"Why did they have to cross the marsh, and come over to this side? Is this side really better than the other? Don't sweet potatoes and cogongrass grow over there, too? Then, why did they have to cross the marsh? Couldn't they have taken an easier route around? Was it worth that much hardship and the deaths of so many people?"

　　The endless questions of the infamous young halfbreed with the webbed feet and hands annoyed him. He spit out a mouthful of saliva and rose from the grass, remembering to brush the bits of grass from his pants. He walked toward the herd of oxen grazing with lowered heads in the distance.

　　The web-footed young halfbreed gazed after the man in black until his black eyes began to smart. He watched as that man entered the dim graveyard. He ... Was he that young halfbreed? What was his name? Why was he sitting there? -- Let's call him "Little Halfbreed". As for his sitting there ... Let's just say he was sitting there watching the oxen and sheep -- The story-telling is always interrupted by the young fellow who has an all-consuming thirst for knowledge and impatient temperament. -- That's also one of the ways to pass on tradition from one generation to another.

　　 It is getting dark. Instinctively, the oxen and sheep draw closer. The mournful blue eyes of the cows are filled with motherly concern. They arch their backs slightly. With their foreheads, the calves begin to butt at the udders of their mothers and suck noisily .

　　 "My grandfather told me ... Grandfather died many years ago," I tell my runny- nosed grandson. "When I was your age, I came here with my grandfather to herd oxen and sheep. He told me a lot of things. The sun was whiter than it is now, but the marsh was almost the same. We tied strings of shiny, flame-red locusts to the stems of three-edged grass. Oil oozed out when we cooked the locusts over the fire."

　　My grandson pops a well-cooked locust into his mouth.

　　According to my grandfather, Little Halfbreed would nod his head vigorously, as if he were shaking off the last drops of urine. He sat on that spot every day at dawn. To the south was the marsh with reddish sludge; to the east was the grassland; to the west, grassland and cultivated fields; and to the north, a small village. On the grassland, there were three willow trees, their branches hanging dejectedly like the heads of three people at a funeral. Little Halfbreed sat there waiting for "him" -- a fellow slim as a black fish. Just as the sun was rising on the horizon, the thin fellow would appear from that graveyard overgrown with trees and bushes. He played with Little Halfbreed and told the story about crossing the marsh.