Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

94.                     July 22, 1935 –

  It is the midseason – there are still a few elder–blooms; some of the hayfields are cut, but others still flourish, tho browned somewhat by the scorching southwest winds; mornings begin to have a tired tawdry look, and it is the time when we hear the squeaky rediculous (sic) crowing of young roosters; robins still sing at times during the day, but the songs of cicadas are beginning to take the ascendency. Going along in the country, the z-sound of grasshoppers come from rank grassy places. This year the wheat-fields seem choked (sic) full, and are especially beautiful; in the last few days many have been cut, but some stand yet, varying in shade from almost white to rich hot orange –brown. Few sights are as satisfying as these fields of luxuriant, bountiful wheat. They bring to mind the fact that there are temporary truths & eternal truths differing widely. We hear so much of wheat surplus, and tales of using it for fuel, or plowing under, from which it would follow that temporarily, the sight of these choked (sic) fields must be displeasing. The eternal truth of the matter tho, is that, this