The beginning of the story of the Tang Dynasty's Imperial Son-in-Law: A rhinoceros comes knocki

Chapter 100 Inspecting the Rice Fields

On the third day after his uncle and aunt left, Wang Zhihuan woke up just as dawn was breaking.

Nothing important, but I slept so soundly and refreshed that lying down would just be a waste of time.

He simply let go of all the trivial matters that were troubling him.

There are countless things in the world, and each has its own time; there's no need to force yourself to understand them all at once.

"The boat will straighten itself when it reaches the bridge; when soldiers come, generals will block them; when water comes, earth will dam it." Perhaps this is the safest way to live.

When he lifted the covers and got out of bed, Gray and Black, who were curled up on the pillow, were startled awake by the slight movement. They both looked up and glanced at him, but still sleepy, they immediately buried their heads back down, curled up into a small ball, and fell into a deep sleep.

Smoke was already rising from the kitchen.

Zhou Xia had already been sitting in front of the stove cooking rice porridge.

This child has always been diligent. He gets up before dawn every day to change the dressings and treat Uncle Zhou's son, then starts a fire to cook. He does this every day without fail.

Having spent so much time together, he had completely integrated into the village and regarded it as his true home.

Wang Zhihai repeatedly told him that he didn't have to get up so early, and the boy always obediently agreed. The next day, he did the same thing, not slacking off at all.

"Master." Zhou Xia heard footsteps, turned around and saw it was him, and silently stepped aside to make room for him in front of the stove.

"Mm." Wang Zhi scooped up a ladle of water and washed his face, his voice warm and gentle like the morning sun. "Let's go to the fields today. The rice has already started to head. Come with me."

Zhou Xia obediently agreed, raised her hand and ladled out two bowls of warm rice porridge, placing them on the stone table in the courtyard.

The master and disciple sat facing each other and quietly finished their breakfast, as the saying goes, "one should not speak while eating or sleeping."

Zhou Xia cleaned up the dishes neatly and efficiently, then picked up her medicine kit.

He was going to the city for a follow-up medical appointment in the afternoon, so he planned to visit Daoyou in the morning and then head straight to the county town.

The two stepped out of the backyard gate one after the other.

Ah Huang, who was resting under the jujube tree, got up when he heard the sound, wagging his fluffy tail and swaying his rump gently, following closely behind the two.

The rice paddies in the backyard have already taken on a completely new look.

In just half a month, the once lush green rice seedlings that spread across the fields have become laden with heavy ears of rice.

A gentle morning breeze blows, and waves of rice ripple along the ridges, while the rustling of leaves echoes endlessly, stretching from our feet all the way to the foot of the distant green mountains—a scene both tender and vibrant.

Wang Zhihuan squatted on the edge of the field, gently parted the lush rice leaves, and pinched a plump rice ear.

The rice grains were mostly filled with grains. He gently stroked the ear of rice with his fingertips. The grains were plump and firm, arranged in a pleasingly sparse manner.

These rice ears were exceptionally long, much longer than the millet ears planted by Old Zhang in the next field. They felt heavy in the hand, causing the slender stalks to bend slightly.

He bent down to examine it closely, silently counting the numbers.

The first plant has eight branches, each branch forming a spike, with spikes over five inches long.

The second plant has nine branches.

The last plant had a full ten branches, with the ears of grain drooping heavily, almost touching the field surface.

"How many plants are there per acre?" he muttered to himself, squatting down and calculating silently.

Based on the current rice planting spacing in Zhuangzi, there are approximately 8,000 to 10,000 rice seedlings per mu (unit of land area).

Each plant typically has six to nine branches, each branch bearing one ear of grain, with each ear containing eighty to one hundred grains.

Roughly estimated, this season's rice yields at least three bushels per acre.

A harvest of three bushels of grain would have been an astonishing figure during the Zhenguan era.

In the best paddy fields of Guanzhong, if millet is grown in a good year with favorable weather, the yield per mu (unit of land area) is only 1.2 shi (unit of dry measure), which is already considered a rare bumper year.

In ordinary dry land, a yield of seven or eight bushels per mu is the norm. But the rice paddy in his hands yields more than three mu of ordinary farmland per mu.

Wang Zhihai raised his hand to brush the dirt off his palm, slowly stood up, and a faint smile unconsciously appeared on his lips.

I know in my heart that this estimate is already extremely conservative.

Hanyou 73.

This name holds his unique memories of his past life.

In his past life, he would scroll through short videos to pass the time and accidentally came across a video of an agricultural blogger filming in the fields.

The blogger, tanned and shiny, held up a full ear of rice and introduced it to the camera, his words clear and resonant.

At the time, he thought it was just ordinary popular science. After transmigrating here and unlocking the system, he happened to come across this kind of rice variety, so he exchanged for it.

To avoid being too abrupt and arousing suspicion, he deliberately concealed this advanced name, and only said to the outside world that it was Champa rice from the south.

Everyone knows that rice from the south has a high yield and matures early, so this statement is reasonable and no one will delve into it or question it.

Standing on the edge of the field now, gazing at the heavy waves of rice, he truly understood that what that blogger had said back then was by no means an exaggeration.

When these superior seeds are planted in the fertile soil of Guanzhong, they seem to grow even more vigorously and rapidly than in the videos.

Of course, this is just a feeling. The actual situation is quite different from that of modern times.

Because neither the fertilization nor the soil fertility can compare to modern times, this rice variety can yield more than ten shi per mu.

"Master!"

A loud shout came from the distant field ridge.

Old Zhang, with a hoe on his shoulder, trousers rolled up to his knees, and calves covered in half-dried mud, hurried over.

The hoe swayed slightly on his shoulder, and the morning light shone on his deeply lined face, revealing the wrinkles clearly, yet radiating a simple and honest warmth.

"The farm owner has also come to see the rice paddies? I was just about to go to the farm to find you!"

He planted the hoe firmly on the ridge of the field, his tone full of joy, "The rice in that improved field to the north is growing even stronger than here, you should go and take a look!"

"Let's go," Wang Zhihuan replied casually.

The fields to the north were saline-alkali land that he had improved by spreading lime in the spring.

Previously, the soil in this area was acidic and compacted, making it difficult for anything to grow, and it was almost abandoned.

After the soil was improved with lime and turned over and dried for half a month, rice seedlings were finally transplanted and sown.

Now, this entire field is the best-growing place in the whole village.

The rice stalks were as thick as a child's fingers, and the heavy ears of rice pressed the branches into rounded arcs, a scene of abundant harvest everywhere you looked.

Wang Zhihuan squatted down again and picked up several rice ears to examine them closely.

The rice ears here are half an inch longer than those in the backyard, and the grains are densely packed together, plump and full, without any empty or shriveled gaps.

If you count them at random, each plant has a steady eleven branches, and every single one of them is like that.

He reached out and gently supported the drooping ears of grain. The heavy touch in his palm was reassuring and comforting, filling him with warmth.

"Master," Dazhuang, a young tenant farmer beside him, couldn't contain his curiosity and spoke in a low voice, "Can this rice really yield more than twice as much as millet? My father always says that others are exaggerating—"

"Dazhuang!" Old Zhang quickly and sternly stopped him, afraid that the child would speak recklessly and offend Wang Zhihuan.