The frogs in the rice paddies created a clamorous uproar, their calls filling the sky. At times they would suddenly fall silent, with only a lone croak or two accentuating the quiet; then, as if on cue, all the frogs would start croaking in unison once more. Lying on a cooling bed and listening to their calls—now urgent, now relaxed, now fast, now slow—was like listening to an orchestra.
The summer insects chirped endlessly as well. It was a noisy scene, yet it paradoxically made one appreciate the profound stillness. Out in the open countryside, it seemed there was nothing but the croaking of frogs and the singing of insects. This was especially true for Juhua, whose family lived alone by the mountainside, far from the clamor of other people.
The most annoying thing about summer nights wasn't the heat—Juhua's house was nestled by the mountainside with water nearby, so the evenings weren't too stuffy—it was the buzzing mosquitoes.
