This book is the memory of childhood， written by Zhang Huaicun， a famous painter， poet， and children’s literature writer. As a Chinese Tu born in Qinghai Province， the author’s childhood experience was both with the features of ethnic minorities and resonated with those of most children in rural areas. She is always running towards her ideal artistic world with a pure heart and her love for literature and art. The book is separated into three chapters： “The Scenery of Childhood，” “Between the Yellow River and the Thames，” and “The World Is Still Sunny”. They depict the author’s moods in different times and spaces.

Zhang Huaicun

Huaicun Zhang， a British-Chinese author from the Tu ethnic group， is a member of China Writers Association. She is a poet， a painter， and a children’s literature writer. She has successfully held solo art exhibitions in Hong Kong， Macao， Seoul， Tokyo， New York， and Paris. She has translated English picture books and poetry collections such as The Sun on Top of Tree， My Name Is Bob， and BBC Selected Poems for Children.

On the Train of Autumn

Zhang Huaicun

Hope Publishing House

March 2019

28.00 （CNY）

When I was a child， apart from the colorful flowers in my yard were white poplars as tall as the sky. During winter and summer vacations， when adults went to work， I would invite pals to my yard， where we climbed trees and played games in groups. Behind the yard was a hill. As households had dug for stones to build houses， a deep cave began to form on the hill. It wound through the hill， from one side to the other. This cave also became a good place for children to play and explore. Often， each of us had a wooden stick in our hands， wrapped some pieces of cotton or ragged clothes on top of the wooden sticks， and lit them. A group of children marched through the cave， singing and talking loudly. As time went on， the stones on the walls and ground were stripped bare by us. In addition to exploring， we used to play house in the cave. I used to spend my days like this until I left my hometown.

In front of the cave were piles of rocks and gravel， on which grew some grass and trees. My pals and I were often excited by a few blades of grass amongst the cracks of stones. We would also bring some seeds and scatter them in the cracks， and then waited every day. This kind of expectation virtually made it an interesting place for us. We nurtured our seeds with various methods， such as watering and fertilizing. Some pals peed on their seeds. Sometimes we waited for a whole day watching our seeds without going anywhere. Above us were the sky， the white clouds， and the sun. At our feet was the clean gravel， surrounded by sparse bushes at different heights. In particular， not far away were the white poplars in my yard， swaying with the afternoon breeze. The rustling sounded interesting and mysterious， which comforted our hearts.

We played house as if it were real life. As friends were of different ages， the elder ones acted as the parents， and the younger ones the children. After assignments were made， all of us obediently scattered around to perform our duties. Our ultimate goal was to make the “home” work. Someone collected firewood， someone set up the hearth， and someone dug potherbs. It took less than an hour to collect everything we needed. At this time， everyone must have been looking at me with expectation， as I was the only one who had the matchbox. Don’t underestimate such a small matchbox. In childhood， not many families had matches at home.

I took the matches out of my coat pocket， and my friends crowded around me in a second. A dozen pairs of eyes stared at the matchbox in my hands. I struck a match， and we lit firewood in the prepared stone hearth. Flames burned， and light smoke curled up. We stared at the flames with sparkling eyes. Our rosy faces were full of joy. After a while， the meal was ready. None of the “dishes” were true， nothing but gravel and crushed stones. But everyone took some and filled a stone bowl. We had the “meal” and made sounds as if we were having real vegetables， meat， and soup. After some actions， we lied on one side， looked at each other， and said， “How delicious！” Then we laughed happily.

The next game was climbing trees. We started with the bigger and thicker ones， and we climbed every one of them. After a round， everyone was out of breath， and someone even fell from a tree. Fortunately， the soil in my yard was soft， and no friend had been hurt. However， our arms， hands， and feet were scratched and even cut by the branches. Even so， we forgot ourselves in the joy. When it was time for dinner， we went back home to eat and sleep. The next day， we came out and repeated the games.

At dinner time， my yard returned to peace again. Under the light of the moonlit sky all that could be heard was the wind， Grandma’s thumbing prayer beats and chanting scriptures， Dad and Mum’s whispering， my sisters turning pages， and my heartbeat as I reclined into bed.

Our cat nestled quietly at my feet， purring and snoring. Moonlight emerged from the leaves of the tall white poplars in the yard and shone through the window into the room. The wall was speckled with spots， like stars twinkling and butterflies in the sky. A pair of hands gently touched my forehead. I heard Mum say， “My honey played all day and fell asleep in a sweaty mess.” The wind breezed by softly. There came Grandma’s clear voice chanting scriptures. In my dreams， I was looking forward to another fine day.