Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, Vol. 11, August 6, 1913

Aug. 6, 1913

This morning as usual I woke a few moments before I had to get up. As I lay I became suddenly conscious of a dull buzzing roar that came from the direction of the factories. I have never been quite able to decide just what source this sound proceeds from. It is distinctly an autumn sound - a sign of approaching fall. Perhaps it is the blending of many sounds - the rattle of wagons over brick pavements - the sound of workmen in the shops - or the roar of a train somewhere. As I got up I took a peep outdoors. The sky was thickly mottled with dead grey clouds. Starting out to work I just had time to look at the morning glories. I always do this even at the risk of being late. They are a beautiful sight. Practically the whole back of the house is covered with them for a distance of about twelve feet from the ground. Every morning they are a mass of color - tho now they are getting smaller on account of the prolonged drought. Such rich shades of violet, red and pink! They are a regular cooling draught to the eyes!

The day, in opposition to the comparatively cool days we have been having has been a sultry lifeless one; sometimes the clouds parted and let the glaring sun beat down, no breeze stirred. ...

Once during the long afternoon,I glanced out of doors for a brief instant. The pale blue sky was only party covered with filmy clouds The sun, lazily slowly  - almost wearily sinking towards the west sent its slanting rays against the  scorched factory buildings. From the second and third floors of the new office-building came the rattling hum of hammering on steel auto-parts - almost musical it was.

Had time enough before supper to go out in back-yard a few moments. The sky was almost all clear now and here and there re­mained whispy whimsical snatches of clouds. A cool breeze was blowing. What a pretty thing is the wind as it blows thru trees and bushes and over weeds, flowers and grass. I remember this summer once I stood at the edge of a great field of beard-grass spell-bound. It was just before a thunderstorm and the wind that precedes such a phenomenon was tearing gayly over this grass transforming it into a crazy mass of waves.  A wonderful sight indeed.

Charles E. BUrchfield, Vol. 11, August 6, 1913, pgs 66 - 68