Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

The day was hot, mercilessly so. The smeary washed out sky was plastered over with gray whispy clouds,that, in their life­lessness and motionless appearance, seemed glued to the pale blue firmament, from which the sun sent down its blistering rays to a dusty earth of living things, that were praying for water. Our way led us out the Canfield road. Despite the dry weather, the fields along the way seemed to be thriving. The great fields of glimmering corn were something good to look upon, and with them the fields of yellow wheat-shocks. Trees along the way had a gaunt lifeless air as tho wearied of the weather. In the distance long Lines of woods showed, smoky blue in color.

The roads were deep with soft blistery dust with which passing automobiles played havoc sending up great clouds of it that momentarily obscured all things from our view, choking and blinding us. All plants and trees, along the road and even in the neighboring fields were yellow with thick coats of the choking dust. How good a hard dashing rain would