Memory is a locked drawer, a collection of those who dusty.Run around in a strange city, you can recall up only a shadow of the home.  Mixed with a dash of cold spring spouting from the beginning on the new yellow about and to the slopes.Brook streams began to sound, a few birds across the sky, off a thick jacket, countryside in the spring belongs to the kids.  Pound bird nest almost rural children the best childhood memories.Surly childhood together with the young bird, has become an eternal past.Every holiday weekend, we have a few people to form a group, stole up the roof of someone’s home, just to be out of that nest of baby birds have not had time to put into the embrace of nature, we would be satisfied in order unceremoniously “pet”.Sometimes adults will be holding a stick after us, cursing us is imp.Of course, we are also not to be outdone, you one, I just, cried out, “Hill Doll”.In fact, in retrospect, shouting between adults and children Shanwa, the show has become a unique village.  One year, I do not know how many cubs bird flying out from those birds nest.However, those days pound bird nest fell from memory slipped away.Grow up, we have no wings flew out of the mountain home, gradually, who can remember that period of childhood innocence Love it?  When the last wisp of smoke still filled the hills when the summer has unwittingly put moonlight shines in every corner of the country.Cattle children learn in ditches the frogs to sing, quietly wind blowing from the horns, lambs crying child looking for his mother.  Quiet beauty of yellow ground, summer countryside is green.Old houses lie on the lush large trees, corn slopes on both sides of steadily higher and higher, and even that shovel crop of another crop of weeds to be the rebirth of the spirit blossom light green on the slopes.Majoring across, to pig picking grass boys sang no song accent, prompting people to hide large sickle smile standing on the hillside can not afford to pick up the waist.  Summer, village of large trees, those things always have a bunch of kids to the old man about the liberation of.Lord generations have always said good summer, like children, we say good summer, very comfortable.  The farmers pipe gently knock, autumn begins with the back of a bull came down to the Loess Plateau.  Autumn is I have a deep fascination.Opposite the house is a huge almond groves, go out every morning, always see a style yellow.I had that piece of nostalgia alone almond groves of yellow.Autumn breeze, and yellow leaves drifting down from the branches, seems to have undying resentment of the village.  Old trees in the village is the only permanent and guardian, it witnessed a number of groups of young people to go out of business, but also witnessed generations of arable land were buried in homeland.However, in addition to entering the woodcutter, and generations who are not concerned about the patch of ancient forest.People only know that when that piece of almond groves of yellowing is harvest time.Since then, the cows shaking his tail rack door car out of the circle, holding out his hands dark farmers began to harvest a year of joy.And that the earth does, but the harvest with a load of old farmer carrying.  Prince is a winter snow season.Sichuan snow old house hillside lay still, as if a deaf man.If fast-paced city to give people an incentive, then the township winter leisurely pace is slow human mind relaxant.  Farmers shed labor for a year of fatigue, walked confidently on the warm Tukang from the ground, while the children slapstick side to help his mother wrapped yarn.The farmer is most looking forward to the New Year.Full attention to the rich, the poor have poor head, said, bumper harvest paste couplets, the Slam propped up ahead of next year’s Jubilee in mind the fields sown seeds of this farmer, it is a native of child.  In fact, I was just thinking through the impetuous secretly returned for a homeland.Out of the mountains, got lost childhood.Could there be tie him share memories, who will not turn round, and even home turned into a melancholy..  Ten years ago, I put all the children were hidden in the home of dreams.Today, I miss hometown on the poor only those fragmented memories.However, after a decade casual, the home still do not know whether I can remember from that wandered off from home miles?  Yellow Earth as human, more like life.Over time, it will disappear the original face.Even if you were to look at how to, those who have the good, but also reveal the untold bitterness.  A collection left unattended, the memory of the loose-leaf binding to a time of old books.In this bustling city read carefully the loss of the past, and I, which in the end is to go where it went?