Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

. small speckled eggs.

Yesterday was a weather brewing day of windy fields and skies. Sun was sultry and beat down on the earth from a pale grey blue sky which was smeared with white clouds, and I could never quite decide where clouds began or ended.

     Day was spent afield and in the woods sketching. With watercolors and pad, in a basket, together with a lunch and a note book I proceeded forth long after the sun had been up, morning was yet young and the stiff breeze still had left some of that cool freshness borrowed perhaps from the night, and which is strong about the time of the first light.

     First halt was called at the Tree where I arranged myself and paraphernalia on some rocks to sketch the Three Trees. As I sat I seemed to become a part of the wind-blown grass and to be carried along in space. As I painted, a bobolink displayed him­self from time to time