Charles Burchfield, Journals, March 5, 1911

Well, Bill and I took our walk this morning, but say it was cold!  I hadn’t got to Bill’s yet before my ears and cheeks were tingling with the cold.

Everything was still and quiet, the grass and sidewalks had a little frost on. In the east the sky was getting yellow and orange and overhead was the vast blue - everything was very clear and cold. Bill was waiting for me, and as we went on out High St. I told him about last night.  Now the east was getting wore yellow and orange; to the west, the pale blue faded into a rosy lavender, which melted into a misty grey. Past the icy and frost-covered Frog pond went, over the frosty grass and into the pasture field. Now a large orange spot was glowing in the east, but as we tramped on, holding our hands to our freezing ears, it became yellow, and as we were tramping over the grey white slope to the left of Bentley’s woods, the sun appeared, a bright ball, which gilded the trees and made us more cheerful.

On we walked, past Bentley’s to some meadows on the north side; here we could see dense mists arising from the Dutchman’s valley far to the east.  Soon we came to the painter Road which we cross and climbing the tresle at Reese’s Mine we followed the track down thru the frosty scenery; at each step the thick frost crunched and creaked under our feet. We then left the track and went over to what used to be a sugar camp situated at the edge of Posts woods; but it was old now, and falling to ruin, and after looking around a little, we left. Cheered by the sun-light we decided to go on to the Dutchman’s, and we started back to the track. The sun had, now become high enough to strike the field and now the grey meadow was filled with flashing diamonds of all sizes - bright specks on the grass, which as we walked on, disappeared and reappeared, like twinkling stars.

 Soon we were at the mine which we examined, together with all the buildings and machinery all around, after which we proceeded on our way. Climbing a fence by the Egypt Road, we went shivering down into a swampy tract of land. We seemed to be going down into a strange new world - a wonder land. Here, where it was low and moist, was a wonderful fairyland scene. Gently sloping mounds, which spread before us, were fairly white with the frost, which came off in little clouds as we walked thru it; the trees, and under­brush which overran the swamp, were white and bristling with the hoarfrost - it was a wonderful white scene! Before us, the big hill on the other side of the “Little Beaver” Creek, loomed large and dark, shutting out the sunlight from the frosty valley in which we were; to the south the sunbeams were we streaming thru the misty, frosty woods.  Somewhere a Peter-bird called called, a song-sparrow sang its song closely and from a tall tree a strange blackbird gave a cry, with which I was unfamiliar.

Making our way thru the white underbrush we came to the bank of the “Little Beaver” - a bank which was covered with muddy leaves and grass, frozen solid. The dark waters flowed silently past; on its surface patches of thin ice floated by.

 “How quiet it is!” remarked Bill.

 It was quiet indeed. Here the sun had not yet penetrated and the very cold and frost seemed to increase the silence; only the faint murmur of the stream could be heard and now a then, down the stream, ice could be heard breaking, as it rushed over some rapids; on the other side was the dark, silent forest, from which came sepulchral rapping of a woodpecker.

We pushed our way thru the willows and iron-wood along the bank, to watch the rapids; showers of fine frost fell off as we brushed past long the branches. Presently we stood by the murmuring rapids – and lot we stood here, fascinated by the scene.  As the pieces of thin ice floated onto the rapids, a faint swishing sound began which arose to a crackling roar, for the ice, striking the the banking on the other side and a sand bar, which was above the surface, in the middle of the stream, crumbled and piled up in little heaps that became white, and then crushed to pieces the remainder floated on. It was pleasant to watch the flaky ice floated past in endless succession, to hear it crumble, and pile up, dark water.

We pushed on thru the underbrush, slipping and stumbling on the frozen mud.  Suddenly the sun appeared over the hill, and I shall never forget the wonderful scene I saw then!  Every frost-covered tree, sapling, bush and weed seemed to be lit up with a strange light and the direct beams of the sun shone thru them; they seemed to become alive, - to glow with silver - how dazzlingly bright was the frost and sun and the sun’s reflection on the rippling water!

 Soon we came to the bridge on which we paused a moment, and then, circling around the road, which led from it, we came to the Painter road. Suddenly I stopped short - no there was no mistake - a bluebird was singing! A bluebird! sometimes I think the song of a bluebird is the most beautiful song of birds. How full and strong it is - and yet it is not sharp like some birds - but seems to be softened until it is a perfect melody of sound. I listened and listened, striving in vain to catch sight of the little singer. Presently more birds began to sing a Peter-bird called “Pet-er, Pet-er”; a song-sparrow warbled; and a red-bird whistled while a far-off crow called “Caw! – Caw!”  It seemed strange to hear these birds on this cold frosty morning singing so joyously.

It did not take us long on the return; we seemed to be coming back to the old familiar world again; here the frost was gone; and no birds were singing. At a trough in front of Bentley’s while we were looking down on the ice, we saw a frog swim slowly along under the ice. We smashed the ice and after some trouble Bill had the chilled creature in his hand, breathing on it to warm it.

 “Don’t hurt it!” I said as I looked at his black prominent eyes. He seemed to shiver.

“I guess I’d better put him back” Bill remarked and dropped him in the icy water. The frog slowly struggled under a stone.

We were glad enough to get home again, for it was very cold.  As the day wore on, vague mists began to spread out over the western sky; the sun became merely a bright spot and as the mists and clouds increased, it disappeared, leaving the sky cold and chearless; it began to get a little warmer but not much. After supper, I suddenly heard what I thought was rain against the windows; I went outdoors; it was sleet and snow that were coming down. I then felt a desire to be out in it, so I went and got my coat and hat.

“Where are you going?” asked Fred.

 “Out for a walk” I replied.

 “Wait a minute.” Soon he joined me and went out. It was very dark and cold; all that could be heard warn the constant falling of the sleet and snow on the ground, which sounded like rain pattering on leaves in autumn.

Our long walk, which led us far out to the Fairgrounds in the northeastern part of town, was certainly refreshing walking over white sidewalks, thru the gloom enshouded Centennial Park, with wind and sleet from the southeast driving in our faces.

Charles E. Burchfield,  Sunday Mar 5, 1911