Qin Xiaoman, seeing the Kong family suffer a misfortune, was in high spirits. At the same time, he kept a closer watch on the land where he had planted seeds.
April brought the Qingming Festival, and as the old saying goes: “Around Qingming, sow melons and beans.”
According to tradition, this month was for planting corn and sweet potatoes. This year, Qin Xiaoman also needed to plant the soybeans and poppies that Du Heng requested.
After observing the March plantings, Qin Xiaoman realized that Du Heng truly knew how to farm. He might not have mastered everything, but compared to ordinary scholars, he was far more competent. He spoke with confidence about hoeing and tilling, understanding the work thoroughly.
So in April, Qin Xiaoman let Du Heng take the seeds he had purchased to sow, while he tended to the crops he had always grown.
This year, the cultivated land was at least three times larger than usual. With oxen, plowing was fast, but sowing had to be done by hand.
To ensure that every plot was planted properly and not wasted, Qin Xiaoman finally decided to hire help for sowing.
Du Heng approved of this plan.
Qin Xiaoman invited several of the poorest villagers who had helped him chop firewood before. These households had small fields, so they finished sowing quickly.
He borrowed oxen for half a day in exchange for their help, and with three households, four people were now available to sow seeds.
Du Heng didn’t work in the fields alongside them. Since the villagers were only here for a day’s labor, someone had to provide lunch—he took on that responsibility.
Cooking was second nature to Du Heng. The day before, he soaked a piece of cured meat in rice water to prepare a stew for the helping villagers. With the ingredients ready, he didn’t need to rush on the day itself.
He divided the beans and poppies he had purchased into two acres to tend himself.
The fertile land at Qin Xiaoman’s home was reserved for essential crops, leaving Du Heng with two acres of medium-quality soil. He treated the plot as if it were entirely his own, carefully planning and working it.
Moreover, he carried responsibility: Qin Xiaoman’s crops were meant to feed the newly acquired two little white pigs, while Du Heng’s plot was for cash crops—funding his studies in the future.
High yields of soybeans depended on fertile soil, sufficient rainfall, and diligent weeding. Rain was beyond one’s control, and Du Heng had no problem with weeding, leaving soil fertility as the main factor he could influence.
Improving poor soil was a common goal. A fertile acre could produce around two shi of grain; poor soil could yield only half or less. Properly fertilizing the limited land meant that even a small plot could sustain a family.
Fertilization typically involved using turf, leaves, or manure—human or animal didn’t matter. Villagers often argued over a single pile of manure. Poor households, needing to relieve themselves while out, would sometimes leave human waste in fields, and when that wasn’t enough, they would collect manure from livestock outside.
The Qin family now had two little pigs, a dozen chickens and ducks, and a strong ox. The fertile land produced more manure than most, but spreading it over forty acres of thin soil was still insufficient.
Qin Xiaoman collected grass, leaves, and manure, mixing them for fermentation. When transplanting seedlings, he added a bit to each planting hole.
Du Heng didn’t compete for the limited fertilizer. Instead, he went to visit Uncle Ge, who had sold him firewood before.
Although the Ge family ran a small oil mill in town and had slightly better means than most farmers, their land wasn’t neglected. To save costs, they grew rapeseed and some rice.
When Du Heng arrived, the family was busy. The son and daughter-in-law were in the fields; only Uncle Ge and his wife were at home pressing oil.
The radishes sown in winter had flowered and produced seeds; the couple was now pressing radish seed oil.
The Ge family’s courtyard walls were high, yet Du Heng could smell the fragrant cooking oil from outside.
Passing the main road of the village, he had often seen people stopping to chat near the courtyard, lured by the aroma. Villagers who couldn’t afford oil would come just to smell it, satisfying their craving even if they couldn’t taste it.
“Are you buying pressed cakes?”
Uncle Ge had just pressed a pound of oil and was resting inside. Hearing the knock, he thought it was a villager coming to borrow money or buy farming tools. Annoyed, he opened the gate to see a pale-faced young man.
He had met Qin Xiaoman once before. During a banquet in town, the older couple couldn’t attend, but the younger generation went and said it had been well-hosted.
Uncle Ge found Du Heng refined and handsome. While peers might envy him, elders were kinder and gave him a favorable impression. Moreover, Qin Xiaoman’s family wasn’t poor, and they had an ox while many village households didn’t.
Regardless of village or town, people instinctively treated those with better means more courteously—provided the disparity wasn’t extreme.
He invited Du Heng inside and asked his wife to pour a cup of hot water.
Hearing that Du Heng wanted the leftover cake after oil pressing, he was somewhat surprised. Early on, some villagers had come thinking the pressed cakes still contained oil, hoping to eat them directly.
People had long been disappointed when they saw that the pressed cakes—after oil extraction—were as dry as dead leaves, completely devoid of moisture. Over time, nobody wanted to buy them anymore.
The couple at the mill would keep the leftover cakes from sesame oil for themselves; in years of famine, poor families might come and buy them to eat. But in recent years, with no major disasters and life passing moderately well, no one bought the cakes.
“Yes,” Du Heng replied when Uncle Ge asked, “what do you want them for?”
“I have my uses for them,” he said simply.
Seeing that Du Heng didn’t want to elaborate, Uncle Ge didn’t press and instead led him into the house.
Inside were several large baskets of pressed cakes: sesame, radish seed, and rapeseed. Once pressed of their oil, the cakes were light—ten pounds or so per basket.
Uncle Ge noticed that Du Heng was determined to buy them. Having little experience selling pressed cakes, he wasn’t sure how to price them. After thinking it over, he decided to sell all varieties at five wen per basket.
Du Heng had no idea what a fair price would be but felt it reasonable, so he agreed. That day, he paid thirty wen and told Uncle Ge to call him whenever more cakes were available.
Uncle Ge was indifferent, but his wife liked Du Heng’s polite manners and good looks, so she promised to sell to him in the future.
Du Heng carried the two baskets of cakes back to his fields. He crushed them into fragments and buried them into the soil as fertilizer.
These pressed cakes not only enriched the soil but were superior to manure that hadn’t fully fermented, which could burn seedlings. They provided substantial nourishment for the land.
Poorer households often bought manure with labor or silver, so purchasing other fertilizer was no different.
After spreading cakes over a third of his plot, Du Heng noticed it was getting late. He hid the baskets at the edge of the field under some grass, washed his hands by the garden, and picked some small vegetables to prepare lunch.
There were five people for lunch. Since laborers were helping, the meal naturally needed to be more generous than the simple fare for just two people.
Du Heng cooked two liters of rice, planned a stew of cured meat and cabbage, used a piece of smoked pork liver from last year for steaming and slicing, and boiled a pumpkin in plain water.
Looking at his menu, he realized it was mostly soups and stews. Though typical for farmers, he still wanted to add another dish when he heard a voice outside: “Brother Man!”
Du Heng went out and saw Qin Xiaozhu.
“Xiaoman has gone to the fields and hasn’t returned yet,” she said.
In spring, shedding thick winter clothing, everyone now wore lighter layers. Although Du Heng was in simple, patched clothes, his upright posture and presence made him stand out. His calm, gentle manner was like a spring breeze.
Qin Xiaozhu blushed slightly, handed him her basket, and said, “I picked some locust flowers. My father asked me to bring them.”
“Thank you,” Du Heng said, taking the basket.
Her brow twitched, and without another word, she ran off. Du Heng had wanted to offer her some hot water.
That day, Qin Xiong’s household was busy sowing corn. Though they had many acres, his second uncle and cousins handled most of the work.
Though everyone was busy, Li Wanju and Qin Xiaozhu seldom went into the fields, mainly preparing meals and doing laundry for the elders. Qin Xiong had to oversee selling pigs in the city, leaving the fieldwork largely to his older cousins. Truly, every household had its own difficulties. Qin Xiaoman still wanted to hire help without troubling his uncle’s household.
Du Heng carried the fragrant locust flowers inside, planning to make scrambled eggs with them. During Qin Xiaoman’s wedding, the villagers had given plenty of eggs. Now, during spring planting, he cooked two eggs every morning, so many still remained. Eggs and duck eggs couldn’t be stored for long; better to eat them than let them spoil.
By noon, Du Heng sliced the cured meat. Hearing cheerful voices outside, he knew the laborers had returned and carried a basin of hot water to the stone bridge in the yard.
“Work done? Come wash your hands.”
“Brother Man, your household is wonderful, keeping things in order. At ours, we just collapse into chairs like old men. We wouldn’t move until we were called to eat,” one laborer joked.
After a morning’s work, everyone was in high spirits.
Qin Xiaoman praised Du Heng openly: “See? My husband is just this capable!”
Du Heng smiled, patted his companion on the back of the head, and took the hoe from him. “No exaggerating now.”
Qin Xiaoman chuckled, then called everyone to wash up.
Du Heng carried the dishes to the hall. Qin Xiaoman washed his hands and helped set the table, inviting the villagers in.
The smell of meat was irresistible. For many, a rare chance to taste meat had them salivating. In Qin Xiaoman’s household, they no longer needed to maintain formal politeness.
When they sat, a large steaming basket of white rice awaited them, with cured meat, sliced pork liver, and a generous portion of scrambled locust flowers.
“Xiaoman, your family really made too many dishes!” one exclaimed.
“Just a few dishes—don’t complain. You’ve all worked hard. Dig in!” Qin Xiaoman said politely.
Cured meat was a rare treat: seasoned and salted, combined with the richness of pork—one bite was enough to delight anyone.
Moreover, the Qin family’s cured meat was rather salty, making it all the more of a treat.
The villagers helping were all from poorer households, so this meal felt like a festival to them. Normally, their stomachs could hold three big bowls of rice, but when away from home, they restrained themselves, portioning both meat and rice carefully.
A generous meal encouraged the helpers to work harder. They would return home praising the host’s hospitality, and would be even more willing to help in the future. Word of mouth spread—others would be eager to lend a hand.
At the same time, eating appropriately mattered: eat too much and the host might think you greedy and not call on you again; eat too little and they’d worry about failing to host properly. Clearly, a meal carried more than just nourishment—it was a subtle lesson in social etiquette.
Du Heng had prepared a hearty lunch, allowing the villagers to eat well. The meal was harmonious, leaving both host and guests satisfied.
After lunch, they lingered in the yard to digest, and instead of waiting for Qin Xiaoman to call them back to work, the villagers themselves urged him to return to the fields. Full from the meal, they felt it only proper to work a bit more to repay the hospitality.
Qin Xiaoman led them back to the fields, though little remained to be done.
When sowing corn, farmers first made small balls of mud mixed with livestock manure, about the consistency of dumplings, and arranged them in rows. Corn seeds were pressed onto the top of these mud balls. Once the seedlings sprouted and grew to about two inches, the mud balls were transplanted into the field. This method protected the seeds from harm and helped them grow strong.
That day, they were busy with sowing, and since Qin Xiaoman’s field was wide, there were many mud balls to prepare. With the villagers urging him, he could only lead them back to work.
After tidying up at home, Du Heng went back to the field to finish the remaining tasks for the day. Dinner would be simple—using leftovers from lunch—so no additional cooking was needed. He planned to fertilize both acres of his plot early; with upcoming rains, the pressed cakes would decompose and enrich the soil.
Du Heng was working diligently when suddenly he felt a light tap on his lower back.
“You’re here already?” he asked.
Qin Xiaoman spat out a blade of foxtail grass. “I finished tending the seedlings, so I came to check on you.”
“So soon?”
“The team worked efficiently,” Qin Xiaoman said.
He picked up the pressed cakes in Du Heng’s basket and sniffed them. From a distance, he had thought it was cow dung, wondering how Du Heng could have so much. But the faint toasted aroma revealed it was indeed pressed cakes.
“You’re using these for fertilizer?” Qin Xiaoman asked.
Du Heng explained the source of the cakes. Qin Xiaoman’s eyes widened. “You bought these at five wen a basket?”
“What’s the matter?” Du Heng replied.
A quick calculation made sense to Qin Xiaoman. Buying a load of manure might cost ten wen, yet these cakes were fertile, almost like manure.
Du Heng said patiently, “The sesame and radish seed cakes are the most fertile; rapeseed cakes are slightly less, but still effective.”
Qin Xiaoman had never heard of using pressed cakes to fertilize soil. He pulled a large leaf from his pocket, shaking it open, and several worms wriggled out.
“Well, if you say it fertilizes the soil, then it does. At least it’s cheaper than manure.”
Though Qin Xiaoman didn’t entirely agree with Du Heng’s farming methods, he indulged him. Du Heng was the only companion he had, and handsome and literate to boot. Though born to privilege, here he was, bending under the sun applying fertilizer—a spectacle Qin Xiaoman tolerated.
Together, they applied the pressed cake fertilizer to the second acre. When they ran out mid-task, Qin Xiaoman went back to Uncle Ge’s to fetch two more baskets.