This is the story of a mountain village in the United States. Nestled in the midst of a group of towering mountains, there was a village in the valley that housed thousands of residents. There was a large rock on the hillside that the inhabitants were familiar with all their lives. When viewed from a reasonable distance, the rock resembled a human face. From a reasonable distance, it resembled a human face, but it also looked like a colossal giant. It had a forehead that was about a hundred feet high and huge lips that would have roared thunderous words if it could speak. When I got too close, I couldn't make out the outline of the huge face, and could only see a messy pile of stones. The farther away I got, the more the eyes and nose resembled the face of a human being with divine features. The farther away I got, the more I felt that the face of the giant rock was really alive.
One evening, a mother and her young son were sitting in the doorway of a peasant house, looking at the Face of the Giant Rock and talking. The child's name was Ernest.
His mother told him a story that she had told her when she was younger than Ernesto. The story was that someday in the future there would be a child born in this neighborhood, and that child would be destined to become a great and noble person, whose face, when he grew up, would resemble the face of a giant rock.
His mother's stories never left his mind. After a hard day's work, he would stare at it for hours. Eventually, he began to feel as if the huge face was responding to his gaze, giving him a smile of admiration.
At that time, a rumor spread through the valley that a great man who resembled the "Face of Giant Rock," which had been prophesied long ago, had finally appeared. Some years before this, a young man had left the valley and started a business in a distant port town, saving up a small fortune. His name was Gathergold (gold raking). When Gathergold became so rich that it would take him a hundred years just to calculate his wealth, he remembered the valley where he was born and decided that he wanted to return there to finish his life, so he sent a building engineer to have a mansion built.
Eventually, the mansion was completed. Mr. Gathergold was to arrive at sunset with dignity. Ernest was deeply moved by the thought that he was about to witness a great man, a noble man, a man of prophecy.
Finally, Mr. Gathergold arrived. I could see the face of a small, old man in a four-horse carriage. The people shouted enthusiastically and spoke loudly.
But Ernest turned his eyes away sadly and looked up at the giant rock. But Ernest turned away sadly and looked up at the huge rock, and through the thickening mist, he could clearly see the magnificent nose of the eye, golden in the setting sunlight. The sight cheered him up. The gentle lips seemed to say, "Don't worry, Ernest, the man will come.
The years went by. Ernest had become a young man. After a hard day's work, the valley dwellers saw nothing noteworthy in his life, except that he was alone, staring at the "face of the giant rock" and lost in meditation.
By this time, Mr. Gathergold was dead. The people of the valley had forgotten all about him.
Then again, a man who was born in the valley had applied for the army many years ago, and after many hard fought battles, he was now coming back as a famous commander. The residents of the valley decided to welcome back the famous soldier with courtesy guns and a formal feast. And this time, they were assured that the likeness of the "Face of Giant Rock" had indeed appeared, and they welcomed him with enthusiasm.
On the day of the grand celebration, Ernest, along with the rest of the valley, quit their jobs and came to the forest feast.
"The General! General! was heard. Shh, be quiet, old Blood and Thunder is about to make a speech. Then he got up to congratulate him. Ernest looked at him. Ah, but "this is no man of prophecy either," Ernest sighed to himself. Do we have to wait much longer? But, "Don't worry, Ernest. Don't worry, Ernest, he will come," the giant rock's face seemed to say.
The years passed quickly and quietly. Ernest was now a middle-aged man. Little by little, unnoticed by others, he was being recognized by the people of the valley. He worked for his bread as he had always done. He was a lowly man, but there was not a day that went by that the world was not better off because he was alive. He was always extending his blessings to his neighbors. Almost unconsciously, he became a preacher of the Way. His pure and simple thoughts came in the form of good deeds and flowed in the form of language. It influenced people's lives and created their lives. Perhaps those who listened to him would never have thought that their neighbor Ernest was anything more than an ordinary man.
As time passed and the minds of the people of the valley sobered, they acknowledged the error of imagining a similarity between the fierce physiognomy of General Blood and Thunder and the gentle face of the mountainside. This time, however, there was one politician.
He was so eloquent that no matter what he addressed, he made evil seem right and right seem evil. His eloquence finally persuaded the people of his country to elect him as president. His admirers were deeply impressed and grand arrangements were made to receive this famous gentleman. All the people stopped their work and gathered along the roadside to watch him pass. Among these people was Ernest. Despite his repeated disappointments, he was always willing to trust anything that seemed beautiful or good. He was always open-minded. So, once again, he went out to see the likeness of the Face of the Giant Rock.
An uncovered four-wheeled carriage pulled by four white horses arrived. In the carriage sat a famous politician with a big face.
But Ernest turned away, depressed and almost despondent. Of all his many disappointments, this was the saddest.
But he said, "Behold, I am here. I have waited longer than you. I've waited longer than you. But I won't get tired of waiting. Don't worry. The man of the prophecy will appear.
The years had brought gray hair, wrinkles on his face and deep lines on his cheeks. But he did not grow old unnecessarily. Ernest is no longer a nobody. Without seeking it out, without being pedantic, many people have come to admire him from afar. As they talked together, Ernest's face unconsciously lit up and illuminated them. The guests returned home, full of contentment. As they walked up the valley, they looked up at the "face of the giant rock" and thought that they had seen someone like this face somewhere, but could not remember where.
A poet came to this land. He, too, was born in this valley, but though he had spent most of his life far away, the mountains he had grown accustomed to seeing as a child often reared their snow-capped peaks in his poems. The "Face of the Giant Rock" was not forgotten. The poet had praised it in his lyric poems. The poem was so majestic that it could have come from the lips of the "face of the giant rock" itself.
The poet's work had found its way to Ernest. He sat down at the entrance of the peasant house and read it. As he read each soul-stirring verse, he raised his eyes and gazed at the huge face.
"Oh, my noble friend," he called to the face of the giant rock. "Isn't this poet a bit like you?
The Face of the Giant Rock seemed to smile, but did not answer a word.
One day, the poet heard a rumor about Ernest and took a train to see him.
He and Ernest had a talk. The poet had been in the company of witty and wise people, but he had never been in the company of a man like Ernest. His thought and feeling came very naturally and unhinderedly. He expressed great truths simply, and made them accessible. Ernest, on the other hand, was deeply moved by the poet.
"Who are you, sir? Who are you, my gifted guest?" he said.
The poet pointed to the book that Ernest was reading. You have read these poems," he said. Then you know me. -I wrote them.
Ernest stared into the poet's eyes and nose. Then he turned to the "face of the giant rock" and looked at his guest with an uncomprehending expression. He shook his head and sighed. He shook his head and sighed.
Why are you melancholy?" the poet asked.
Ernest answered. I have been waiting for the prophecy to be fulfilled. When I read these poems, I was hoping that you would fulfill the prophecy.
The poet replied with a slight smile.
Mr. Ernest, I am by no means worthy to be represented by the benevolent and majestic figure you see over there.
As had long been his custom, Ernest was to preach to his neighbors outside after dark. He and the poet went there, arm in arm, talking. It was a small corner in the mountains, with gray despair behind. Ernest climbed up to the natural pulpit.
He began to speak. What came out of this teacher's mouth was the language of life. As he listened, the poet cried out with an irresistible impulse, "Ernest's life and character are the noblest tone of poetry that has ever been written.
'Behold! Ernest is the copy of 'The Face of the Giant Rock'!
The people were astonished and stared at each other. Then they realized that what the poet had said was true. The prophecy had been fulfilled. But when Ernest had finished his speech, he took the poet by the arm and walked slowly toward the house. He hoped, as he always did, that someone wiser and more virtuous than he would appear soon, with a figure resembling the "face of a giant rock.
