My house is five miles from Mount Yan, and I go to the mountain three or four times a year, as if I were meeting an acquaintance who is ten thousand miles away. In the winter of the first year of Taiding, I came to Mount Yan again with my guests Zhang Ziyao and Chen Shuxia with their respective servants, holding coverlets, bedclothes, staffs and shoes (that is to say, writing clothes, do not quite understand). During the daytime in winter, fallen leaves covered the earth. The guests saw a stone standing on the north mountain pass, like a fudo, bowed down, like a traveling monk himself carrying a quilt, the guests smiled slightly. At this time the sun shone directly in the southeast, and the mountain was as noble as it could be. Birds called to each other as if calling home those who lived on the mountain. The rocks rose up as if there were a ladder leaning against the eaves of a house, and under the eaves was a hollow cave of stone, in which a thousand people could be accommodated, and on the floor was deeded a stone ladder, like rotten wood. At the outer end of the stone eaves was a small tree only a foot high, hanging upside down on the wall, its leaves turning red from the frost, and the sight of the tramp flowers was a beautiful sight. There was a temple under the stone beam, and the monks in the temple made tea and served vegetarian wine, and the hosts and guests were drunk, and the moon was gone, and white clouds like running water floated in from the west. The fruit blown off by the wind fell on the tiles, bounced off the rocks and fell under the hut, came out of the collar (not quite understood) and fell on the fallen leaves on the ground, making a thumping sound like the sound of an earthly stone being struck. Light the lamps and look at each other without words. Midnight came, lying face to face on two beds, Ziyo still a little drunk, calling his servant, not knowing that his servant had already flooded under the rock