My daughter brought home a few silkworms, which wiggled on mulberry leaves like tiny ants. Since there are no mulberry trees in the city, she buys cleaned leaves from the school gate every day and stores them in the fridge. From then on, my life, besides reading, writing, and raising my daughter and cat, also included the task of raising silkworms.
The little silkworms grew rapidly, changing every single day. Within a few days, they grew about half an inch long and turned grayish-white. As soon as mulberry leaves were scattered, they would swarm together, raising their heads and swallowing mouthful after mouthful along the edges of the leaves; the term "silkworm eating" is truly an accurate description.
As they ate, they continuously excreted green, granular droppings. I heard that some people once used them to make pillows, claiming they could clear heat and improve vision, though I am unsure of the elegant name used in traditional Chinese medicine. The silkworms gradually grew to the thickness of a finger, their backs becoming translucent. Finding a corner in the box, they began to spin silk, swaying their heads from side to side.
I remember hearing in my childhood that silkworms spin silk in whatever shape they are placed. When placed on cardboard, they form a thin layer of cocoon paper; in my hometown, people use it to sandwich patterns or shoe designs, which remains beautiful and resistant to insects. Some also place them in inkstones, where the silk becomes soft and absorbent—ideal for scholars to moisten their brushes, as Sun Li once wrote in his essays.