Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

one should ask me to name over the beauties of a thunder-storm, I believe one of the first I would mention would be the bending and waving trees in a blinding rain-laden wind.   They seem like terrified caricatures retreating before the storm. At the corner of the house here three spouts come together and form one. The water was too much for this one and at the converging point this water roared hollowly and bubbled forth angrily.

     Salem must have been the boiling pot of the powers, for while, this storm was raging still another roared from the north-west, and for awhile the two conflicted, the streaks of rain criss-crossing in a very odd manner; then the latter storm, being younger prevailed. It rained almost all afternoon, and then towards evening it quietly and gradually ceased and twilight tip-toed in softly. We spent the afternoon hilariously. For the