“Mr. White” and the “Black Warrior”

This book tells a heartwarming story， as well as a story about companionship and guardianship. “Mr. White” is an old and large white goose， and the “Black Warrior” is a sturdy but gentle Chinese pastoral dog with black fur all over. The author uses a warm tone， writing from the perspective of a child， “I，” to portray the mutual companionship， affection， and inseparable bond between “Mr. White，” the “Black Warrior，” and the grandfather. This not only shows the animals wit， courage， and love but also reveals the authors insight into the true meaning of life.

Liang Xiaosheng

A renowned contemporary author， Liang Xiaosheng has worked for over a decade each at Beijing Film Studio and China Childrens Film Studio and has been at Beijing Language and Culture University since 2002. His literary works cover a wide range of genres， including novels， essays， social commentary， films， and TV dramas， with a keen focus on the reading situation of Chinese children and adolescents.

“Mr. White” is a goose， to be exact， a big white goose.

My grandfather once pointed at it and said to me， “I guess it weighs three or four pounds more than an average goose.” Actually， you can tell without weighing， and it is much bigger than a common goose.

At that time， it was coming back from outside， walking with steady steps， holding its head high， stretching its long neck straight， like a person with a lot of style taking a stroll.

It was already 26 years old.

A 26-year-old goose is a very old goose. According to my grandfather， an average domestic goose， even if the owner takes good care of it， can only live up to 20 years， proving how much my grandfather loves it.

My grandfather did not raise it as a pet， but regarded it as an old friend， supporting it with respect and gratitude. Indeed， my grandfather was fulfilling a duty of care， just as one would for another person. It had stopped laying eggs a long time ago.

After it stopped laying eggs， my grandfather treated it even better and began calling it “Mr. White.”

I curiously asked my grandfather， “Grandpa， why do you call it ‘Mr. White？”

Grandpa replied slowly and deliberately， “You know， I sometimes feel bored and want someone to talk to. After your grandma passed away， there werent many people around me， so I gradually got used to chatting with it. A proper conversation requires a proper way of addressing， right？ Though its just a goose， I still need a name to address it.”

“But why ‘Mr. White？ Wouldnt ‘Old White suffice？”

Grandpa laughed， stroking his beard， “Of course， that would work too. Whatever I call it probably makes no difference to it. But if we convert its age to human years， its much older than me， and I prefer to address it with respect. Plus， look at its demeanor. Doesnt it resemble a well-informed and respectable old gentleman？ I think it fully deserves the title ‘Mr.”

After hearing Grandpas explanation， I looked at the goose again and truly saw it as a venerable old gentleman. Afterward， I also started calling it “Mr. White.”

Grandpa also told me that “Mr. White” has made a tangible contribution to our family --  ever since it grew from a gosling to a goose capable of laying eggs， my dad was able to eat a large goose egg every day from elementary school until he graduated high school.

“Would your dad have been so healthy otherwise？ He got good nutrition from the start！”

When my grandpa praised “Mr. White，” his gratitude was palpable， like reminiscing about a respected old friends honorable past.

However， I noticed an inconsistency and asked skeptically， “Grandpa， isnt that wrong？ Calling a male goose ‘Mr. is fine， but its clearly a female goose.”

I didnt ask out of doubt. I never doubted my grandpas words， as he never told me unfounded stories. I genuinely didnt understand.

Grandpa laughed， patting my head， said， “You dont understand， and your dad probably doesnt either. If we deeply respect a female elder in our Chinese etiquette， its permissible to address her as Mr. Remember， thats knowledge.”

“Black Warrior” is a typical rural mongrel， entirely black without a hint of another color， shiny black. Its not even four years old yet， large but not fierce. Its a long-legged dog， which makes it resemble a black panther， looking very cool.

When my grandpa found it， it was just able to eat solid food.

People advised my grandpa not to keep it， assuming it was born to a stray dog.

Grandpa said， “I found it. If I hadnt brought it home， it would have died， right？”

Precisely because it was different from a typical domestic dog， Grandpa grew even more fond of it and decided to give it a home and become its owner.

When it grew into a big dog， one day it returned soaking wet， as if it had caused some major trouble outside. It lay on its usual grass mat， not daring to look grandpa in the eye.

As Grandpa was pondering what happened， some adults and children arrived， and one of the kids pointed at the dog， exclaiming， “Thats the dog！”

It seemed even more uneasy， hiding behind grandpa.

Grandpas heart sank， and he became visibly tense， bowing and clasping his hands as he asked， “What mischief has my ‘Blackie gotten into？”

“Blackie” or “Black Little One” were the names Grandpa used for our family dog.

Unexpectedly， the childs mother immediately told the child， “Kneel down and kowtow！”

It turned out that the child had accidentally slipped into a pond. The pond was over two meters deep， and the child couldnt swim， almost sinking. In that critical moment， “Blackie” leaped into the pond， grabbed the childs collar with its teeth， and saved the child.

In the evening， the childs father also came， bringing Grandpa half a rack of pork ribs.

When Grandpa talked about “Blackies” deed， stroking his beard and laughing， he said， “For that half month， I basked in its glory. Both of us had meat to eat every day！”

Grandpa only told me this story once， as if there wasnt much else to say about “Blackie.” But when it came to “Mr. White，” Grandpa had plenty to say， going on and on about “Mr. White” this and “Mr. White” that， as if there were endless memories.

At that moment， looking at “Blackie，” I indignantly said， “Grandpa， youre biased！”

Grandpa asked in surprise， “How am I biased？”

I said， “You call our old goose ‘Mr. White and our dog ‘Black Little One. Isnt that favoritism？”

Grandpa paused， then patiently explained， “My grandson accuses me of favoritism， but thats unfair！ Both of them are my companions. Without either， my days would be less joyful. ‘Mr. White holds a seniority， being equivalent to 120--130 years in human age. I dont know how else to address him！ As for ‘Black Little One， its not even four years old. Compared to ‘Mr. White， its like a great-grandson， a son of a grandsons generation.”

I couldnt help but interrupt Grandpa， suggesting， “Then lets call it ‘Black Panther！”

Grandpa shook his head， saying， “No， that sounds too fierce. Its not fierce at all， very gentle in nature.”

I then suggested， “How about ‘Black Warrior？”

Grandpa pondered and replied， “Hmm， that sounds much better， but I might find it hard to get used to the new name.”

In the end， my defense of “Black Little One” was in vain. Grandpa continued to affectionately call it “Black Little One” but never “Blackie” again， while I started calling it “Black Warrior” from then on.

My grandfather was a farmer from a rural area in Cangzhou， Hebei Province， and his grandfather was also a local farmer. My dad and I are the son and grandson of a farmer.

But my grandfather wasnt an ordinary farmer; his father was a renowned martial artist among the farmers in the Cangzhou region. Ive heard others say that my grandfather was also highly skilled in martial arts， but I never saw him spar with anyone. He just persisted in practicing his martial arts routine every morning and evening to keep himself strong.

Have I mentioned “our family” several times already？

“Our family” is no longer “my family.”

My parents are now residents of the county town， and I am a child registered there. In other words， “our family” refers to my grandparents home in the countryside， the home where my dad and I used to live. I dont have any memories of my grandma， as she passed away when I was very young.

After my grandmas passing， Grandpa stopped farming， except for half an acre for vegetables and some medicinal herbs for personal use， leasing out the rest of the land.

Now， Grandpa is a beekeeper， mainly sustaining himself through the sale of honey.

Sometimes， my dad gives him money， but most of the time， he refuses it.

Grandpa says， “I dont lack money. I eat the vegetables I grow and use my herbs for minor illnesses. I dont smoke， drink， or even have the habit of drinking tea， so I dont have many expenses. The money I earn is enough for me. For young folks with a child in the county town， earning money is not easy， what with mortgage payments and your childs education. You have more expenses， so stop giving me money.”

My dad is very filial and often visits Grandpa in the countryside with food， clothing， and other necessities， usually bringing me along.

Grandpa has a special attachment to the land. When my grandma was alive， farming was a joint effort between her and Grandpa. After her passing， farming became the activity that most reminded him of her. I think missing a loved one without any hope of seeing them again must be profoundly saddening. I guess thats the main reason grandpa leased out the land.

Grandpa loves growing flowers， even more so since becoming a beekeeper. Except in winter， our familys yard is often ablaze with vibrant flowers. Particularly the various roses， which have turned the surrounding walls into a flower display. During the honey collection season， Grandpa places a few beehives in our yard for easy access by the bees.

Most of the hives need to be moved regularly to where flowers are abundant， though not too far away. Within a ten-mile radius， with vegetables， fruit， trees， and wildflowers blooming in succession， theres enough for grandpas bees to collect nectar. The harvested honey is regularly collected by a honey processing factory. When moving the beehives， the factory sends a truck and helpers， so my grandpa hardly gets tired. Most of the time， he doesnt stay at home but near the beehives， living in a tent. “Mr. White” and “Black Warrior” are always with Grandpa. Wherever he is， they are there too. Sometimes， when grandpa leaves the field base to run errands on his motorcycle， “Mr. White” and “Black Warrior” jointly take up the duty of guarding the base. “Black Warrior” is playful and often forgets his duty， wandering away from the base. “Mr. White”， on the contrary， is loyal to his duty. When Grandpa is away， it never leaves the base. Upon spotting strangers， it spreads his wings， lifts its head high， and emits warning honks， forbidding strangers to approach the tent， honey buckets， or beehives. “Black Warriors” ears are sharp， and one can hear “Mr. Whites” honks from afar， prompting it to quickly run back to the base. Then， “Mr. White” would scold “Black Warrior，” even feigning pecks at it as if reprimanding. I have witnessed such scenes while hiding inside the tent.

“Mr. White” and the “Black Warrior”

Liang Xiaosheng

Shandong Education Press

January 2021

28.00 （CNY）