Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

around. The plain primitive rooms with gaping doorways leading to black {?rties} beyond reminded me of something connected with my childhood; I wondered how it would seem in this place on a snow-day, when the sky sags down and the black earth awaits a storm to sit alone and listen to a clock ticking.; In such isolation as this, the most trivial commonplace sounds become precious, and grow in volume as we depend upon them to lessen the monotony. It might be a kettle boiling or a cat purring or some other continuous trivial noise. We sit and look upon the brooding landscape, our mind almost a blank; the walls of the room expand, and the noise grows louder and more insistent until finally it absorbs our whole being and it seems as if all existence began and would end in that noise.; It was almost dark when we left after loading up with crocks of lard, and a pile of rich sausage.