Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

was a man. We were all lazily folding circulars, cross and morose, every one of us, when he entered. I choked and the girls began to giggle. He was a stout, dignified man, well dressed and rather intelligent looking. But his face was adorned with a big jet black beard, and thick curling moustache that was truly wonderfully comic. Presently we got to laughing so hard we couldn’t stop.  I Waldo looked out the window while I laid weakly on the table. Mr. Goldie told him to sit down and wait for Mr. Nelson, but he stood stiff and straight, with his dignified moustache bristling with anger. Finally we laughed so much that he went out and never came back.

     I didn’t watch the weather any more until evening on the way home when everything was changed. The sky was overcast with odd, wild looking grey and black clouds. As we walked home, distant thunder came from out of the west where, the vanishing sun set out a yellow light, in sharp contrast to the black clouds. There was no wind yet down on earth, but up in the air, the clouds hurried on, growing wilder and blacker, and ever collided and tore apart. The cries of startled robins filled the air, and I could see them flying hither and thru from tree to tree. When I got home