Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, September 19, 1914

Heavy foggy mist on the air. A sun-soaked morning.  Sky dappled with pithy flakes.

Mist whitened trees in distaste ray-streaked. English sparrows fluttering along road as tho windblown are transparent winged.

A Tulip-tree is studded with bright yellow stars. Yellow­-studded tulip tree. Yellow-starred tulip. The other leaves are fresh + green.

Noticing how a noble row of poplars were becoming yellow leaved, I thought they were changing for autumn. Twinkling yellow against the sky. The morning breeze sent a wave of yellow twinkles against the sky.  Almost instantly I saw that other poplars were unchanged, and then. I saw the horrible girdles close to the ground. Almost constantly leaves were tailing, not jarred by the breeze. They were tears I doubt not as they fell heavily straight downward. Ground underneath yellow-speckled. Leaf-starred lawns.

Noon   sky perfectly clear and blue. Sun oppressive.  Katy­dids.

P.M. to Post’s, + and Pine hollow sketching.

A warm almost sultry September afternoon. Breeze from North or northeast.

 Aster-sparkled dusty roads.  Yellow catalpa against the sky.

A heavy blue haze in the air.  Autumnal colors are coming over the trees.  An apple tree part yellow.  A red tree blooms forth from green Post’s.

Faint warble of robins.  See two unfamiliar birds.  Jay birds.  Crows.  Nuthatches.  Flickers.

Cucumber trees dropping orange seeds from its pink pulpy burrs.

The robin takes me back to spring more than anything.

Leaves rustle noisily with millions of crickets.

Calm peaceful September afternoon.  This is the ideal season.  Not a cloud.  Rose haze on a sky at horizon.

I think this is an extra sense – to see a squirrel running along the ground when busily sketching with eye in another direction.  Worry flight.  Sporting from tree to tree.  Unaware of my presence.

Hear the spring warble of a bluebird – not the quavering cry.  After looking in the woods in vain, I suddenly see a small scattered flock in fitful flight overhead.  It is the leader who sings. A blue-birds warble fell out of the sky thru the sun-yellowed trees. A  bluebirds notes whirled away into the warm sunshine laden breeze.

The floor of the woods here is speckled white with dandelion seed-balls. The fields are foam spotted with seeding dandelions.  Sun wards looking, dandelions are bits of sunlit foam.

Glistening spider webs. Drops of sunlight gliding on spider gossamers over the field. Wind waved spider strands flipping sunlight.

Tinny pin-point cleeking of crickets.

Calmness of evening.

Spotted yellow + green tulip. wonderful. Bloody woodbine on elms – Some oaks becoming yellow.

Streak of flame on D’s Hill.

Thin hum of air-dancing mosquitos bouncing up + down against the saffron west. Dutchman’s woods changing color.

Swamps are turning red. Wine colored bushes. Cat-tails leaves are orange  Out of them come calls of redwings. Faint warbling of birds. I think I hear chewink.

All trees in a webby haze.

Mosquitos abound.

Heard screech-owl while sun was yet high.  Sounds not so uncanny by day.

To swamp. Sun gone behind hill. Sunset yellow + plum colored.  Damp coolth of swamp air refreshing.

Darkness comes rapidly. As it settles down two stars pop forth, one high in the east.

The night chorus comes up out of the soft dark fields.

Surprised to hear “wee-wee-wee-“ of my unknow tree frogs(?)

Catbirds complaining.

A man singing in the heat of the Dutchman’s hill. Sounds oddly pleasant.

Homeward. Upland it is oppressively warm.

Charles E. Burchfield, Sept 19, 1914.