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Berry-picking is a happy kind of occupation, with more than a container full of blueberries or red raspberries to show for the effort. I return home with berries and memories.
Because where there are berries, there are birds.
While stripping currant bushes of their rose-colored fruits at John Burns’ Goat Hill Farm near Washington, I heard the sad, sweet song of a Field Sparrow; sad sounding to me, sweet to the Field Sparrow’s mate.
Charlotte Nichols invited us to pick sour cherries at her Flint Hill home. A House Wren had built her nest of sticks in the nest box within yards of the tree.
I First heard the food calls of the young and, on investigating, located the source. A nest box full of hungry young wrens.
The male sang his bubbly, effervescent song nearby; his mate went in and out of the box as if we weren’t there at all.
Early one morning, Lee atid I went to Muskrat Haven Farm near Amissville to pick black raspberries. This berrypicking expedition ended with a container full of berries, memories of bird song and an unexpected and dramatic encounter. *
A Blue Grosbeak sang from the top of a black cherry tree. Over and over, this blueall-over bird embellished the morning with his cheerful warble, a sweet song unlike any other. Larger and less common than his close relatives, the Indigo Bunting, the grosbeak was no doubt nesting in one of the raspberry shrubs.
I faced a dilemma; should I search for the grosbeak nest or pick berries? I resisted the nest-hunting impulse. Black raspberries for preserves was the goal of the morning. I had to do my share.
The variable buzzy notes and whistles of a Son^ Sparrow came from bel iu me, down the hill where u,ee Trott was working a row of
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