I immediately shot out of the shack. I suddenly felt very guilty. A few years ago I heard that it had become popular to collect pine seeds in the mountains. No small number of profiteers made a huge fortune out of it. This trade even has a special name: "nut snatcher" . In the long run, this is going to have a huge negative impact on the forest ecosystem. Collecting pine seeds in large quantities causes great damage to the bottom layer of the food chain. This in turn is going to lead to a sharp decline in the number of animals and plants which rely on pine seeds for sustenance. Natural pine seed sprouts will lose competitive power as there are too few and so a hundred years later, the Korean pine forest that is the pride of the Northeast China forest region will be no more.
When Grey Lady was not catching fish, she spent her time playing around. Every day at sunset, rosy clouds filled up the sky and that was when the Warm Lake was at its most beautiful time. The glorious pink clouds reflected on the water surface and the lake seemed as if it was full of pieces of glittering crimson lava. The otter was like a strand of turquoise silk blowing leisurely in the wind as it dived among the waves. Every time it shot out of the water and dived back in, it was accompanied by a soft splashing sound that left behind circular eddies of water. These eddies seemedlike golden water lilies that burst into bloom on the water surface, slowly opening into full-sized flower petals that gradually spread across the entire lake. Sometimes, the otter was in high spirits and it leapt and bounded across the lake, one moment flying through the air and the next diving into the lake's depths. At such times it seemed as if a child has decided to play skipping stones: plimp, plimp, plimp … one golden lily after another spread its petals on the surface of the lake. When the otter got carried away by its game, it liked to splash around in the lake, flipping somersaults, turning circles and performing an endless variety of stunts until the water surface was alive with flickering golden sparks. Whenever it got so absorbed in its game, it unintentionally put on a splendid display of its swimming skills. Its swimming skills were such that it even outflanked the so called "King of the water dance" , the seal. Whenever I saw it swim, I thought of the least weasel in the trees, I thought of a slithering snake in the grass, I thought of a flying bird in the sky and I thought of the fastest fish shooting through the water. What came through its naturally elegant demeanor is a leftover streak of juvenile mischievousness that was brimming with indescribable joy and happiness.
Everyone who lives by the water knows that the sound of the waves swaying in the wind and splashing against the shore at night is excellent for lulling one to sleep. Depending on the size of the waves, each sound has its own characteristic rhythm. While I was living at the observation station, I got into the habit of closing my eyes lightly as I was going to sleep and listening to the waves splashing against the shore outside. The waves would come one after another, licking at the gravelly surface and emanating a low and soft lapping tune. I used to think that this was a lullaby granted to me by Heaven. Whenever I listened to this splashing sound, I would always be sure to have a good night sleep. After some time I was even able to tell how the weather, the wind, the four seasons, and the water level affected the sound of this melody. My favourite tune was that played out in the early spring, when the ice had just started to melt but it would still be cold enough for the water droplets to coagulate back into tiny icicles.
In the early morning, as the spring breeze blew across the lake, the crystalline icicles stood straight on the shore like a line of fragile glass organs. As they swayed gently in the wind, they collided and emitted a pleasing tinkling sound, as if they were wind chimes. Occasionally, the tinkling was interspersed with a sudden cracking sound like the sound of the thin stem of a tall wine glass snapping. That was the sound of an icicle splintering and splashing into the water. On a calm cloudless morning, the longest and thinnest icicles were the first to start melting. As they collapsed, they drummed the water surface, similar to the deep but faint sound of water droplets dripping on rock in a mountain creek. As the sun became stronger, the drumming sound rapidly increased in intensity until it resembled the sound of the rain pattering down from the eaves. By evening, as the now bitingly cold wind rustled over the icicles, they coagulated into a crystal reed pipe. Wave upon wave came to fondle it, creating a clear and melodious tune that sounded as if it was played out by the light touch of countless soft fingers brushing against the icicles. This sound was somewhat similar to someone playing a lute made out of the purest ice. When you listened carefully, it seemed as if there was a half melted glacier with tiny icicles flowing between the ice crusts gurgling by your ear.
