I went out-doors for a few moments just before Mother and Frances went downtown. A typical August night. Cool, uncomfortably so. Dark starry sky with the milky way unusually clear...
How I despise the Americans who prefer 18th century French landscapes to healthy American 20th century scenes...
The white sun sent long blue black shadow over the frosty earth + slivers of gold light ran up the tree trunks Chippy sparrow sings again - Vibration of sky in depths of sunlit tree –
...eighteen years ago on a Sunday, I was born...Everything conspired to make it a day after my own heart.
During the storm as I was bringing the clothes back, I saw a big hop-toad in the middle of the side-walk, and after supper when we were watching the lightning, we could hear either frogs or toads...
...my whole being rushed out to embrace the harbor—a soft breeze blowing up the slip—How can I, (I thought) keep from working on the picture. So now I am getting deep into it...
The search for a truth is better than the realization. North is an arbitrary term – It is the Pole that my imagination yearns for –
A colony of hepaticas near the road—The aroma of sun-baked leaves was heavenly— I said to Bertha I never would want to miss seeing the hepaticas in the woods every Spring...
I wonder if I will ever be able to paint Spring – At this season my mind wanders in all directions – I cannot concentrate –
A vivid morn – rich vibrating green grass – slick sapling gleam white – shiny poplar – cat kin scales catch the sunlight turning the tree to a sprinkle of highlights -