A few mulberry trees were inadvertently found on the lake island, and the branches were dotted with red and purple mulberries, the red was lovely, the purple was soft, and one by one was dotted in the green leaf bushes, which was really tempting.
I remember when I was a child, in the era when there were no snacks and little food, mulberry was undoubtedly a gift from nature. The joy of childhood is that it can be picked unscrupulously, and the mouth full of dark and black juice flows around the mouth, drips on the corners of the clothes, printed on the cheeks, sour and sweet, the aftertaste of that lifetime. Every time I saw it and touched it, the joy of childhood rippled in that atrium.
So, I couldn't help tiptoeing up, couldn't reach it, jumped up, still couldn't reach it. A little discouraged, want to climb up, helpless body has become a ball, after all, not young and light me, can not climb up. Under the eaves, there were some small mulberries scattered, and the big ones smiled at me at the top of the trees. So, I picked up a stick, hooked the branches, and finally picked some.
The dark little elf, who would obediently lie down in the palm of my wide hand. A little impatient, I rinsed it with mineral water, put it in my mouth, sweet and sour, or that taste [smile] tip of the tongue, filled with every taste bud, a sense of satisfaction spontaneously.
