At the time of sowing and when the beans were ripe, scarecrows would stand up in the fields. Most of them wore old straw hats and tattered clothes. Some raised their arms as if they were throwing something hard; Holding a bamboo pole, he swung hard at the suspicious target.

Sometimes the weather is hot and sometimes not, and sometimes the sun doesn't come out, but they have to wear that old straw hat and don't take it off at night. Are they afraid that the moon and stars will tan themselves? Not so. The main reason is that the greedy birds, such as sparrows, turtledoves, and magpies, will see their true colors clearly and say, "Hmph, if you want to scare us, you don't even have eyes, ears, and noses, so we are not as good as us. You can run and fly. Hmph, treat us as fools and blinds, and you are the fools and blinds." After speaking, he decided that the ripe crops also had their own portion, so he ate them, and when he was full, he flapped his wings. He also jumped on the shoulders of the "fool", chatted and made fun of them.

The scarecrow in my field, like the scarecrow in other people's fields, always wears the old clothes worn by my father and a torn straw hat. No matter the day or night, the scarecrow stands alone at the head of the field, guarding the Our crops and days.

My father is hardworking and poor, but he is kind and has a soft heart. He couldn't bear to let his wife, who was busy and sewed clothes and shoes, wear old clothes and a torn straw hat, standing in the field in the image of a scarecrow, exposed to the sun and rain, and to be laughed at by birds. He couldn't bear to let his children start life as scarecrows, and he wouldn't let them expose their childhood to the scorching sun. So, at that time, in my hometown, he resolutely made the prototype of the scarecrow.

The fields guarded by fathers are shrouded in rich atmosphere and artistic conception. Their worn-out clothes and straw hats make people feel a kind of hard work and poverty; their persistence, loyalty and accustomedness make people feel warm and peaceful.

Once, on the way home from school, I suddenly saw several real people and scarecrows appearing in the field at the same time, all like my father. A father was hunched over weeding the beans on the slopes. It was the real father, and I saw him undulating and moving in the bean fields. There are also three other fathers, all wearing a ragged straw hat and their father's tattered clothes, one standing on the east side of the rice field, one standing in the middle of the rice field, and one standing on the west end of the rice field, all of them holding bamboo poles in their hands to drive bird movement.

A bitter feeling suddenly surged up in my childish heart. My lonely father, my laboring father. In a trance, I felt that all the fields were my lonely father, all my toiling fathers, and all the fields were my father in shabby clothes.

Suddenly, my eyes got wet. I can't bear to see my father like this. My father, even if he incarnates into three, even if he incarnates innumerable, is it all this toil and loneliness? With tears in my eyes, I walked up to the three scarecrows—the three fathers, bowed to them one by one, and greeted them softly: Good work, Daddy.

Don't forget, the scarecrow in the field, our father, our toiled father, the father in old clothes, the father in an old straw hat, the father who was blown by the cold wind and scorched by the scorching sun, the farther and farther we go, our agriculture father, our lonely father.

Whenever I see the birds flying around above my head, I can't help but want to ask them, do you remember those scarecrows? Remember our fathers? Do you remember those fathers standing in the fields who always held their hands up but never threw something powerful at you?

At the time of sowing and when the beans were ripe, scarecrows would stand up in the fields. Most of them wore old straw hats and tattered clothes. Some raised their arms as if they were throwing something hard; Holding a bamboo pole, he swung hard at the suspicious target.

Sometimes the weather is hot and sometimes not, and sometimes the sun doesn't come out, but they have to wear that old straw hat and don't take it off at night. Are they afraid that the moon and stars will tan themselves? Not so. The main reason is that the greedy birds, such as sparrows, turtledoves, and magpies, will see their true colors clearly and say, "Hmph, if you want to scare us, you don't even have eyes, ears, and noses, so we are not as good as us. You can run and fly. Hmph, treat us as fools and blinds, and you are the fools and blinds." After speaking, he decided that the ripe crops also had their own portion, so he ate them, and when he was full, he flapped his wings. He also jumped on the shoulders of the "fool", chatted and made fun of them.

The scarecrow in my field, like the scarecrow in other people's fields, always wears the old clothes worn by my father and a torn straw hat. No matter the day or night, the scarecrow stands alone at the head of the field, guarding the Our crops and days.

My father is hardworking and poor, but he is kind and has a soft heart. He couldn't bear to let his wife, who was busy and sewed clothes and shoes, wear old clothes and a torn straw hat, standing in the field in the image of a scarecrow, exposed to the sun and rain, and to be laughed at by birds. He couldn't bear to let his children start life as scarecrows, and he wouldn't let them expose their childhood to the scorching sun. So, at that time, in my hometown, he resolutely made the prototype of the scarecrow.

The fields guarded by fathers are shrouded in rich atmosphere and artistic conception. Their worn-out clothes and straw hats make people feel a kind of hard work and poverty; their persistence, loyalty and accustomedness make people feel warm and peaceful.

Once, on the way home from school, I suddenly saw several real people and scarecrows appearing in the field at the same time, all like my father. A father was hunched over weeding the beans on the slopes. It was the real father, and I saw him undulating and moving in the bean fields. There are also three other fathers, all wearing a ragged straw hat and their father's tattered clothes, one standing on the east side of the rice field, one standing in the middle of the rice field, and one standing on the west end of the rice field, all of them holding bamboo poles in their hands to drive bird movement.

A bitter feeling suddenly surged up in my childish heart. My lonely father, my laboring father. In a trance, I felt that all the fields were my lonely father, all my toiling fathers, and all the fields were my father in shabby clothes.

Suddenly, my eyes got wet. I can't bear to see my father like this. My father, even if he incarnates into three, even if he incarnates innumerable, is it all this toil and loneliness? With tears in my eyes, I walked up to the three scarecrows—the three fathers, bowed to them one by one, and greeted them softly: Good work, Daddy.

Don't forget, the scarecrow in the field, our father, our toiled father, the father in old clothes, the father in an old straw hat, the father who was blown by the cold wind and scorched by the scorching sun, the farther and farther we go, our agriculture father, our lonely father.

Whenever I see the birds flying around above my head, I can't help but want to ask them, do you remember those scarecrows? Remember our fathers? Do you remember those fathers standing in the fields who always held their hands up but never threw something powerful at you?