Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

was all sympathy, and said that her man was in the barn milking, and thought he would surely sell me some. I went to the barn, but found noone (sic) there. Coming back, when I told her, she remembered that the cows had gone to the other end of the farm that day and that it would be some time before he returned. She asked me to wait, brought out a chair. I sat down completely exhausted; I was too tired to think or even to rest; and in such a state, all the various sights & sounds of the place took had freer access to my brain than if I were able to select them with a fresh mind. They poured in on me, seemingly magnified to unusual proportions; my body seemed asleep – the noise of busy chickens, the bawling of calves, dogs barking, the warm smell of honeysuckle and roses. Presently the woman asked me if I’d care for coffee. She went in to prepare it and in a few moments asked me if I would come in and eat something. I went in and found the table laden with food. I had eggs, sausage, bred & butter, jam, an orange, cake, pie, and two cups of black coffee. It was worth getting tired for such a meal meant ten times as much to my starved senses. When I asked her and how much I owed her, she empathetically said “Nothing” Nor would she