With it, that distant plot of land can finally be irrigated too. This year's harvest should be decent

With it, that distant plot of land can finally be irrigated too. This year's harvest should be decent.

That plot of land at the east end of the village, how many years have you longed for it? Far from home, even further from the water source. Water pipes couldn't be pulled there, water couldn't be carried there; you were completely at the mercy of the weather. In good years, you could harvest about 30%; in drier years, nothing at all. Every time you passed by, you'd glance at it a few more times and sigh—such good land, just no water.

This year is different. You brought the machine to the edge of the field, laid the pipes, and brought water from afar. The first time you thoroughly irrigated that plot, you squatted by the edge, watching for a long time. The water seeped into the cracked soil, making a hissing sound; the seedlings straightened from their wilted state, their leaves gradually unfurling. You knew, that land had come alive.

With it, that distant plot of land can finally be irrigated too. Not just irrigated, but thoroughly irrigated, fully irrigated, irrigated to the same good condition as the land in front of your house. The corn has grown to its full height, the wheat is ripe for irrigation, and the beans are bulging. Land that used to be left fallow or only haphazardly cultivated can now be meticulously prepared; land that could only yield 30% of its harvest can now yield 100%.

"This year's harvest will be good"—this phrase, once just hope, is now a source of confidence. An extra harvest from another plot of land means more security for the family; more security means more peace of mind. When you tally up the accounts at the end of the year, you'll find that this machine has already recouped its investment.

With it, that distant plot of land can finally be irrigated, and this year's harvest will be good. From today onward, you are no longer a passerby on that land, but its master.