Tattoo - one year old

One

A plume of smoke rose from the chimney of the farmhouse into the blue summer sky. Little Geordie, staring at the plume of smoke, thought. The fire in the fireplace was slowly dying down. His mother had finished breakfast and was washing and drying the pots. It was Friday. His mother would sweep the hay with a broom and beat it with straw. While his mother was beating the hay, he could slip away down the valley road. He stood there, watching his mother's actions.

The field was bare. Only the unplowed patches were left. In the tree at the top of the gate, a swarm of bees was swarming. They were greedily sucking the lavender flowers. But they had forgotten the wild jasmine they had sucked in March. They had forgotten the magnolias that would bloom next month. They had forgotten the flowers they had sucked in winter. As Geordie plowed, an idea came to him.

"I'd rather be looking for a beehive than plowing like this."

I thought. If I don't do the plowing today, I can do it tomorrow. If I delay the search for the beehives, I'll miss the opportunity. The sun is shining. The afternoon is a pleasant time for Geordie, but it's an exciting time. The pace of the pleasant world is coming to him. His poor soul no longer wants to plow, and he has a strong desire to throw the plow away and go across the field, through the pine forest, to the little stream.

"You'll find a tree with a beehive by the water's edge."

He excused himself.

Geordie let go of the plow and walked across the field. The little hut his mother had left behind was slowly moving away from him. He jumped over the fence and headed for the pine forest. Julia, the big dog, had followed her father. Her father had gone to Graham with the cart. Although the big dog was gone, Rick, the bulldog, and Pat, the deerhound, who had come after him, saw him go over the fence and ran after him. He didn’t want the dogs to follow him, so he drove them back to the hut. He didn’t like dogs. They didn’t care for him except when they were feeding him. Dogs were best taken out for hunting. But on this trip to the valley road, the teams were of no use. Julia, the big dog, was friendly to people. But his only friend was Jordy's father, Penny Vester. Jordy wanted a dog to be his friend. But he didn't just want a dog. He wanted any property of his own. He thought it would be great if he had a big dog like Julia, who was following his father. He kicked the dirt on the road with his toe and ran forward. It was about two miles between his farm and the hill. It was a fine day, and Jordy hoped that if it stayed that way, he would be able to run for the rest of his life. His legs had been sore from the ploughing, but now that he was running, the pain had gone away.

He had reached the sandy Silver Valley Road. Wildflowers were also blooming. He walked slowly, examining the trees and bushes one by one. He didn’t really need to examine them. These trees and bushes were familiar to him. He had been here often, so he didn’t need to examine them in detail. However, that day, his mind was active, and these trees and bushes were no longer ordinary objects to him, but rather new and unique. When he reached the base of a magnolia tree, he carved a wild cat figure on its trunk. While he was carving the cat figure, he thought that if there was a magnolia tree, there must be a spring nearby. From that thought, he continued to think about rain, soil, and water. He also wondered why magnolia trees flourished where there were streams and lakes.

The path he followed gradually descended and he came across a spring. Magnolia trees and other trees and bushes grew thickly near the spring. He went down into the spring. The cool spring water made him feel very happy. He fell in love with that place. The spring, as clear as water, came out of the sand, bubbling up from the sand. As it rose from the spring to the ground, the water swirled. Small sand grains also swirled and rose in the swirl. When he passed the spring, the stream flowed smoothly along the white limestone foothills and flowed into Lake George.

Lake George is part of the St. John's River. The St. John's River flows northward into the sea. Geordie is pleased with the thought. He is excited to see the water flowing into the sea. However, the stream is the beginning of the sea, and few people go there. Geordie thinks that only wild animals come here to drink water, and he is satisfied.

It was quiet in the valley. Geordie rolled up his trousers and walked down to the shallows. The wind stirred the branches that covered his head. The branches swayed, and the sunlight fell on his head. Geordie liked the feeling that his head was hot and his feet were cool. The wind died down. The branches that swayed also fell back. He crossed the water to the other side. As he was moving through the reeds that grew on the bank, he remembered that he had a knife in his pocket. He had been planning to build a waterwheel ever since last Christmas. So he had a knife.

He had never made a windmill himself. Oliver, the son of Grandma Hatto, had always done it for him. Uncle Oliver was a sailor and often went to sea. When he came back from the sea, he would always make a little windmill for Geordie. Now Geordie was no longer dependent on Oliver and was trying to make his own. The way Oliver made a windmill was indelible in his eyes. Oliver had said with a stern face, “You have to put the wheel at an angle and it will turn right.”

The water was quite shallow. But the current was strong. His waterwheel was spinning smoothly in the current. He also sighed as he watched the waterwheel. Then he threw himself on the sand near the reeds and watched the waterwheel spinning. The waterwheel blades were also jumping over each other and spinning around. It was very interesting to watch the waterwheel.

The sunlight falling on him was like a blanket covering him. He lay down and watched the little arahant spinning. The little arahant's spinning seemed to mesmerize him. As the little arahants floated and sank in the water, his eyelashes slowly fluttered. As the little arahant spun, a long line of people followed behind.