Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

insect would float past. Once I saw a pair of chickadees flitting about in the bushes keeping low to the ground, and regarding me with bright curious eyes.

      Finally I brought up at the bridge. The creek here was still more swollen then above,and threatened at any moment to overflow its banks. Before going on I looked back over the brown hill. It was afternoon and the afternoon sun was casting his spell over the hill. Around the lane I went,along which another churning stream rushed. The Painter road which I now came to, I found very slushy but I had to try to forget my wet feet and plunge thru. Shortly past where “The Lane” unites with the main road I came upon a stream that was flowing over ice and was very broad and shallow and rippling, sparkling in the sunshine. As I proceeded the walking became worse,but I was “broken in” by this time. When I came to the end of Forkers, the mad stream, larger than any before,drew me into the woods. Crossing the gate,I started along the path. In one place the creek was almost choked up with leaves, sediment and