Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

Dec 9, 1920 –; The year is still dying. This afternoon the sun was shining brightly in spite of the fact that it was so low down. There was a stillness and calmness that was reminiscent of autumn; one imagined that a trap afield would show still leaves mellow leaves falling in idle woodlands. But now the sun went behind a veil of clouds, and at once we were transported to a dull gray midwinter thaw-day; tho the sun still glowed in the sky it had no effect; the earth was as flat and dark and colorless as if the sky were heavily overcast with clouds. ; ; ; ; ; Dec 10, 1920 –; It is raining but the rain freezes – and the ground has a gloomy mouldy appearance. How romantic sound chickens cackling at this hour. My mind runs back to long forgotten days of boyhood rambles in the sultry flat swamps of the Little Beaver, dried by the false summer of March’s early days. There arise visions of steaming manure piles by old delap