Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

out of the hot sun-whitened sky it came, bringing with it a deli­cate blue haze, which clung to the bushes, trees and herbs as it was born along, mingled with dandelion seeds and sorrell pollen, and the scent of blossoming mandrake.

I finally left the place and rambled on thru the deserted orchard, sketching. Once I heard an oriole song, and again from the direction of Brooks came the cry of a mourning dove. Penetrating the northern extremity of Bentley’s, which is perhaps the densest part of the woods, I found a contrasting silence which was broken only by the minute sound of the droppings of measuring worms, as they struck the dry leaves. One thing I noted, and that was the beauty of an old rotting stump, spattered with beech-bloom. In the open field beyond, I saw a wild-cherry tree in bloom, the odor of which, so unpleasant to many, always has a pleasant quality to me. On the edge of Beech-grove I sat down on a huge rock for a while. The ground all about was prolifically speckled with beech bloom. Once or twice