Zhu Shijun had never been certain about the type of rice Xiao Xian was growing. It wasn't until the rice matured and began to form ears that he could tell at a glance it was not common. The old man couldn't contain his curiosity; he went into the city to consult with the oldest expert he could find. After comparing samples, it was confirmed that the rice Xiao Xian grew was genuinely Indian rice. This meant that Xiao Xian either had incredible luck or truly possessed a substantial talent for farming.
"Are you saying, like what Uncle San Gouzi's family does, scattering some chemicals in the field to poison all the insects?" Xiao Xian shook her head dismissively.
"Grandpa also thought of some solutions, but their effects weren't very good," Zhu Shijun's own acre also suffered from pest damage, and although the prevention efforts meant only losing a third of the yield—trivial for someone who farmed part-time—others in the village could not sustain that kind of loss.
