchuan, as if noticing for the first time that he was watching her. Already in a foul mood, she grew even more incensed. Pointing a small finger at him, she snapped, "Filthy book boy! What are you staring at?"

Chen Pingchuan did not respond. Instead, he bent down and picked up the chicken leg that had rolled to the floor and gathered some dust.

Zhang Jingshu’s brows arched angrily, her face flushing red. "What are you doing?" she cried sharply. "Do you actually mean to eat it?!"

Still, Chen Pingchuan ignored her. He carefully dusted the chicken leg, his movements unhurried.

"In the blazing sun, the farmer hoes his field," he began, his childish voice clear yet calm. "Beads of sweat fall onto the soil beneath the grain."

His quiet recitation echoed through the dining hall, reaching the ears of every servant present.

"Who knows, as you eat this meal," he continued, "each grain is the fruit of bitter toil."

Suddenly, the hall was so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Everyone had stopped, all eyes trained on the new little book boy, astonished and bewildered. Who would have imagined that this frail, quiet country child could recite such lines—lines that stirred the heart with a single utterance?

Chen Pingchuan silently shook his head. This poem, "Pity the Farmer," was apt for the moment. Yet the poet who wrote it, Li Shen, seemed to have forgotten his own words in later years.

Zhang Jingshu's eyes grew round as plums, her mouth agape in confusion. "What nonsense are you spouting?" she demanded. Though she could not grasp the poem’s meaning, she sensed the gravity in the air.

Chen Pingchuan finally lifted his gaze to her, calm and unruffled. "I'm telling you not to waste food," he said. After a pause, he added, "Though I doubt you’ll understand."

She might not have understood the poem, but she heard the rebuke in his words. To be chastised by him in the morning, and now again before everyone! Anger rushed to her head. "If you think it’s a waste, then eat it yourself! I dare you!" she challenged, not believing for a moment that he would eat something that had been on the floor.

All the maids and servants held their breath, eyes wide, fixed on Chen Pingchuan.

He carefully brushed every speck of dust from the chicken leg. And then, under the incredulous stares of the gathered crowd, he opened his mouth and took a hearty bite.

The skin was crisp and golden, the meat inside tender and juicy.

"Mmm... delicious!" he murmured through a mouthful, letting out a small sigh of satisfaction.

A profound silence fell over the dining hall.

Zhang Jingshu’s eyes were perfectly round, her mouth agape—she looked as though an egg could fit inside. Her mind was completely blank. This country bumpkin... he really ate it! He ate the chicken leg she had thrown onto the ground!

Chen Pingchuan ignored the multitude of stares. In a few quick bites, he finished the chicken leg, stripped clean to the bone. He set the bone aside, glanced at the stunned Zhang Jingshu, and said softly, "Such good food—don’t throw it away next time. There are many who go hungry every day."

With that, he paid no more heed to the dumbstruck Zhang Jingshu and strode out of the dining hall, his small figure composed and steady.

It was not until his back nearly vanished through the doorway that Zhang Jingshu snapped out of her daze. Flushed with anger, she stomped her foot and shouted, "Chen Pingchuan! Come back here! Filthy book boy, do you hear me? You’re not allowed to leave!"

She forgot all decorum, grabbed her skirt, and hurried out in pursuit.

Steward Ren had witnessed the entire scene. Stroking his goatee, he watched Chen Pingchuan’s retreating form, his gaze full of admiration and amazement.

This child—he truly understood right from wrong and was unlike any other. Not only was he courageous, but he also recited poetry. Though Steward Ren did not know the origin of those lines, their meaning lingered in his mind, each word a shining pearl, resonating with wisdom and sorrow.

"In the blazing sun, the farmer hoes his field, beads of sweat fall onto the soil beneath the grain..." he murmured, savoring the lines, feeling their depth though unable to fully articulate their power.

He was still pondering these verses when he looked up and saw Master Fang, hands clasped behind his back, strolling leisurely through the moon gate in the distance—apparently headed home.

Steward Ren was struck by an idea and hurried over to meet him.