Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

ing of the sack reveals a perfect half-sphere cluster of tiny round yellow eggs.

     The beautiful colors in Hawthorne Swamp. Pink of smart-weed, white of bone-set, pale lavendar of asters, yellow of golden-rod, old rose of thouroughwort and buff of swamp grass seed-clusters, in joyous confusion.

     Delicate sweetness of gold-thread overrunning some milk-weed-stalks.

     One jarring note there was and that was a shot from a gun. Looking around we were just in time to see a gray-squirrel - a big splendid fellow drop at the feet of a hunter.

     Bill and his mother did not have very good news. The best they could do was to get three rooms with Slachs. Thus they could not take Joe + I both to room. Mrs. Kirst does not seem much in favor of going - I think she has again “lost her nerve” - and she wondered if they didn’t taken if we three fellows